#i can’t believe how relatable this song is | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nereidprinc3ss · 24 days ago

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mojave ghost

in which spencer reid spends the night with fem!reader—a total stranger—because she just feels so familiar. based on the song "my life in art" by Mojave 3.

18+ (implied intimacy) warnings/tags: based on a song about a stripper who runs away from her abusive boyfriend. tws for mentions of physical abuse. r has bruises from pole dancing. a little ooc bc Spencer hooks up with someone he just met but that's the point and if u know him like I do u know its not completely impossible. mentions of typical cm violence/murder. one brief mention of spencer's addiction. spencer's childhood trauma and abandonment. it's kind of just a heavy one, lmk if i'm missing anything a/n: I doooo suggest you listen to the song first just to feel the vibe of the piece and also how it is literally about Spencer Reid. and also bc its gorjus. anyways its been a while and this is not my most standard content but pls lmk what u think and if u liked it <3

He shouldn’t have done it.

But when he saw you, sitting in a metal folding chair next to some peeling veneered-desk, his breath caught. Something primal deep in his stomach tugged the way it does when he finds little external fragments of himself, calling out to him—usually nonhuman objects. He’s seen himself in books, still warm from the hands that held them but ultimately forgotten on a bench or in the airport, needles in alleys or in between tiles on his bathroom counter, in shards of glass, in a hundred open wounds and dead animals, abstractly gutted on the side of the street.

When he does see himself in a person, it’s in alarming glimpses. The man in the sleeping bag on the corner who talks to people that aren’t there. The lost child crying on the subway platform, rooted to the spot and still gripping the straps of their little backpack with responsible fists. It’s never anything he wants to know about himself, but this identification, this taxonomy and recognition of sameness—it’s so strong it stops him in his tracks, every time. He never really relates to the people he’s supposed to. Not Hotch. Not Gideon. Not even Maeve, in the way he’d so naively hoped for. Three people, all incredibly intelligent, at times standoffish. Used to being on the outside. All still possessing things and redemptive qualities he doesn’t. And what Spencer has secretly believed about himself for what has recently become a very long time, is that he is defined by his lack. The shape of him is made of negative space. He feels like whatever is in your lungs when you’ve pushed all the air out.

And then, you.

Physically, you look nothing alike. And he stops and lurches and does a double take like he’s seen his doppelgänger or been startled by his own reflection in a passing window anyway. Maybe it’s the way you hold yourself—hunched, foot tapping, head hung but still scanning the room, ever vigilant as you pick at your nails. You want to be small. You want to fold in yourself so many times you become a black hole. Spencer knows this.

Something calls out from deep inside him, from all around him, that is not quite in his voice, but feels like grasping and reaching.

I know you, I know you.

He doesn’t catch himself in time before he’s walking toward you like he’s been waiting for you.

Of course your head snaps up at the same time as he stops, and your eyes are shiny but not teary—frozen over with a layer of thick, dark ice like you’d carried the cold inside with you. You look caught. He searches for some sort of recognition in your eyes, anything to betray the fact that you have met before, because he never forgets a face but he knows what familiarity feels like and he can’t remember meeting you.

His throat forms around something but the wrong word comes out. Halting, like he’s trying to lasso it and pull it back in.

“Hi.”

You pull your scarf down—a deep Roman purple—to reveal a pretty mouth, lips chapped by the unforgiving freeze outside.

“Hello,” you say, politely, considering his probably strange behavior. He gives you a proprietary scan. Utility coat over a thick grey sweater. Jeans, cuffed at the bottom but still nearly too long, probably belted, although he can’t tell from the posture and the sweater. Brown boots. Your bag is a frayed tapestry of neutrals and patches. Fingerless knit gloves. You’ve given yourself false density, let the clothes swallow you up. Shapeless. Nearly faceless, magnet eyes framed between the scarf and the hat. But you’ve got a name. Everyone has a name. There’s yet to be anything humanity has discovered and not bothered to name.

He forgets to ask. You clear your throat.

“Um, I spoke to someone on the phone—Aaron, I think? We’re supposed to talk.”

Spencer tries to pick his jaw up off the floor.

“Yeah, um, I can—I’ll… go get him.”

He turns away and breathes for the first time since he saw you, but he feels you behind him. He’s aware of exactly where you are in relation to the back of his head, he can feel you, like a hot spot, all the way to Hotch’s door. He lets himself in, slipping between as small a gap as he can manage and shutting the door gently behind him. Hotch looks up, not noticeably displeased at having been interrupted in his endless paperwork.

What Spencer learns from his boss is this: you live in DC. You heard about a murder in Kansas—a girl, her hair still a fine, pale cornsilk. Barely not a child. You heard the details, and you called the cops, because you swear to god you know who did it, and they told you there was nothing they could do and gave you the number of someone who might be able to help, and so you followed a bureaucratic trail of phone numbers designed to discourage until you got to the BAU. Hotch says he’s going to interview you, but it’s probably nothing.

“Actually, I’d like to do it if that’s okay.”

Hotch frowns deeper than usual.

“Why?”

Spencer swallows. Hesitates.

“I finished my incident report early.”

Though he clearly has his reservations about Spencer’s sudden interest, Hotch is knee-deep in paperwork. So that’s how Spencer ends up in the round table room with you.

You look too young, too raw to have been married, but you’re rubbing at your ring finger with the adjacent thumb like something is bothering you there. An absence that has become a presence. Negative space. You see things that aren’t there. Spencer knows that, too. Maybe you’re the kind of person who could look at him and see something.

That is his most intimate fantasy. He imagines it with you and feels the same kind of illicit shame and bloodied, starving hunger other people feel when they imagine sex or drugs or ravaging power; the way anyone imagines anything they want and can’t have.

But he can’t put that kind of pressure on you. He can’t hold expectations like that. You’re a stranger.

“Do you always do that?”

He points to your fiddling and gets that sour feeling in his throat he always does when he says something and wishes he hadn’t said it. That probably doesn’t show on his face. Most things don’t show on his face. Or maybe they do and nobody has bothered to tell him.

You flex your pretty hand and then make a fist like you’ve been burned, probably to stop the compulsion. When you give a self-deprecating laugh, Spencer feels incredibly guilty for having pointed it out. But he doesn’t know how to talk to you. And at the same time, he almost expects it’ll be like talking to himself. Only nobody will give him odd looks.

“Uh… old habit. I used to spin my wedding ring around when I was nervous.”

Used to. You’re especially too young to have been divorced.

“You’re nervous?”

Your eyes flash as you look up to him. With what, he doesn’t know. Lightning, maybe. Electrical impulses that are a little less well insulated in you than in everyone else.

But maybe he’s projecting.

“Yeah. I feel crazy. But I was with a guy for a while who—and he was from Kansas—who would always, like, talk about… about hurting people. And I thought it was a joke at first, but… he laughed, at other people’s pain. He liked to hurt people. And animals. His dad had a farm, so I thought it was maybe he was just cavalier about life and death, but it was more than that. And he lived… he lived in that town. Where that girl died. He probably knew her. I… I probably knew her.”

Spencer’s heart sinks and he clears his throat like the force could bring it back up the right level again.

You’re not his soulmate. You’re just paranoid. Looking for answers and resolution, like everybody else.

The piece of himself he saw in you was just free radical damage. Instability.

“Did he ever kill anyone before?”

“Wh—not that I know of. But I don’t really think he would’ve told me.”

But you would’ve known. You’re here because you’re lost.

“Did he ever seriously injure anyone?”

You swallow and sit up a little straighter. Heat lightning in your eyes, again. It makes him feel something. He sits up too, despite your indignance, because it’s entrancing.

“Yes.”

“How so?”

“He… he…” you melt as quickly as you inflated and go back to spinning a ring that’s not there. It’s like watching technicolor go to black and white. “He’d beat people up. He cut them with broken beer bottles and… yeah. A lot of other shit. He was just… he was crazy. He wasn’t… okay.”

The way your gaze flickers back and forth like you’re reading pages of a book or perhaps in REM as you recount in vague detail what your ex had done clues Spencer into the fact that you’re extremely traumatized. The way you make sure to emphasize that your clearly abusive ex wasn’t okay clues him into the fact that you care too much. That you’re too quick to excuse people’s bad behavior, or dismiss it, because you know how it feels to be dismissed entirely and you don’t want to make anyone else feel the way you’ve felt.

Or maybe he’s still projecting. Maybe he’s idealized you in these few short minutes since you met and he’s too far gone. Maybe he should’ve let Hotch do this interview after all. In fact, he absolutely should’ve.

But the worst thing by far he did was ask to walk you to your car after all was said and done.

The interview went on for over two hours, and he’d learned things about you he suspects you’ve never told anyone before, and thus has learned about himself, and the building is mostly empty when you finally leave. The work day is over. So he selfishly asks you to wait while he gathers his things—buttons his coat, wraps his scarf, packs his bag—and then he soaks in the silence on the elevator because it’s that terrible, beautiful space between where you first cross the line and when you do something unforgivable. Asking to walk you to your car was crossing the line.

Sleeping with you was unforgivable.

And he didn’t care. Maybe he knew he was going to do this from the moment he saw you. Spencer never does this. The knowing that it was going to happen is quite a distinct flavor of intuitive knowledge and it was always on the back of his tongue.

You’re silver and purple, a streak, a blur, you move too fast to keep up with and even when you’re perfectly still the atoms around you scramble like they’re jonesing. You inspire movement. You are movement. But he gets to see you slow, and despite having known you only a few hours, he knows this is nothing short of a natural phenomenon. A once in a lifetime sort of shooting star. That’s where the silver comes in.

The purple, though—it’s in strange places. Around your upper arm. Between your thighs. On your knees and shins and hips. The first time he noticed it he couldn’t ignore it, but he couldn’t very well ask what’s hurting you while he was touching you in a way that was decidedly not painful, if he wanted to keep it that way. And he did. He wanted to keep you looking at him through half-lidded eyes like he was something to see.

Still, he can’t notice it and then fuck you without saying something—or maybe he could, and you desperately want him to and you ask for it and maybe most people would, but he won’t—so he brings it up.

“I lead a very active life,” is your whispered excuse, shaped by a smile that is something like mischievous. And then you’re kissing his flushed neck and making your descent and so he can’t ask very many questions.

It’s only in the precarious after that he can fit his questions in, which is dumb and he knows that, because you’re a dizzying contradiction of cagey and flighty and really the slightest thing will send you running. It’s funny how he knows that after a few hours and sex. Sex can tell you so much about a person. Spencer has compiled all the data from his experiences and decided sex is radically more effective a profiling tool than interview.

You’re on his pillow, lying on your stomach, and his hand is in your hair. Falling in love is quite a distinctive taste as well. Or at least, the recognition that if you spend enough time around a person you will, beyond a shadow of a doubt, fall in love with them. It is almost the same thing. It aches because it’s there and the proper thing to do is pretend it’s not.

And his hand is in your hair. And your eyes are closed, and you look like you might fall asleep, and he should be beyond grateful for all of these things. He is.

But that pesky desire to ameliorate, to improve and make better, and fix and heal, is too strong. Probably it’s the only way he thinks anyone will love him, is if he makes himself useful. That’s no revelation to him. The thought is not shocking whatsoever. It’s just true.

So he asks again. You blink your eyes a quarter of the way open.

“Hazard of the job.”

“What job?”

You make a noncommittal noise of reluctance—a discontented puppy’s whine, half-asleep.

“I’m a circus freak.”

He laughs and remembers to keep scratching your scalp. The way you smile, eyes closed, is infectious.

“Yeah? What’s your act?”

“Guess,” you challenge through the remnants of a smile, oozing satisfaction and glowing like a star.

When he pauses to regard you, to seriously consider, studying the curve of your cheek and the color of your lips, you open your eyes again.

“Tightrope walker,” he finally says, earnestly, so soft it could tear down the middle like gauze.

Your answer is a smile into the dark. “How’d you know?”

The corner of his mouth vies higher.

“I sensed a kindred spirit.”

Silence floods the room again, slowly, thickly, like molasses. It’s pleasant. You’re still here, in his bed, and he’s still measuring time with the pendulum of his hand in your hair.

“What do you really do?”

He expects you to be asleep.

“Dancer.” Your lips hardly move as you say it, inflectionless, immediate. If his hand falters, it’s only momentarily. That explains the bruising, and so is a relief, as far as he’s concerned. But perhaps his silence is misconstrued. “Do you want me to go?”

It certainly doesn’t seem like you want to go. Your eyes aren’t even open.

He keeps his voice low and gentle like maybe you really are asleep.

“Why would I want you to go?”

“Don’t… do that.”

“What?”

“Don’t act like you’re not judging me.”

“I’m not judging you. I’m from Vegas. Your job is not a novelty to me.”

This time when your eyes slide open, there is a new, curious light behind them.

“Really?”

He nods, distracted by a freckle just beneath your eye.

“When I was ten I ran into my bus driver wearing two quarters as a shirt. And we weren’t even on the strip. We were in a Texas Roadhouse parking lot.”

You snort with laughter and it’s melodic, like twinkling crystals, like running water. Even as you hide your face behind your hand, he’s transfixed. God, he’s never cared about being funny before. Now he wants to make you laugh over and over again. He wants to keep you softer than you’ve ever been. The laughter fades slowly and he grieves it—but your hand sliding away from your face like the sun coming up from behind a mountain eases the ache.

You reach out as if in a trance and run your thumb gently beneath his eye. He holds his breath as you make contact, butterfly light. Nobody has ever touched him like this before.

“You’re gorgeous,” you murmur. A thoughtless observation. A truth cast to the breeze. Knuckles carefully follow the dip of his cheekbone—a cartographer, learning her way by touch. Marking her territory. He’d let you do it. His eye stings, ready to spring forth a river just so you can have the pleasure of discovering it. “Breathe,” you laugh, softly, and he does.

“Sorry.”

You don’t say a thing. You let your fingers trace borders into his skin and follow them with soft eyes and he wonders what he’s ever done to deserve this kind of magic. He wonders if he’ll ever feel as good as he does right now, when it’s all over. Nobody has ever paid this much attention to him—but you’re intent, focused, like he’s art.

“Tell me about Vegas.”

It takes him a moment to reply.

“Hm?”

He feels bewitched. Warm. Foggy. A thumb brushes over his lips, but it’s only a pass, thank god, because he can hardly stand how you’re touching him already, at the high point of his cheek, beneath his brow. Finally getting enough sometimes feels awfully close to too much. He’s already almost cried once.

“I wanna hear about Vegas. I’ve always wanted to go. Is it hot?”

Spencer will say whatever you want him to say, but he has to focus a little—like he’s speaking through honey.

“In the summer, during the day. In the winter at night it drops to below freezing.”

“Desert-y,” you hum.

“Very.”

“Tell me more.”

There’s a rousing hunger in your voice and it reminds Spencer to want you again. He finds your waist and tugs you closer. Who is he with you?

Is he better?

“There are 175 casinos in the city, but only thirty on the strip. There are 15,000 miles of neon tubing on the strip alone. It’s the brightest place on earth. You can see it from space.”

“Not that.”

Petulant. He loves it.

His lips find the softness of your shoulder. “Then what?”

The only clue that you can feel what he’s doing to you is the twitch of your fingers on his cheek.

“Tell me something… tell me exactly how it feels to stand in the middle of the desert. With nobody else around. Tell me things and details I couldn’t know about unless I’ve been there.”

At the junction of your neck, he pauses. This beautiful girl, and her beautiful brain—you are so disarming. So perfect.

You shiver into him as his fingers brush up the back of your neck, gently pushing away hair so he can learn you everywhere. So he can remember your landscape, just like he’s doing as he closes his eyes and falls into memory.

A gas station, off the side of the road—seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Desert all around. His dad’s ’79 Ford Fiesta—the one he didn’t take with him when he left. The driver’s door is open. Spencer’s dad has been inside for minutes. Spencer is watching from the middle of the road, because he looked out from the backseat of the Fiesta, and saw that dark, unassuming spot, and thought—how would it feel to be the darkness? What would I see if I were nothing at all?

When he gets there, and he stands on the sun bleached pavement, veined with spiderwebs of tar, and he sees this all from a distance—he realizes he feels exactly the same as he always does. So he pivots his head to the left. The road goes on until it disappears into the smudgy horizon. To the right, it does the same. The earth swells, far away, so many miles, so coal black, so impossible. Hardly even real. But there is something out there, he thinks. There is something, even if nobody else has ever been there, and I want to stand in the middle of it and I will learn how it feels to be nothing. I will not observe—I will become apart of the landscape, with the Joshua trees that have been there for a thousand years, and the rocks that haven’t moved in millennia.

So he begins to walk.

The rocks crunch under his feet, and that is the only noise.

He walks for minutes. He walks until he knows the gas station will be small. He walks until he can feel the emptiness on the back of his neck, until it feels like an embrace.

“It’s silent,” he hears himself say to you, in some other universe, decades in the future. “At night, it’s completely silent. You can hear yourself breathe. If you throw a pebble ten feet away, you’ll hear it hit the ground.”

Little Spencer takes a deep breath of inky air.

“It smells like… geosmin.”

“What?”

Perfect. Your voice is perfect.

“Dirt. But it’s not the same as dirt anywhere else. It’s… drier, like it’s smelled the same way for a really long time.”

Spencer’s cheeks burn. He’s doing a terrible job explaining.

But he feels your breath on his cheek—eager. Your hand at his shoulder as you lean closer, enraptured. Reverent, almost.

“What else?”

What else?

Dry brush snags on the hem of the corduroys his mother had picked out for him. They’re a little too short. She’s going to try to take him shopping again tomorrow. It’ll work this time—they’ll get to the store. Mom’s just been having some trouble leaving the house lately.

Rustling leaves skim the tips of his fingers as he reaches out for them, and keeps walking. When was the last time someone touched that shrub?

“There’s vegetation. Creosote, mostly, if you’re in the scrubland. Larrea tridentada. It’s dry—kind of twiggy, with green leaves and yellow flowers in the spring. The smell is bad, like asphalt, but you only notice if you get close.”

He hears his dad calling his name. It fades in and out.

It’s dizzying, hearing his father’s voice. His father saying his name.

It’s been a long time.

“It’s so flat that things don’t echo. But because of the extreme variations in temperature the air pressure sometimes forces the sound waves to the ground and makes it impossible for them to propagate. They’re called the Santa Ana winds. Someone could be standing right next to you and if the wind blows at just the right angle, you won’t be able to hear them. But when it’s still, sound carries far.”

His father is angry. Or is he worried?

Spencer can make out his dad, pacing frantically back and forth across the gas station pad, white button-up a glowing beacon even from this far away beneath the lone yellow street light. He looks so small. So very far away. Ant-like.

Santa Ana comes slow—warmer than the night air around him, to ruffle his hair and rustle the dry leaves and blow soft clouds of fragrant sienna dirt around at his knees. It blows through him. For a moment, it wakes the desert up.

Then it’s passed. It moves further down the desert and leaves Spencer behind. Things settle into silence again. He’s alone again.

Spencer’s stomach flips as he realizes his father can’t see him this far away, this deep into the dark nothing.

As he finally feels the enormity of the distance on all sides.

Suddenly the void behind him is massive. Suddenly it is everything, and it is sucking him deeper. Nobody can see him. He could just disappear into 25,000 square miles of desert. He’s already, what—a thousand feet gone? More? The weight of all the infinite space behind him presses, and he thought it’d feel interesting but it feels like dying and there has never been so much regret or dread curdling in his stomach before. His face crumples, eyes stinging in the dry air, and he takes one step forward, and then another, and then he runs like he’s running for his life. But he doesn’t feel chased—no, that’s the worst part. He is running from an infinite, vacuous, nothing. Dad! He screams, but even this young he knows how sound waves work in the desert and he can tell his dad can’t hear him and he’s running and screaming until his lungs burn, and the scrub lashes at his ankles, and it has been the same for a thousand years and it will stay the same for a thousand more with or without him. Dad, I’m right here! He sobs, the words ripping up his throat with desperation as they go.

Finally, finally, he’s heard, and he’s close enough to see his dad seeing him, he stops pacing and stares dumbfounded at the little boy appearing from the desert, sneakers slapping cracked asphalt. He gets closer and closer until he can see the lines on his father’s face and the color of his eyes and he sobs as he crashes into him. His dad’s hands are vice-tight around his arms, as Spencer cries and can’t breathe and thrashes like a fish out of water.

What? Is all his father can manage, tight and baffled and afraid and the first word of a question he doesn’t even know how to ask. He says it again and again, like a skipping record; what—what? What?

On the drive home, Spencer sits in the backseat, a bottle of Bug Juice in his lap. His ankles sting, whipped and bloodied and punished for wearing too-short pants.

The silence is cloistering and at the same time, completely par for the course. He does not expect his father to speak to him, but he sort of thinks maybe another father would.

Outside, the black spine of distant mountains rolls on forever and stays impossibly far away. He peers out into the nothing, past what the moonlight can illuminate—and now, he doesn’t have to wonder. He knows how it feels. Imagines another little boy made of shadows, as far away from the road as he’d been, and feels sick from all that fruit juice. He won’t ask his dad to pull over—all he wants is to get rid of that feeling on the back of his neck, like he’s dissolving into space. Like he’s the only thing for miles and miles.

But the problem is—the feeling doesn’t go away.

Not in the driveway. Not in the bath. Not in bed, later that night.

Spencer did a bad thing and he wishes he could go back to normal. He wishes he didn’t get that desert feeling when he was surrounded by other people. But it comes back, again and again. At school. When he tentatively asks for new pants and his mom throws a vase at the wall and then sobs on the floor for forty minutes. When a few weeks later, his dad leaves, and doesn’t take the Ford with him—so it sits under the carport, greets him on his way to school every morning, and over the course of years the windshield turns opaque with dust.

He hasn’t stopped feeling that way since.

“You okay?”

A long, soft breath draws him back into his body. Into his bed.

Not creosote. Not geosmin. Not the Santa Ana winds, coming from the deepest parts of the desert and carrying their desolation to him. Shampoo. Warmth. A girl who smells sort of like him, now—a girl whose perfume is all over his neck and chest and pillow.

You’re there. You, a stranger. You, a girl he’s going to fall in love with. You—the only person he ever brought into the desert with him. The only person who ever brought him back.

Point Nemo is not in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Asphodel is not in the underworld. It’s a little less than half a mile out across from an old gas station on the I-15 in the middle of the Mojave desert.

Spencer nods because he can’t bring himself to speak just yet.

You smile and take the time to find his hand in the dark.

“Felt like I was out there with you. Thanks.”

And he squeezes your hand—because for the first time, it feels like someone is going to come looking for him.

lyrics from my life in art <3

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds smut #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic

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pixelscutz · 2 months ago

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random jjk headcannons ₊˚✩

nanami - huge fan of doja cat

i’m not even sure why, but for some reason, the lyrics of her songs always turn him on. i mean come on? he can definitely relate to all of her lyrics,, wait actually no that sounds wrong. I hope yk what i mean.

itadori - loves being babied

although he wants to be a tough and protective guy in public, trust me, when you two are alone, he loves to lay in between your thighs and hear you sing sweet words to him. now that is the closest thing he has towards heaven.

megumi - secretly has a sweet tooth

“hell no, i’m not eating that sugary shit, do you think i’m trying to speedrun diabetes?”

and thennn you’ll find him secretly eating the leftover cake on his bed at 3am.

nobera- used to believe in ghost stories

tbh, she still believes in some of the ghost stories, i mean when she first found out about jeff the killer and momo she fell down a rabbit hole of worries and fears on what she would do if they randomly appeared one day. although she now knows they don’t exist, she can’t help but always take extra precautions

sukuna - loves being praised like he’s a toddler

I mean, we already think this guy’s ego is pretty big, but come on? “oh sukuna, you cleaned the kitchen? thank you love, you did such a good job!” he would be rolling his eyes, but secretly he’s jumping and screaming with joy

gojo - loves ariana grande & sabrina carpeter

gojo def understands how to treat a women,, i mean have you seen ari’s and sabrina’s lyrics? they teach him a lot about how to treat a woman, - heck he even studies them.

itadori + nobera - love to troll kids on roblox

i mean, although they do save people from monsters and supernaturals everyday,, beefing with a couple of kids online doesn’t do any harm..

megumi - huge fnaf kid

i know i can not be the only one who believes in this, i mean, the entire lore fanctinates him. if you ask him what fnaf is about, he will give you a deep breakdown from start to finish

megumi + gojo - thinks of gojo as a father figure but will never admit it

once megumi called gojo dad,, yeah and that’s when gojo found out what megumi thinks of him and will always tease him abt it

sukuna - has a extensive skincare and hair routine

i mean come on? have you ever wondered how his skin is always gleaming, and his hair is so silky? it’s obious this man loves to take care of himself but he will NEVER admit it

megumi + itadori - they secretly watch romance animes together

this is the definition of bromance, and they always love gushing over who’s their favorite ship, the annoying characters.. etc etc. so far,, fruit basket is their favorite !

part two soon ? :>

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erodasfishtacos · 19 days ago

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But I Got Wise (You're the Devil in Disguise) || DWD

Prompt: Harry & YN are the picture perfect couple of their suburban little neighborhood where everything is pristine and manicured. It's the 1960’s and they're just like any other husband and wife in this era, right?

AKA The Don't Worry Darling AU I never wrote

Word Count: 12.5k

Warnings: PLEASE REFER TO BOTTOM OF THE FIC AS IT WILL SPOIL EVERYTHING IF I PUT WARNINGS HERE 🖤

author's note:

I upload a piece of writing every 1-3 days.

I recently started a second tier called The OG Tier where 2-3 one shots (1-4kish) are posted a week.

There are currently 350 + pieces available to read

Tier I - $3 USD where you get access to main stories, everything except the mini one shots.

Tier II - $5 USD where you get access to every piece of writing!

you can check it out here!

Inspired fully by this song

It’s a give and take.

An ebb and flow.

The most skillfully crafted routine of all time.

YN should win an Oscar for her perfectly crafted wide-eyed expressions or shocked gasp that could fool every single person in a room.

Every woman wanted to be YN.

Every husband wishes their wife was YN or something of a clone to her.

YN was the ideal housewife.

The sprawling mansion pristine, the meals delicious, and her appearance was always without a hair out of place or a smeared liner.

The jealousy came from YN’s upbringing, a family with old money, the kind that sent their children away.

YN was raised in a Swiss boarding school, where she had etiquette classes and learned how to be a lady.

At least that was the story that had so neatly constructed.

She always knew which cutlery went on which side, what fork was used for salad versus entree, and never had an elbow on the table.

YN was always polite to their guests.

No matter how standoffish the women were, she only smiled and acted as if she didn’t sense the tension.

When their husband’s make passes at her, she swiftly but always kindly, gently turns them down with a sympathetic look.

Like if she could she would but she can’t, she only cannot because she’s married.

Her acting made these men believe that if it wasn’t for Harry, they would have this chance with her.

And that was part of her magic, in the process of denying these men, it made them become even more interested with her.

YN was private, comparatively to the group of women, and didn’t share any information that the others would willing give away.

No one knew anything about her marriage.

Not like how everyone knew that Barbara’s husband was drunk nearly every night which resulted in whiskey dick.

Or how Rhonda’s expects it every night, even on days where he’s worked twelve plus hours and they’re both tired.

YN listened attentively, pouted empathically when necessary but never add anything to relate to it.

When pushed once by Catherine, YN was graceful in her rebuke when asked how her sex life was with Harry.

Was he a dud or star between the sheets?

They were dying to know.

He was a gorgeous man, the most successful out of the lot, and the only one who didn’t need hard liquor to loosen up.

Harry seemed too perfect, just like YN, to the point whs dimples smile seemed more wolfish and intimidating than welcoming.

When one of these men would hit on YN, Harry would make sure to give their hand a near bone-breaking shake on the way out as a warning.

All with that dazzling smile.

YN had not taken the bait.

She sipped her tea, acting as if she was flustered, and coquettishly replied, “Harry is a good, respectable man. A man with strong morals of how to treat a woman.”

All the women took that as a confirmation that he was a dud, the vanilla type who only knew missionary before rolling over to snore.

In an alarming discovery, the group of women all came to the conclusion that none of their husbands had ever gotten them anywhere close to climax.

YN had stayed mum, when curious eyes landed on her, she only gave a closed-lipped smile, and shrugged delicately, “I don’t speak about such things. It’s not very ladylike.”

As much as the gossipers want to roll their eyes at her holier-than-thou approach, it created wonder in what her life was like.

YN nor Harry ever cracked, never once.

Of course, every couple tried to put on their best faces for dinners and cocktails but they’ve all slipped a few times.

Like when Caroline had huffed at her husband to, “make his own damn cocktail.”

Or when Bart had let it slip that Gretchen threw a glass at his head during one heated argument a few days back.

Not Harry and YN.

Dinner tonight was hosted at the Chamber’s home, though no one would say it, they preferred when the couple hosted.

YN’s food was impeccable, the kind that only really was served at high-end restaurants, and cooked to absolute perfection.

Their house was incredible, expansive and an open-floor plan that was not the norm for house concepts - it was new, innovative.

They got together every other weekend, the neighborhood parents while a few of the teenage girls watched the young ones.

It was a mystery too.

Harry and YN were the only ones who were childless in their neighborhood.

At twenty-seven and twenty-nine years old, it was a bit scandalous that the two hadn't brought any additions to their family.

When bluntly asked once over tea about the issue, asking too crudely about infertility - YN had replied that no, she wasn’t and they just hadn’t wanted to start trying yet.

That her and Harry were happy right now.

Which was a concept that the others didn’t understand, majority hated their husbands, minority could tolerate them.

Children were something that brought joy to an otherwise dull life, to put something between husband and wife as a barrier to interact because every word seemed tense.

The largest house in the neighborhood, with five bedrooms, and none of them occupied by little ones.

It was a yearning to be like them.

YN was perfect down to the delicately painted polish on her fingertips.

The most mild-tempered personality, who seemed perpetually bubbly and not one negative, pessimistic molecule in her body.

Harry matched the same energy to an extent.

He had a temper unlike his wife, he wasn’t boisterous or belligerent like the other men but he was much worse.

It was subtle, passive, and it made the person who was the target of his anger feel like they were walking on eggshells until Harry decided not to hold the grudge anymore.

Harry was not one to mess with.

Once their neighbor Tom thought it’d be a funny prank to do a burn-out in their front yard.

It tore up a section of their healthy, thriving green grass that Harry watered before work every morning.

Mud, dirt, their meticulous landscape was tainted by the ruddy tire marks of the Chevy Impala that resides next door.

It was passive aggressive, Tom definitely had some not-too-secretive envy for his next door neighbor.

Harry had all the things the men wanted.

Top of that was a nice, obedient little wife who smiled and kept their mouth shut when the men were talking.

Tom anxiously peeled out his window that morning, blinds drawn only barely as he watched Harry come out of his front door.

Always at fifty-thirty on the dot, he grabs the hose, and it’s a bit comical because he’s already in his pressed, tailored suit, and shining loafers that YN must polish daily.

Harry…doesn’t give a reaction.

Which makes Tom’s stomach sink for a reason he cannot quite put his finger on.

Harry does not lose his shit like Tom was hoping, goading him into breaking his picture perfect image that they know.

No, Harry simply waters the grass, as always, and only glides over the disturbed soil to not make it any muddier.

His facial expression does not even twitch.

“He’s going to take that out on his wife,” Janet, his wife, frets as she looks over his shoulder, “You know he’s going to go in there and knock her around because he’s angry.”

“That’s not my fault,” Tom retorts defensively, letting the curtain fall back so they can no longer see him, pissed and unsettled.

“Tom-“

“Go make me breakfast before I knock you around, alright? You’re pissing me off,” Tom dismisses her as he grabs his cup of coffee, watching her scurry into the kitchen.

It honestly disappears from Tom’s mind after not getting the reaction that he wanted so fiercely.

But Tom was also relieved that Harry hadn’t come over, banging on his front door, or leaving a nasty message in the mailbox.

Nope.

It’s not until Tom walks out to the driveway, where his brand new burnt orange Chevy Impala is waiting for him, his pride and joy.

Tom sees it right away, his tires, the expensive brand new tires he had just paid an arm and a leg for were deflated.

Not just one, all of them.

And it’s easy to see that they’re sunken and useless because the underside of the car is closer to the ground, and not to mention the massive slash marks.

Tom thinks he’s about to have an aneurysm as his face starts to fluster into a shade of beet red, his hands trembling.

Just at that moment, Harry’s exiting his front door with YN walking behind in, tied up in a beautifully floral robe that ghosts on the stone.

Tom is boiling, if he was a cartoon character, steam would be coming from his ears.

Harry leans in to kiss his wife, this soft peck as she cups his face like she doesn’t want him to go, whispering against his lips.

He indulges her in a few more before she’s letting him go, not before pressing her thumb into the indent of his dimple.

“What the fuck, Chambers?” Tom roars as he storms to the edge of the driveway, staying in his own land but throwing his arms up.

Harry does the same fucking shit as before except the twerk of his lips.

Harry fucking smirks at him but his eyes were as slicing as recently sharpened daggers through flesh, he gets under Tom’s skin.

“Tom, watch your language in front of my wife,” Harry replies back calmly, “That’s no way to speak in front of a lady.”

YN’s lips are tight, eyes not dancing anywhere near Tom’s as she holds her husband’s bicep in concern, the typical over emotional woman.

Harry leans over, must tell her to go inside because she does go back into the house with a slam of the door, a deafening click of the lock in the still sleepy neighborhood.

“This crime is getting out of control for how much my mortgage is,” Harry lets out a breezy laugh, waving towards his front lawn, “First my yard is torn up, now your tires! I thought this was the safest place in the state!”

Tom is flabbergasted, he doesn’t know how to respond because Harry is acting like they both don’t know what is actually going on right now.

“I might have to get a watchdog, a rottweiler or something like that,” Harry’s smirk does not fade an inch but his tone gets deeper, more threatening, “Rip the jugular out of the next person who comes on my property uninvited.”

They both were aware that Harry was talking directly about Tom, threatening him in a subtle but almost more malicious manipulative way.

Tom freezes up, unsure of how to even answer him but he stutters slightly when he says, “Yea-yeah. A Rottweiler, not a, uh, bad idea there.”

“I better get going,” Harry thumbs back to his jaguar convertible, “My employees will have my ass if I’m late. You know how it is.”

Another jab.

They both know Tom doesn’t know how it is because he’s a low-level at his desk job where he makes barely enough and still has to rely on his parents sometimes.

“Yeah,” Tom bleats dumbly, now having to figure out this mess that was his car, “Have a good one.”

“You as well,” Harry returns, his dimples teasing at this point with his wide smile, “By the way, Tom, if you ever curse in front of my wife again. We’re going to have an issue. She’s a fucking lady and you’re going to treat her like one.”

Tom can’t reply because Harry has already ducked into his Jaguar, revving the engine, and peels out of their driveway with a loud squeal of tires.

Tom and Janet continue to come to dinner parties like nothing ever happened.

Harry will still mix his normal Moscow mule with a question about how his work is going, no one but Tom knows it’s a jab when Harry asks how his new tires are doing for him.

YN is cordial as ever.

When Tom takes her aside to apologize, he doesn’t miss how Harry’s eyes lock on him like a bullseye of a target - watching, clocking every subtle movement.

Harry watches the interaction in its entirety as Tom keeps his voice low, “I apologize for my language the other morning. I shouldn’t have cursed in front of you.”

YN let’s out a short, girlish giggle as she pats him arm, “No apology needed. Harry acts as if I’ve never heard the word before. Though I do not hear it often, I will admit. Harry keeps me sheltered.”

“A good husband,” Tom huffs out, she was adorable, and there was something so innocent about her that made not just him but many drawn like a moth to a flame.

“The best,” YN smiles sweetly, squeezing his bicep as she starts to move away, “Now I must check on my pork chops. I’d be mortified if they’re dry. Enjoy.”

And with that, she glided away, eyes couldn’t help but follow.

YN was cutting up the garnishes, the last touch on the dinner that was about to be served, sprigs of cilantro under her fingers.

A few women flocked around her, sipping martinis and gossiping like grade schoolers.

Harry had sauntered into the kitchen a few minutes after, hands finding her hips, and a chaste kiss to her cheek, “I’m starving.”

“Dinner will be ready in five,” YN looks over her shoulder to tell him, knife pausing for a moment.

“Oh, dinner sounds good too,” Harry’s hand slips from her hips to a bit more suggestive position on her lower back.

“Harry!” YN scolds him, a scandalized expression on her face as the other women flush and giggle.

They all wish the had their own Harry, a husband who was affectionate, a bit inappropriate but he made it obvious that he desired his wife.

His eyes never wandered, not even when Catherine bent over at a barbecue and the wind blew her dress over her head - cotton panties for everyone to see.

All the men had nearly drooled at the sight of skin but not Harry, he glanced with a bored expression at his watch and leaned in to kiss his wife’s nose.

“Out, out,” YN shoos him like a dog begging for a bone, giving him a light shove as he snickers, hands up in surrender.

YN’s eyes are glued to the cutting board, embarrassment latent on her face, “I apologize about that. He sometimes forgets he needs to filter his thoughts before speaking.”

The group around her titters, trying to hide how their cheeks feel warm because how does YN even handle her husband saying to her?

They’d swoon instantly if Harry told them that he was starving for them.

The dinner is served on beautiful, imported dishes from Italy - a wedding gift that was treasured from Harry’s parents allegedly.

The spread was as picture perfect as always.

It was because they were picture perfect.

Most of the men, aside from Harry, were drunk or quite close to it after the salad was served.

By the time the pork chops was on the table, they were bordering on something more uninhibited and unfiltered.

“And Marshall’s new secretary,” Henry’s voice is booming, monopolizing as every one gives him their attention, “Biggest tits I’ve ever seen. Natural too.”

The men all let out these crowing, obnoxious laughs out.

Except Harry.

“I bet her ass is just as -“

“Gentlemen,” Harry cuts in smoothly, raising his lowball glass, “This is no type of conversation in front of the ladies.”

“Catherine’s heard this talk before,” Henry tries to brush him off easily, glancing over at his wife who looks uncomfortable put on the spot.

Harry acquiesces with a sip of his drink, raised eyebrow, and nothing more.

It’s silent for a moment before the conversation continues.

It typically doesn’t wander into such raunchy, debauched territory at a neighborhood dinner but something was in the air.

“Janet wouldn’t let me touch for a month after I broke the radio, even after I bought a new one!” Tom complains between loud chews, “No hand or mouth stuff even!”

Everyone is laughing, the women more of an uncomfortable chuckle than anything, and again - Harry’s face was unreadable.

“How long do you hold out the goods when Harry fucks up? Or are you a good girl who never leaves him wanting?” Henry shoots the question towards YN, innocent YN, who looked like a spotlight had just been shown at her on stage.

“Henry,” Catherine hisses with an elbow in the ribs.

“That’s improper to discuss,” YN wipes at the corner of her lip with her napkin, “I do not do anything other than my duties as a wife.”

The tension is starting to creep in like a thick fog, though he doesn’t speak, everyone’s eyes shift towards the head of the table - Harry.

“I am hoping I heard you wrong, Henry,” Harry sits his glass down knocking loudly against the oak surface, “I know you surely didn’t ask my wife about our intimacy, She wasn’t raised in a barn, to talk crudely, or act it. I do not want you tainting her innocence with such filth.”

The way Harry regarded his wife made it seem like she didn't even know what sex was.

Which again, added to the mystery of what they even got up to (if anything) in the bedroom.

Henry flushes, his face pink from the liquor, and he shakes his head, “I apologize, I’ve had too much to drink.”

Harry gives the sarcastic, crooked smirk, “It seems most of you had. Now I wouldn't want to stress my wife out any further with this nonsense. I think it’s best we end the night here. She most likely needs a lie down from these inappropriate discussions.”

This delicate flower, YN, who just wishes everyone a good night without any fuss about Harry kicking out their guests mid-meal.

Obedient.

Submissive.

Innocent.

The perfect wife.

As soon as the last couple is gone, Harry locks the front door, and kicks his loafers off by the front door.

He truly hated his fucking neighbors.

The best part of these dinners was when they left.

YN had sat back down at the head of the table, opposite Harry, and took a long sip of red wine as she watched him walk back in.

“Those men were pigs tonight,” Harry breaks the silence, taking his spot at the opposing end, finishing off his dry whiskey, “I can’t believe the lack of respect around women.”

“Mm,” YN kicks off her black stilettos before she’s kicking her feet up onto the dining room table without a care.

The basket of rolls tumbles to the floor, a gravy pitcher toppling over and starting to drip on their expensive linen tablecloth.

The skirt of her dress rides up, revealing an expanse of her bare thigh, and enough of a peek at her hips to see no elastic in sight - no underwear.

“How do you think dinner went, my dear?” Harry asks conversationally as he pours himself a glass of Merlot from an open bottle.

YN shrugs as she finishes off her own glass, a red drop of liquid chasing down her jawline, throat, and chest - soaking into the white material of her dress.

“I wasn’t paying much attention to any of them,” YN replies honestly, the honey-sweet airheaded tone was gone and a more demure lift was in her words, “I couldn’t get the idea of you fucking me on this table out of my mind.”

Harry grins like a cat who just found a canary, setting his wine glass down, and leaning back in his chair - spreading his legs more.

“My love, watch your tongue,” Harry teases as he starts to loosen the tie around his neck, never taking his eyes off of her, “It’s improper for you to speak like that.”

YN grins sharply, uncrossing her ankles, and bending her one leg, resting her foot on the plush cushion of the chair, the other one the table - giving him an obscene, gorgeous view when she hikes up her dress even further.

“They would be mind-blown, you know that,” Harry’s voice has gone deeper, rougher as his arousal starts to sink into his bones

“Mind-blown about what?” YN switches back on that innocent, friendly tone but it doesn’t match her actions as her fingertips dance near her inner thighs.

“That you’re a fuckin’ filthy little slut for your husband,” Harry rasps as he starts to go for his belt, yanking the leather from the loops.

“That’s not how you speak in front of a lady, Mr. Chambers,” YN scolds with that faux scandalized melody, her fingers were running over her outer folds, gentle and unrushed.

“M’not in front of a lady right now though,” Harry disagrees as he shoves off his suit jacket..

“You’re not?” YN asks in surprise, doe eyes but the foot on the table purposefully knocks over a half-full bottle of wine - splashing on their rug below.

Harry just smiles, teeth gleaming white and wolfish in the low lighting, “You’re the sweetest, most proper little thing in front of company, aren’t you?”

YN blinks at him, her expression unyielding and still playing into this role they’ve constructed over the years -the perfect couple.

“You are,” Harry answers for her, “I make sure no one speaks crudely in front of you. I remind them that you’re pure, unassuming, and delicate.”

“But you’re not delicate nor anywhere near pure,” Harry continues, his hand gripping at himself through his briefs - squeezing for a bit of relief as the sight in front of him was enough to have him come.

“I am,” YN argues weakly, her index and middle finger finally parting her folds, and pressing against her already swollen clit.

Harry lets a loud laugh echo through their now quiet house, only a low static hum from a song playing in their formal living room on the record player.

“You are? It could have fooled me. You acted scandalized when Henry asked if you withhold intimacy to punish me.”

“I was scandalized,” YN lies but it isn’t with conviction, her focus isn’t great as she presses tight circles over her bud.

“I think Henry would have been scandalized if I told him that you’d never withhold it because you love cock so much. Remember when you lasted what, a half-a-day when I came home late to dinner?”

“By bedtime, you were teary-eyed, and begging me even if I’d just give you the tip, huh?” Harry pushes his hand inside his briefs to really grip him up, a hard squeeze at the base to calm himself down.

“Or he’d be scandalized to know what you’re really like when it’s just me and you. How fuckin’ dirty you are. The words that come out of that cute mouth, how cock-hungry you get, how fucking much of a brat you are when you don’t get your way.”

YN bites her lip, trying to scowl but her toes curl and her thigh muscle twitches as she rubs at herself just right.

“I’ll tell him how you sit pretty for me on your knees when I arrive home from work or how you like to sneak my fingers up your dresses under the table at work events. Should I? The list goes on.”

“They wouldn’t believe you,” YN murmurs as she lets her head fall back, showing off the length of her throat as her legs threaten to close.

“Fuckin’ right they wouldn’t because I’m a good husband, aren’t I?” Harry runs his thumb over his sensitive slit, spreading the precome down the length of his shaft.

“I make sure everyone thinks you’re a delicate little thing when you’re nothing of the sort. If only they knew, dear,” Harry tells her, there’s a heavy amount of fondness intertwined with his words.

“Show me your cock,” YN’s head tilts back up, eyes expectant and focused as she slows the friction on her bud, she could have come by now if she wanted to but she’s teasing herself.

Harry makes a show of giving himself a few rough strokes, letting an echoing groan out as all YN sees is movement under fabric.

“Get the fuck over here,” Harry orders with a new gruffness, “If you come on your fingers then you’re done for the night. And I know how greedy you are for your orgasms.”

YN likes to push limits, always, and she doesn’t move from her chair.

Instead she keeps the same sluggish pace before tracing lower to tuck to fingers in, spreading the wetness back to her clit.

“Maybe I’ll go see if Tom can help me out,” YN sighs airily as the tablecloth bunches under her heel, careless when a serving bowl of green beans flips.

Harry barks out a laugh, hand going to the root of his length because YN looked too fucking good, she looked like the definition of a sin, and he gave into temptation every time.

“I think he’d have a heart attack first,” Harry isn’t even exaggerating, “I am certain that our neighbors are convinced that you do not even know what sex is.”

“I barely have a clue,” YN laughs but it’s a stuttering quip because she's actually close to coming, her calf muscles contracting as she braces herself.

Harry’s out of his chair before YN can register it (or notice how he grabs his leather belt from the crumbled mess of his clothes), striding to the other side of the table, and without any warning, yanks her chair by the back hard.

It drags against the carpet but does what Harry had wanted it to do, makes her leg fall off the table, leaving her to grip the bottom of the chair to not fall, and effectively taking her hand away from her core.

“Harry! You fucking prick-“ YN begins to curse because she was close and she full intended on coming in the new few moments.

“Quiet,” Harry leans down to hiss in her ear, his hand coming around her front to cup her throat, not hard enough to it air flow but enough that it makes it more difficult.

“I was about to come,” YN tells him but her words are choppy, like there’s cotton balls in her mouth, and her tongue refuses to move.

“Were you about to come?” Harry mimicked her words in a parroting tone, fingers pressing in only slightly more, “And I didn’t say you could. But you’re not the obedient, submissive wife everyone thinks you are.”

YN bites his bottom lip hard when he tries to press a kiss to the corner of her mouth from behind, that was enough of an answer.

“No, they didn’t realize how hard my job is,” Harry’s voice goes sympathetic, for himself, “How impossible it is to have this needy, bratty slut of a wife who is never satisfied.”

Harry’s lip was oozing, only a drop or two of blood but his hand moves to the back of her skull, knotting in her hair, and brushing their mouths together - smearing it as if it was a blood pact.

YN doesn’t shy away from it, in fact she tries to sink her teeth back into the wound that was already there but he knew her tricks - as unpredictable as she could be sometimes.

It was almost comical, the song that comes on next.

A new one and it hummed lowly in the background, as Harry gathered her hands together behind the chair to wrap together - he couldn’t help but sing the lyrics.

“You look like an Angel.”

“Walk like an Angel.”

“Talk like an Angel.”

“But I got wise, you’re the devil in disguise.”

YN has this cocky grin on her beautiful face, perfectly applied lipstick was smeared to her chin, spotted with his swipe of blood.

Already a mess.

And all his.

With her hands secured behind her back, over the slats of the chair, it is no doubt going to make her limbs ache from holding the unnatural position.

Her chest pushed outwards, shoulders jutting broad as they try to compensate for her wrists being bound together - helpless.

“S’a pretty dress,” Harry compliments with deceiving kindness, the back of his hand running up the bare expanse of her strained arm, “Did it cost me a lot of money, my love?”

He traces the strap of her dress, hooking his finger underneath the fabric before letting it snap back against her skin.

She hadn't seen him pick up the bread knife but she feels the cold of the stainless steel against her skin when he slips the blade underneath the strap.

Sliced through like warm butter, the material falling limply away, and when he cuts through the opposite side's strap - it has his desired reaction.

Not only does the fabric fall away like scraps but it loses all structure and support, and effectively falls towards her belly.

Her tits spilling out, fully on display with the way her back was arched, and pretty nipples pebbled into perfect peaks.

YN has this snark of a grin on her face, trying not to show she's affected by what he just did, how her cunt ached into her whole body.

She loved the fucking games they played, and she flutters her eyelashes at him, “I thought you said I'm worth every penny.”

Harry stands in front of her, stepping on his suit jacket without a care that it took time for YN to starch and iron it that morning - his tie joining after he tugs it down and unknots it.

His fingers go towards the buttons of his dress shirt, the green of his eyes was barely visible but they couldn't pick, spoilt for choice.

From her face, to her tits, to her belly, to her core.

“You're the most expensive fuck I've ever paid for. I gave you my wallet, my accounts, my life,” Harry grunts as he makes her wait, only getting to the second button, his trousers split open by his hips, hanging loosely on his narrow waist.

“You act like-” YN’s words are cut off by a knock at the door, startling her into surprise because who the fuck would be knocking?

Harry peeks around the corner wall of the dining room, getting a clear view to the tall, narrow windows on either side of their front doors.

“It's Tom,” Harry informs her, moving to zip and button his pants back up, shifting them higher on his hips, “I better get that.”

“Harry,” YN stutters in a burst of adrenaline, she can't move from where she's sat - a sitting duck, vulnerable but aware of it, “You can't answer that.”

“I can't, why not, honey?” Harry’s words have this nuance of confusion, artificial and all for show, “It's the right thing to do.”

“What if…what if he sees me?” YN’s chest was heaving with a filthy mixture of arousal and nerves, “He could walk in.”

“I guess you better be quiet then,” Harry walks up to her, thumb dragging her bottom lip down before smearing her lipstick a bit more at the corner of her mouth, “Or he will come to investigate and how on earth would I explain this?”

Harry is walking out of the room before she can say anything else, leaving her alone in a almost-state of undressed with nowhere to look but their wall.

The music is quiet enough that YN can hear the conversation, Tom was naturally a boisterous man without volume control.

“Harry,” Tom greets when her husband opens the door, “I thought it best I come over and another apology for all of my behaviors. Will you grab YN so that I can extend my amends to her?”

YN’s heart seizes, skipping a beat because she wouldn't put it against Harry to push this, prod at her until he feels he's gotten under her skin.

However, YN needs to remember that Harry is already back into his 'perfect husband’ role, he's the Harry now that everyone knows him as in the neighborhood, not the one that was just in front of her.

“YN had to go lie down,” Harry tells him, making sure he sounds disappointed in his friend, “She really is delicate. Your wife may be okay with that kind of fall but she really cannot. It flusters her.”

“How the hell do you get anything from her? Did she pass out the first time she saw your prick then?” Tom chortles, a joke that isn't received well, Harry doesn't laugh.

Harry redirects though, “What was it exactly you wanted to apologize for? I really must get upstairs to check on her.”

Tom’s voice gets lower, still enough that YN can hear but it's their neighbors' attempt at a whisper, “Listen, I know you slashed my tires. It's fucking fair, alright? I got in a fight with my wife, went and got hammered at the bar, and drove home. I was drunk off my ass, I thought I was doing them in my yard. I wanted to piss my wife off.”

Harry’s voice is unsuspecting, casual, “Oh? I didn't know it was you who did those burnouts. I thought it was those teenagers who drive up and down the road at all hours of the night. Apology accepted for the burnouts but I didn't slice your tires. I hate to break it to you.��

“Oh god, I'm sorry for even thinking you did. I just assumed -” Tom begins to babble, anxious because he just accused Harry of a crime that he had no evidence to corroborate said hypothesis.

“As long as it doesn't happen again, you know?” Harry’s tone is still amicable, unbothered but there's an underlying threat that could not be mistaken for anything else, “It really upset my wife and you know how hard it is to control an emotional woman.”

YN rolls her eyes at that but she does admire how well Harry played his part as the stereotypical husband like every other man who lived in this community.

“Can I come in to apologize? I'll be quick, I am so utterly embarrassed,” Tom nearly begs, hoping to not have disrupted their ‘friendship’ with his nonsense.

There's footfall on the marble, YN’s adrenaline starts pumping through her veins because even as she starts around - there is nowhere for her to hide.

Unable to do anything.

Tied to this heavy chair, she couldn't possible move in this awkward position.

Shoulders and arms were already radiating an ache from being held in the same way for this amount of time.

The only modesty she can muster is to close her legs as tight as they can possibly go.

YN starts taking these greedy inhales to try to not freak the fuck out, on displayed with her tits bare and though her legs were closed - it really wasn't doing much to hide the fact she wasn't wearing underwear, skirt of her dress ruffled around her hips.

“She's already gone upstairs to lie down. I was supposed to bring her an adavan and martini to help her relax. I will pass on the message, Tom,” Harry redirects much to YN’s relief, chest starting to not feel as tight.

“Sorry, again. I really admire you, Harry. You just…Every man in this town wishes their wife was half the woman YN is. A true housewife,” Tom means it as a compliment, a disgustingly masochistic banter that insults not only his wife but all women.

“She is wonderful,” Harry agrees wistfully, everything happening in their dining room begs to differ but he acquiesces to Tom nonetheless.

The door closes, the deadbolt clicking, and Harry’s leather loafers were tapping against the floor as he makes his way back.

Harry was observant, in tune with every want and need of his wife, and now is no different as he steps into the room.

Her face must be a dead giveaway.

Harry strides right up to her, gripping her chin tightly enough that her muscle twitches, and he brings his face to hers - eye level.

There's annoyance in his words, the green cutting like sea glass, “You know I would never ever let anyone see you like this. Why the fuck were you worried for even a second?”

YN tries to sound tough, “You don't know! He could have stormed in. You…you didn't know.”

Harry’s fingers move from her chin, to her jaw but end up in her hair.

He knots his fingers in, tugging her forward until their noses bump. “You know as well as I do that I would have fuckin’ slit his throat before he got within view of you. He wouldn't have left this house.”

YN pushes forward, trying to button their lips together but instead of moving backwards, he moves her head back by the roots of hair.

“Apologize to me,” Harry hisses lowly, teeth set like he's resisting to bite her, claim her as an animal would their mate.

YN knows Harry just as well as he knows her.

YN knows that he's upset that she would for a second doubt it.

“I love you,” YN tells him, tilting her neck back so she's leaning into his grip, showing him all the power he truly has over her.

Harry doesn't kiss her lips but instead, the center of her throat, and then further down to her collarbone until he's at the top swell of her breast.

His hand comes to thumb the skin right below her bellybutton, dragging downwards until can fit the whole of her cunt in his palm.

“Wet f’me,” Harry murmurs against her skin, he licks her nipple, smoothing his tongue over one before he’s blowing cold air on it, “I think I'm going to make you work for it.”

“No,” YN whines pleadingly because when he made her work, fuck, he made her really fucking word for it - sweat, tears, spit, and slick.

“I've been such a great husband,” Harry chides as his index finger traces up her seam, ghosting over her bud, “Am I not? Who covered for you? Who always covers for you, my little fucking devil?”

“You do,” YN mashes her back molars together, jaw aching with strain as she keeps her hips planted to the cushioned seat.

“What did I cover for this time? Say it,” Harry middle finger joins his index to split her lips, exposing where she was swollen for him.

His thumb pressed firmly on her bud, rubbing in precise circles, the surest way to get her coming as quickly as possible.

YN can't help her greed, bucking forward into the touch, and riding down on his thumb to get the exact friction she wanted.

“If you come,” Harry’s voice is lulling, a false sense of security, “You won't be able to sit at our next neighborhood dinner because you're ass will ache that fuckin’ bad.”

“Then take your hand away, fucker,” YN bites out, wetting her body lip, it was too good to pull away, and she wasn't far off from an orgasm.

A hand comes to her cheek, not hard but stinging as he smacks it, “Who the fuck do you think you're talking to? You aren't supposed to speak back to your husband.”

YN grins at him, only fueled by the slap, rough was the name of the game, and she sits back in her chair - unbothered.

“Filthy fuckin’ girl,” Harry grunts as he takes a step back, admiring his wife as she keeps her legs spread lewdly - pink and puffy, perfect.

YN flutters her eyelashes, innocent and coy.

“Now answer me, sweetheart. What did I cover for? Why did I have to lie to Tom?” Harry tilts her head, eyes narrowed and tracking her every twitch, “Hm?”

Harry can't help himself, coming closer to the pet at the patch of downy hair on her mound, touching everywhere but her clit.

“Because I slashed his tire,” YN talks through her teeth, willing herself to keep her hips from moving off the chair below.

“That motherfucker,” Harry had growled when he came in from watering the grass, “Tore up our front yard with that cheap piece of shit Chevy. If I wasn't going to be late for work, I would go knock him the fuck out.”

YN had been sitting in their breakfast room, sipping on honey-lavender tea in a silk, lace robe that was a deep royal blue.

“I don't want to see you upset,” YN frowns as she puts her cup down, standing up, and trailing over to him, “I'll call the landscapers today, have them fit us in.”

Harry tugs her into a hug, a kiss on her hair, “Do not worry about me, my love. I'm okay. Just pissed off. I've got more important things than Tom to care about.”

“What time will you be home?” YN asks as she blinks her pretty, twinkling doe eyes up at him, arms around his narrow waist.

Harry brings up his arm to look at his watch but sees that his wrist is bare, “God damn. I left my watch upstairs. I'll be right back.”

Harry pulls away, the tension in his broad shoulders was a tell that he was much more enraged then he was letting on.

His expensive Italian leather loafers clicking against the marble as he storms back up the staircase towards their bedroom.

YN hated seeing her husband upset, she craved to see him happy, and she would do anything for him.

It's why she's not thinking twice before grabbing the sharpest knife from the butcher block in the kitchen, tucking inside her robe, and going out the back door.

YN is quick, eyes darting to make sure that no one has seen her as her bare feet hit the dewy grass between their yards.

YN pulls her arm back, using all of her force to push the sharp blade into rubber, and loves it when she hears the air start to moan out as it escapes.

Fuck Tom.

YN scurried back to the house and hoped that she would be efficient enough that her husband hadn't come back down stairs yet.

That was not the case.

He was standing at the back glass door, observing with pursed smile, hands in the pockets of his dress pants with his watch reflecting off the kitchen light.

YN bites her lip, caught out as he opens the door for her, and ushers her in.

His voice is dry, bleak, “Give me the knife.”

Oh shit.

She's in trouble.

At least she thinks that she is.

Until he kisses the side of her head, opens the back door once again, and strides across the lawns like she just had down.

He makes it appear effortless when he slashed the remaining three good tires, pulling the blade down so that there's no hope of patching the rubber.

Harry runs the blunt tip against his door, scraping off the paint like gum on the sidewalk before he's walking back towards the house.

“Darling, you have to slice when you do it. All four will be at least two of his paychecks, a small price for what I'll have to pay the landscaper,” Harry tells her nonchalantly like they were talking about the weather and not a crime they both committed.

Harry glances at his watch, “Shit. I have to go. I'll see you later, alright? Be good f’me even though you're always such a good girl.”

And it's sincere because that's how twisted their relationship is.

YN committing a crime to seek retribution for Harry’s anger was the most romantic sign of her love that he could ask for.

The first contact that meets her clit is his palm, when he smacks her flat over her bundle of nerves, and it was hard enough to make her jump.

Her legs start to close but he roughly shoved a knee into her thigh to force them to stay open, “What? You're so tough, right? Surely, surely you can take a few hits, my love.”

YN grits her teeth, molars clashing as the residual pain radiates down her thighs, and at the same time, it had her pulsing.

Her wetness was soaking the cushion, there was nothing that got her slick faster than when he wasn't worried about his heavy handedness.

“Can you take it?” Harry drops his hand to her center, thumb tucking up the hood of her clit, pressing tightly against her bud, and it's too much straight on.

Her legs twitch, dying to close because she was throbbing with sensitivity, pinpricks make her eyes feel tingly because it's too much every other second.

When Harry asks her that question, it is rhetorical, he doesn't wants an answer because he would fluidly switch into something softer, more coddling if she needed.

It wasn't.

YN presses her lips together, refusing to give him answer as she bites on her tongue to point she can taste metallic.

“S’funny, most men can't even find their wife’s clit or don't care about it at all. Aren't you lucky you have me?” Harry’s smile is wolfish, mean, and a different version of her husband, “I've found it? Haven't I?”

He accompanies his words with an unexpected smack before his thumb right up again, no reprieve or mercy for her.

It felt fucking amazing and like hell all at once.

She just needs a bit lighter pressure, slower circles, and that would be it.

Harry knows that and is choosing to torture her instead, not concerned about actually getting her off at the moment.

“Is that all I need to shut you up, pet? A thumb on your clit? I'll have my hand up your dress every second of the day then,” Harry chuckles cruelly, pressing and pressing before his fingers are crooked up inside her walls, squeezing at the unexpected, and robbing her of the stimulation on her clit.

YN wants to hurt him, dig her nails into his back muscles until he bleeds on her, sink her teeth into his thigh where no one but her will see the healing bloody marks.

“Fuck you,” YN can't help herself because he's ruthless, finds it funny, and she feels like if she doesn't come within the minute she’ll explode.

Harry withdrawals his fingers, wiping them crudely on her cheek, dragging to her lips before he's parting her lips and pressing down on her tongue.

When he puts pressure there, it causes her to gag and her eyes instantly start to water, and it shouldn't surprise him when her teeth meet his knuckles.

Harry grunts out in pain when she clamps down which causes him to pinch her tongue, she yelps, and it gives him enough time to remove his fingers.

“S’funny, all these men in the neighborhood want you, huh?” Harry asks condescendingly, his hand goes to the back of the chair, and he tips it.

Her reflexes cause her to twitch, trying to find stable ground but she can't because of the way she's tied up.

Harry keeps her on the edge of falling, her heart lodged in her throat.

“But they don't know what a disobedient little bitch you are?” Harry lets the chair come back down with a loud clatter, “Don't listen to a word when you're hungry for cock. They should be lucky their bored wives aren't so needy.”

“I'm not needy,” YN disagrees sharply, they both knew she was lying through her teeth but she couldn't let him just say those things without a rebuttal.

“You think Janet or Catherine bend over any surface for their husband, forgo panties while they clean so that their men get a glimpse of their cunt, or wake up in the morning dripping and soft?”

“You love it,” YN manages to keep her voice steady when Harry swipes his finger through the whipped cream on top of the pineapple upside cake that was untouched on the table.

“I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world,” Harry agrees, momentarily sincere, a break from his character.

He wipes the sweet, tacky fluff on her nipples before going back for more, destroying the dessert as he grabs a handful of the cake.

Harry smears it from her collarbones, all the way down her belly, and it was absolutely fucking messy as crumbs strayed everywhere, the syrupy sauce sticky on her skin,

“Harry,” YN gasps because she's surprised, she hadn't expected him to rub the cake on her, their dining room was a mess, everything was destroyed.

“Can't let this dessert go to waste. You made my favorite cake, I have to try it,” Harry kneels down, shoving between her legs and leaning forward.

He flattens his tongue above her belly button before trailing in up on a straight line, licking off the clumps of cake in turn.

“Mm,” Harry rumbles as he licks up her sternum, between the valley of her breasts, and his hand is digging to her ribs - keeping her still, “I can't decide which tastes better, your cunt or this cake.”

Harry carelessly grabs a smaller handful but he rubs it from below her navel to her mound, stopping right where her folds begin.

YN was dying, watching him, feeling him lick the traces off of her body with no rush, as if he had all the time in the world.

He bites at her belly after he's cleaned off the cake, making YN’s stomach suck in reflexively because it hurts and she is hazy from all the different sensations.

When he gets down to where she's aching, her heartbeat palpable in her center, he lazily cleans it off her mound.

“Sweet as pie,” Harry hums as he spreads her open, licking into her hole but ignoring where she actually needs him, “Or should I say pineapple upside down cake?”

It was starting to get overwhelming, the arousal was all that was plastered in her thoughts, and nobody else wants their husband to fuck then like she does.

None of them are married to Harry.

Her arms are aching, a dull shout from being held in the same position for so long.

“I love when you're all bound up. I can do whatever I please, right?” Harry takes these harsh laps at her clit before pulling back between each, thumb dancing around the seam of her core.

YN can't even bring herself to respond, it was warm in the house as it was, and sweat was beading from her temples.

“That's what Father Matthew said in marriage counseling before our wedding. Do you remember? He said that your body is mine, that you shall offer yourself whenever I wish, for my fulfillment and satisfaction.”

YN nods, she remembers Father Matthew saying that but it had been a part of their personas in the first place to go, they weren't religious, and neither practiced Catholicism.

It was all an act, like most other aspects of their lives, giving off the appearance that they were normal like every other young couple.

YN had sat prim and proper, agreeing to the priest’s misogynistic words as he droned on about how waiting until marriage to have sex was the utmost important.

To prove how wrong Father Matthew was, Harry had encouraged YN to tie him to their bedpost.

She then proceeded to edge him until he was pink, panting, and bruised on his chest, inner thighs from vicious love bites.

Just to prove the point that if her body was his, then Harry was to offer his body in the same way.

“And you're such a good little wife, aren't you?” Harry accentuates his words by pushing two fingers into her, curling towards her plush walls, and finding her spot like nothing.

YN can't help but moan, to finally have something to get her there after teetering on the edge of losing her orgasm because he knew how to keep her there.

“Always so generous with this pretty cunt,” Harry’s thumb comes to rub at her bud, over the hood to dull the sensitivity a bit - how she liked it, “I can't believe it's all mine. For the rest of our lives, baby, this is mine to fuck, eat, and worship. I love this pussy, just like every other bit of you.”

It was actually sweet, earnest words if you filtered through the crude accompaniments because he was loyal, madly in love with her, and always strived to make her happy through the thick of the chaos.

“Sweet thing prepares dinner, entertains our guests, and everyone would be scandalized to know what crosses my mind when you're bringing out dessert,” Harry's mouth finds her nipples, he gets sidebarred for a moment as he wraps his lips around the peak, pulling it hard as his other hand continues on.

Harry knows this is a monologue, her brain is too fuzzy, and all she can think about is an orgasm - all his words are barely registering, like he's speaking underwater.

“All I could think about was knocking it out of your hands,” Harry's breath is cold in her nipple, grazing with his plump lips on every word, “Flipping your dress up, eating your cunt from behind, and making them watch this proper housewife get treated how she likes, how you beg to be my slut.”

“But you can't be, baby. M’sorry to break it to you,” Harry coos as he presses his hand stops, it fucking stops, “Can't be a slut when you're a married woman who only opens her legs her husband.”

There's fat, pathetic tears dribbling down her cheeks because he had tricked her, she had truly thought that she was going to be able to come.

Her chest was heaving, she was panting like a water-deprived dog, and she knew what she had to look like.

Hair frizzed out from humidity and perspiration, her mascara running down her wet cheeks with her lipstick smeared off the corner of her mouth.

And Harry was looking at her like she hung the moon, that she was the most beautiful piece of art in the museum he was visiting.

“Darling,” Harry laughs but it's not mean, it's genuinely as if she's taken his breath away and he's in awe, “Darling.”

“Please, H, please,” YN chokes out unashamed in how vulnerable she was right now, crying because she's aching, and her body is stressed out to the point of near exhaustion.

Harry leans forward, kissing her forehead which was almost obscenely chaste for their current situation as he leans behind her to unbind her wrists.

Her face pressed into his chest as he reaches, her lips founds whatever is close, mouthing at the skin of his pectoral muscle - desperate to taste him, to have him without the game.

YN doesn't realize that she's been babbling, a noncoherent string of pleas, “Want you, please. I just want you. Need you.”

“Sweet girl,” Harry hums as he understands just how floaty she has become, her eyes moony and glazed as she struggles to focus, “You are doing so good for me.”

“Want t’come,” YN’s replies with staggered syllables, blinking at him with heavy eyelids, “M’aching.”

Harry chuckles at her, it's disgustingly fond because he's that in love when he brings her arms to her front, kissing her quiet when she whines at the ache.

Now that her hands are free, she's gripping and ripping at whatever she can sink her claws into because she can't wait any longer.

Harry tries to help, stepping out of his trousers, and tugging down his briefs until he’s exposed again, pretty and thick.

The angry red of the tip, along with the glistening drops of pre-come that were sliding down the shaft were a sign of how turned on he was.

“How do you want it?” Harry asks as he cradles her face, pressing kisses to her cheeks, lips, neck as his fingers tweak her nipple, “Lady’s choice.”

“Want t’ride you,” YN doesn't hesitate, hoping her words came out intelligible because her head was spinning.

YN had a few lousy lays before Harry, nothing to write home about in her teenage years.

She was positive that no other man on this earth could get her even close to the nirvana that her husband drove her to.

It was something she would never be able to regret or explain if she had to write it out - it would be mindless ramblings without true words.

Harry obliges as he helps her stand, wobbly legs as he takes her spot, and huffs out a mean jest, “My arse is wet from your slick. Darling, you're going to have to take my slacks to the dry cleaner. Hopefully they can get out the marks of a naughty girl’s cunt.”

YN doesn't respond, far too focused on straddling his waist, and gripping his around the girth of his base which filled her hand impressively - fingers struggling to meet.

“Hey,” Harry tries to grab her attention but she’s too focused on lining him up to her center, her hands were clumsy because of the livewire that was running through her body, his voice gets firmer when he barks out, “Hey.”

He grabs her wrist, tugging it off of his cock, and wrangles both of her hands into one of his.

Harry holds them against her chest, making her sit back on his thighs, and the tip of his length is brushing right up against the seam of her lips - if she could move forward a little bit, she may be able to get friction on her clit.

YN is far too enticed by trying to wriggle her hips forward, her eyes zoned in on him because he was the prettiest - in all aspects from his eyes to his nose to his arms to what lay in the cradle of his hips.

“How can you go so dumb for a cock you haven’t even gotten in you yet?” Harry scoffs as he uses the grip on her wrists to yank her forward until he is pressing through her folds.

YN has tears tracing down over her lips as she sniffles, her mouth twisted into a sad pout, “Stop being mean t’me. Just want you.”

Harry knows instantly, knows that's her way of voicing that she's hitting a limit, and she was ready for him to be nice.

“Okay, okay,” Harry simpers as he lets go of her wrists, allowing her to find balance gripping his shoulders as he takes hold of himself, “Be patient for me. Always such a good fuckin’ girl. Fuck, I love you.”

YN’s eyes squeeze shut with instant relief when he helps her sink down until her bum is flush against him once again.

“Baby,” YN lets out the mewl, her head tilting back as she begins to move her hips, more like a roll to get the friction on her clit, pulsing and swollen.

“You squeeze me like a dream,” Harry groans as he kneads her hip, allowing her to move how she needed to nudge her spot and give her bud that extra love.

Harry reaches behind, hand knitting in the hair by her nape to pull her back, to smear their lips together as she moves her hips in this crude, self-indulgent way.

“That's it, greedy girl,” Harry goads as his mouth finds her nipple again, sucking at it before pulling back with a audible pop, “S’all yours to use.”

“Only mine,” YN grits out, possessive even when she was floaty, that never dulled- the claim she felt over him.

Harry kisses the center of her center, “Of course, my love. M'your husband, I vowed that it's yours. I'm not like Bart who doesn't take that shit seriously.”

“I'd cut your dick off if you cheated,” YN manages to scrape out between heavy breaths, she was close, and trying to extend the sensations.

“I'd hand you the knife,” Harry agrees as he grips her waist with more firmness, starts moving her hips in these forceful, direct motions, “I don't have time. When m’asleep I dream of you, when I'm working I'm thinking about coming home to you, and when my cock gets hard - your the only reason it does because I'm thinking about this cunt, about the cute noises you make when you feel good. I’d fucking make a deal with the devil if that meant I got you.”

“You already made the deal,” YN let out this devious giggle, ringing through the quiet space of their sprawling home.

A home they had earned from other means than the others in their neighborhood, it was chaos wrapped in a suburbia bow.

A hideaway from their lives outside of this cul-de-sac of rich, over-privileged men with wives who didn't think for themselves.

It wasn't just Harry brings in the money, no, they brought it in together, and no one would be the wiser to it.

Not their neighbors, their family, the police - everyone was clueless to who the most wanted criminals in America were.

The crime duo who had shoot-outs with police, duffels filled with banded stacks of cash, gold bars, jewelry that was so expensive there wasn't an assigned value.

All in their vault hidden in their walk-in closet, where the secrets, the evidence, and the reward was hidden from unsuspecting guests in their home.

“I'd make the deal a million times over,” Harry replies as he leans forward to bite at the hinge of her jaw, “Just to have you squirming on my cock.”

YN digs her nails into the meat of his shoulder, eye fluttering like butterfly rings as they struggle to stay open, and her mouth drops in a moan.

“Harry,” YN throws her head back, her hips rolling into the cradle of his hips with force, keeping her clit smushed to his pubic bone, and there was slick coating the trimmed hair around the base of him.

“Fuck yeah, c’mon. Keep going,” Harry grits out because his balls were throbbing, begging for a release after she'd just squeezed him like a god damn vice.

YN always gets lazy after an orgasm, especially after being edged, and her hips are starting to stall into sluggish, barely there effort.

Harry takes it upon himself to move her how he wants, gripping her hips, and she whines when he digs his fingers into the meat of her love handles.

“If you didn't want it to hurt, you would move your hips yourself,” Harry reminds her as he graciously kneads bruises into the spot, guiding her into a swivel where he's persistently nudging her spot, “Fuckin’ move.”

YN doesn't ever take orders well so instead she slouches forward until she's hugging him, their chests pressed, and effectively putting all her weight on him.

Instead of getting frustrated, it melts Harry, and he wraps his arms around her and pulls her as close as possible.

“I fucking love you,” Harry murmurs against her hair, his feet planted flat on the floor as he fucks up into her with brutal but paced thrusts, “Did so good for me. I want you to give me another one.”

YN sinks her teeth into his shoulder, he doesn't acknowledge it as he angles his hips better to give her clit the stimulation she needs.

“O-oh,” YN mewls when it suddenly sparked a much less intense but still as good orgasm, “Harry.”

“I know, sweetheart. Fuck, you're going to make me come,” Harry assures her as he picks up the speed of his actions, teeth getting, “You take me so well. God, this cunt is mine, yeah? Fucking tell me.”

“Yours, S'yours,” YN whines because her body is tired, starting to ache in all the places he’d dug into with his fingers, had hit, and grabbed.

Harry wraps her hair around his knuckles but he's completely gentle when he goads her to move her head back.

He buttons their lips together, in a kiss sweet enough to make your teeth rot, a contradiction to what they'd just done.

Because despite all the show, they were a love story, and Harry loved YN so deeply that he wouldn't hesitate to take a bullet for her, push her out of the way to take the brunt.

Without thinking he would.

He has shielded her body countless times with his own, was grazed by a slugger to his thigh, and shoulder before.

“Good girl, good fucking girl,” Harry grits out through clenched teeth, moving her down harder until she purposefully clenched to get him to come.

“Shit, that's it's,” Harry tilts his head back, smiling when YN starts smudging kisses to his throat in a goading support, “That cunt is a fuckin’ dream.”

YN giggles as he comes down, brushing his hair off his face, going into her normal caring mode as she starts to fuss over him.

He doesn't allow it for more than a moment, despite her pout because it was his job to take care of her, his duty as her husband.

“You're absolutely filthy,” Harry chuckles as he helps her stand up in front of him, sticky, wet, bruised, and his softening cock gives a weak twitch of interest, “Let's get up to the bathroom, quick shower before bed, yeah?”

“The food,” YN motions to the mess around them, everything was a disaster, “I have to clean this up first, H.”

“I'll do it. You did so much today,” Harry assures her because it was true, she was phenomenal, and the least her could do is clean up all the remnants, “I want to get you clean and curled up in our bed. We have a busy day tomorrow.”

“It's Coastal Trust Bank, in Santa Monica, yeah?” YN asks as he guides her towards the staircase, her movements languid and strained.

“I have it mapped out already, we're going to hit it at closing this time. They only close up with three employees at the end of the night. A manager and two tellers, not too many people to wrangle up,” Harry informs her, casually as if they're planning a weekend getaway.

“I want the keys to the safety deposit boxes. I want a Diamond tennis bracelet,” YN grumbles because she has yet to find one that she likes, there were at least seven sitting in her vault that weren't exactly what she wanted.

Harry shakes his head with a laugh, dimples popping as they walk up the stairs, “Or we could just buy you one, darling.”

“S’not as fun,” YN frowns in disagreement, it gave her a sick satisfaction to have someone else's hard earned money on her wrist as they yearned for their belonging back.

“I'll get you the keys to deposit boxes, anything you want,” Harry placates because it will also keep her occupied while he's shoving stacks of cash into the duffle bags he had splayed open.

“God, you're so romantic,” YN hums without any jest, this was their love, their secret, and the life they had created together.

YN didn't get nervous anymore, not when she walked into the bank at six-fifty, ten minutes before closing in a pretty bit plain tailored dress, a purse on her shoulder, and a coat over her forearm.

YN gives a fake name, the name of someone who actually patronizes the business, and asks questions about how to get a loan for a car.

The teller pulls out a binder, rifling through stacks of paper with small print, finger tracing over the page to find what he's looking for.

YN has to play the part when a litany of loud noises comes from the front entrance, all three employees and her look instantly.

Harry was dressed completely in black, covering every inch of his skin, gloves to disguise his hands, and a balaclava to only show the piercing twinkle of his eyes in the fluorescent lighting.

He had straps of artillery across his chest, two guns sling over his back to make an X, and a shotgun in hand as he pointed it towards them all.

“Get on the fucking ground!” Harry roars loudly, booming and frightening as all of them instinctively put their hands up in surrender.

Harry keeps an eye on them while he barricades the front door, he had already done so from the outside for the other exits - no escape.

YN matches the energy of the rest of them, tears streaming down her cheeks as she kneels on the ground until it's her turn.

Harry makes a point of binding her last, with zip ties around her wrists but they both know it's a trick pair - all she needs to do is use a bit of force and they'll break for her.

“Don't hurt the lady,” The manager begs as Harry roughly shoved YN towards the particular door, barking at her to sit back down and don't fucking move.

Harry turns to glance at the manager, “I'm going to kill her unless you open that fucking vault and hand me the money without any trouble.”

YN subtly nudges his foot.

“And the master key to the safety deposit boxes,” Harry facts on because even in the middle of a heist, he's still a doting husband.

warnings: Bonnie & Clyde AU mixed with DWD, mean H, d/s undertones, light bdsm (hands tied behind back), name calling, hitting, blood, guns, crime, knives, edging, overstimulation

I absolutely love this. I put a lot of work into it and it is definitely one of my favorite pieces. I would love to know your thoughts!

#harry styles writing #harry styles masterlist #update #harry styles #harry styles fic rec #harry styles fluff #harry styles x reader #harry styles x you #harry styles x y/n #dwd #dont worry darling

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fairyminnie444 · 29 days ago

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˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊ 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

— 𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘤𝘬 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘰𝘶𝘣𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥, 𝘐 𝘋𝘖𝘕𝘛 𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴!

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ ☾. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧ ✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ ☾. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

𝓟𝓞𝓢𝓣𝓢 ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

your subconscious is simpler than you think it is

you are NOT persisting if you are checking 3D and waiting for you DR!

you don’t try to manifest

Embodying the reality of your imagination

Manifesting is instantly

how should I see the role of other people in my reality?

ENDING the cycle of main frequent doubts that arise in our minds once and for all

“At your command”

EIYPO explained for you to understand and absorb

do you sometimes have that feeling that you NEED TO DO SOMETHING/TAKE ACTION to receive what you want?

“BIG” manifestations

What’s the “secret”?

Why You Can Change Your Physical Appearance and Overcome the Limitations of Biology

Why Others’ Manifestations Can’t Block Yours

I already know everything!! How do I apply this to my routine?

The “Sabbath State”

Yes, it’s perfectly okayyyy if you forget or get distracted by your routine.

affirmations to make it easier and “faster”

the ultimate post u need to LET GO

understanding your EGO so you don’t let it hold you back anymore

how to feel your desire in a natural way even if it seems unlikely?

even a negative view of circumstances can lead you to a positive one

manifesting $100,000 is as easy as manifesting $1

you already understood that! you are already there!

𝕔𝕙𝕠𝕠𝕤𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕕𝕖𝕤𝕚𝕣𝕖 𝕒𝕓𝕠𝕧𝕖 𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕟𝕖𝕘𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕧𝕖 𝕔𝕚𝕣𝕔𝕦𝕞𝕤𝕥𝕒𝕟𝕔𝕖𝕤

manifesting is supposed to be fun, light and easy!

~bad moments~ along the way happen, instead of ignoring them how to deal with them?

Act like the GOD you know you are.

Breaking Free from the Need for Proof

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ ☾. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧ ✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ ☾. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

𝓐𝓢𝓚𝓢 ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

i want to increase my height

what if my desires stay in imagination ans never externalize?

can we manifest multiple sps?

time travel (2)

What if others also try to manifest my celebrity sp…

how do you/did you convince yourself that manifesting/LOA is real

dealing with the 3D when it comes to using LOA (living in the wish fulfilled)

doubts affect my manifesting?

How does one take a very famous person « off the pedestal » in order to manifest them?

I want to change my birth name but i have to sign documental stuff

How I could live in the end when revising smth that if materialized would totally change my live in the 3d?

SPEC method

will it still manifest what we want even if we don’t have a clear picture on it?

I need help with my imagination.

how do i know if it's just taking its time or if i'm doing something wrong?

Can you go deeper into days/weeks of the 3D not changing and how to persist throughout the whole day when you're doing things?

What are your thoughts about getting back people who have p@ssed away? REVISION

YT Channels (sub, meditations, mentors)

I want to manifest the absence of something I've been experiencing for a long time (health and wellness related).

work on my self concept / deal with people who criticize or make me feel drained

simple breakdown to help you manifest your SP even if it feels delusional right now

trying to manifest a modeling career

manifest changing appearance and dna, but i also want to change my past to always have been this appearance and my parents too

everytime i think something is "never going to happen" or "hmm i've never seen xyz" it ends up happening?!?!

How can I manifest when I absolutely don't believe that I can?

how can i use daydreaming and listening to songs while manifesting?

someone asked me about my sp. what should I do in this case?

why is consuming more information about this law considered to be coming from lack when doing something in the 3d that "opposes your desire" not considered to be coming from lack?

I have too many things to manifest so what should I do? advice to me in harsh way

struggle with is my celeb sp and my dream job

how would you manifest hectochromia eyes?

EIYPO everything like a puppet and me it’s master pulling the strings? Does it mean that “ancestors,” “angels,” etc. are not existent, only me?

Why Some Manifestations Work Effortlessly

advices for manifesting with mental disorders

can manifest such extreme beauty that everyone in a shopping mall turns to look at me. Even though I'm not the standard and I'm common

I’m manifesting a new face, but visualising it doesn’t make me feel anything?

how do i make sure that happens for certain? i'm scared it won't

What do you think about manifesting being immortal?

+ tips on manifesting a bf/significant other

struggling with feeling the feelings and believing that it’ll happen.

I can never manifest anything related to MONEY purely

date with the guy I like However, I am a very physically insecure girl and I am too scared and nervous.

i dont know what i did wrong, i really thought this would work, i was sure about it but it didn’t and i can’t helped but feel discouraged

I have a fear that some of my manifestation will dissapear

If everything we are seeing in the 3D is assumptions we made through our life, why does sometimes when we are like 100% sure of something and then we figured it is not?

was confident, my affirmation was "no matter how and what, i have all A's" but alas i did in fact not get all A's.

i WANT to see a people who actually manifested things that changed their past, their reality

i wanna manifest more lenient parents

I’m religious so I believe in a higher power/god, but I do still believe in my own power/ Will this hinder my manifestation process because I believe in a higher power?

What am I doing wrong? SP related

how can i.. like manifest or just "undo" it??

I want to manifest my natural hair color being blond, but i have black hair and also my parents, do i have to detail everyone in my family who is blonde for my new genes?

I feel like I can't anymore, that I'm giving in… I feel stuck

i’m really confused in the living in the end thing and others things in my manifestation

I simply want to be like those people who are successful in curing their illnesses

what do you recommend me doing to change my birth year while not ignoring the reality and still living in the end?

Can our negative thoughts manifest if we think them for a long time and then stop thinking them?

How to use chatpgt to clear doubts and manifest

Tips for beginners

why do some people's jokes manifest if they don't assume those jokes are true?

how to stop paying attention to old failed attempts

How do you deal with hopelessness or desperation.

i’m scared that my fears will manifest itself and it’s out of my control

waiting mode

I feel guilty wanting to manifest

I try to live in the 4D but catch myself expecting the 3D to immediately reflect it

PART 2 - MASTERLIST

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ ☾. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧ ✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ ☾. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

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sterredem · 2 months ago

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Secret

Billie eilish x Verstappen!reader / Max Verstappen x sister!reader

Face claim Sofie Vollan

Summary hiding a relationship from the work can be quite hard, especially when you have a noisy brother who can’t keep his mouth shut

Warning spelling mistakes, not proofread

A/N not the longest but I love, also made this in a day.

This was a request!

Instagram

Liked by MaxVerstappen and 64.624 others

Yourusername Bts from my life /ft max

View all comments

MaxVerstappen You did me dirty

Yourusername you did yourself dirty with looking at me like that

MaxVerstappen Valid

User1 Vibessss

User2 beauty

User4 how is she single??

User5 SHES related to max???

|———————————<3—————————————|

Instagram

Liked by finneas and 71.725 others

Yourusername vacay vibes

View all comments

finneas hope you had a great time

Yourusername I did!

MaxVerstappen ;)

Yourusername don’t be mean max

User6 HUH??????

User7 Soft lunch much????

User8 A GIRL?!?!??

User9 Beaty

MaxVerstappen 🎶I know something you don’t🎶

User0 TELL US!!!!!

User10 Sooo…. Now single??

User11 what is finneas doing here???

User12 cutieee

User13 💕💕

|———————————<3—————————————|

[r/f1related: “My father, who is an mechanic at Red bull, overheard Max talking (yapping) a lot of the time, and we know now who his sisters mystery lover is. Ask me anything.”]

U/Formulaonefan

So, my dad is an red bull mechanic at F1 and works on max’s car. While working he overheard max talking to his manger about his sister. Apparently she has been ‘talking’ to someone. They went on to talk and my dad didn’t really catch anything interesting, and he was working, so he dismissed it (this was a few years ago ago)

Now a bit more recent he heard them talk again and this time he heard some more interesting things, apparently Y/n is now dating this person (who is now confirmed to be a girl and he heard a she) and they have been for a few months (1 month after the first conversation)

Now onto the interesting part; as some of you know, max can be a bit protective, so he was telling his manager about how he is worried that she (Y/n) will be with them keeping their relationship a secret, and now to the most shocking/amazing part; he also said they when/of the relationship comes out he is worried how she will deal with all the attention/fame. He then went on to say they she (the girlfriend) is amazing and that he knows she will care for his sister, but that you can never really know with fans.

This led him (and me) to believe that she is dating someone famous with a fan base that can maybe(?) be a bit toxic(?).

This was also confirmed when my dads heard them talking AGAIN (they really need to learn what privacy is) (this is also more recent, think like one or two months ago), and this time we got SO MUCH INFO!!! So firstly; it is a singer, because my dads heard max say that they went to Y/n’ girlfriends concert and they they loved it and then went backstage to see her (so this person is a singer that is currently on tour/performing at events). He then also said that it was really weird hearing his sisters girlfriend singing about their … you know what life. That leads me to believe that the singer has a song on a recent album/ep that is about love/… life (maybe with a girl). And now onto the part where it all fell into place (if you don’t already know who it is); He said that the music isn’t really his style but he likes it and his sister loves it so that’s good, the he said and I quote “I think it is really great that she has now gained the confidence to song more and really show her voice, I think Y/b really helped her with that. ……….. Billie is a great singer.” End quote.

So here is what I gained from all this; Y/n is dating a girl, who is a singer, with songs about her, that singer is named billie. So I think we can all assume that it is billie rikishi with the song LUNCH about her!

I am very happy for them both (and fit myself cause I am a BIG fan of them) and if you have any questions feel free to ask! I’ll try and awnser as many questions as I can without exposing who I am/who my father is and putting his job at risk.

Top comments:

F1gossiploverr This is instant!! (I love it)

VerstappenFan as a billie and a Y/n fan THIS IS A DREAM!!

Queenoff1 I gind it really funny that we got all this info cause max couldn’t stay quiet and needed to talk Loud

Formulaonefan (OP) Oh yeah, same here. Me and my dad where cracking up after he came home and told me all this

BillieStan As a billie fan I am proud of her for bagging a baddie

Author Sorry for that there ar ‘t a lot of comments I just can come up with names and comments so just think about what you would say :)

|———————————<3—————————————|

Instagram

Liked by

Yourusername dumpp

View all comments

MaxVerstappen sssshhhh

Yourusername As if you can

Formulaonefan Sooo…. I’m right..?

User1 OH?!?!

User2 even hotter now

User3 WOW IM IN LOVE

User4 I fear this might be my bi awakening (not lesbian cause I’m an f1 fan…)

User5 soooo… anyone think this is billie…?

|———————————<3—————————————|

Instagram

Liked by billieelish and 826.725 others

Yourusername I guess the secrets out (f u max)

View all comments

billieelish Ilyyy

Yourusername 💕💕💕💙💙❤️❤️💋🦋💋💋💋

MaxVerstappen … sorry …

Yourusername … no …

VictoriaVerstappen I also almost slip…

Yourusername doesn’t matter if you did, you’re my favourite

MaxVerstappen???!!?!?!?

User6 HEBGEHS EUSHUSHSBUSUSBYDHD

User7 OMGONG

FormulaOneFan I WAS RIGHT!!!

User8 IM FREEKING OUT!!

User9 wait….. if the Reddit uses is right…. Doesn’t that mean that they have been dating for maybe a year????

User10 THIS IS AMAZING!!

User11 power couple fr!!

User12 IM S(CREAMING) !!!!

User13 BOTH SO HOTTTT

|———————————<3—————————————|

ALSO let me know what you think about the Reddit part! I loved making it and I think i might put it in more posts (+ a bit more media than Twitter and insta like a podcast or smt, let me know your thoughts + ideas!)

#sterredm fics💕#sterredm fics #billie eilish x formula 1 #billie eilish x y/n #billie eilish x fem!reader #billie eilish x you #billie eilish x reader #billie eilish #formula 1 fanfic #formula 1 x y/n #formula 1 fluff #f1 x y/n #f1 x you #max verstappen x you #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen #max Verstappen x sister #Max Verstappen x Sister!reader

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agendabymooner · 1 year ago

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SOMETHING DESIRED !!! TOTO W. X FEM!READER (18+)

summary: "don't mix business with pleasure" they said, but who were they to stop her and toto from wanting each other?

content warning: smut under the cut (minors dni!), based on a request from my ask, use of explicit language, rbr test driver!horner!reader (christian's sister), forbidden love trope-ish, porn with plot, unprotected sex (plz don't do that), office sex, lowk filthy, size kink (heavy on this), choking, dacryphilia

song rec: now by trouble maker

note: this is the closest thing you'll ever have to a fic where a horner and a wolff banged. enjoy xx

something sinful (smut) masterlist

a - n masterlist

o - z masterlist

if you’d like to get on one of my taglists, check this post out

she wanted him. and he wanted her too. he just refused to let his desires give in to save face.

and she hated it so much. she hated that she saw him as someone else’s younger sister and nothing else.

she hated that she was even related to christian horner of all people. she usually didn’t care about christian— she had no reason to dislike him as he’d been nothing but a caring brother. she just hated that toto wolff saw her as nothing but an extension to christian’s surname.

she supposed that’s what would happen as she entered the motorsports industry later than he did. it wasn’t her fault that christian was twenty years older than her.

it wasn’t his fault either. but to be told that you were off limits to every single man in the grid and every team? she loathed her brother so much.

because amongst those men that christian horner had warned, the mercedes amg team principal became the subject of her interest— and her desire for him grew as her brother and toto wolff became friends outside of their teams.

“you don’t have to mix business with pleasure,” she almost scoffed when christian told her about his friendship with toto.

how hypocritical, she thought, because even i’m not allowed to see drivers or staff outside of business hours for ‘pleasurable’ reasons.

at the age of 30, many would’ve expected her to be shackled to some man outside of the industry— probably married to him with a child.

yet here she was, a single woman whose title as a test driver for red bull racing expired a few weeks ago. she appreciated the opportunity given by her brother— the team principal, really. but the longer she worked for his team the longer his big brother act would prevent her from wanting anyone.

and if christian told her that she couldn’t have anyone, then he too couldn’t have her intelligence that helped bring his team to success.

and when the rumours of her contract’s expiration went around the pit lane— every team scouted her. after all, this horner was an important asset to red bull’s success for this season and the season ahead of them.

she could’ve accepted scuderia ferrari’s offer. amongst the desperate teams that rolled the red carpet for her, the scarlet team offered her a large sum of money. they wanted her knowledge in car development as much as they wanted her expertise in driving.

yet she didn’t choose the money. instead, she found herself sitting across from the mercedes team principal. why?

“you’ve been looking well,” toto started, his eyes trained on her as he spoke, “did your brother’s team stress you out that much?”

“being in that team is stressful, alright,” she scoffed, earning a deep chuckle from toto as she continued, “30 years old and i’m still being treated like i’m sixteen. all they wanted was my brain— yet my brother kept me on a tight leash as if i didn’t know any better outside this industry.”

“so now you’ve decided to let your contract expire,” toto said with a nod of understanding. “he can’t do so much about it. you’re a free woman.”

“i’ve always been,” she gave him a grim smile and quipped, “all the men in our business just refused to believe that because of who my brother was.”

“you were a younger woman,” toto said with a gulp, “it was only right of christian to protect you like he did.”

“and five years later, i’ve grown,” she bit back.

“you are still his younger sister,” toto reasoned. he knew where the younger horner was getting at here.

there was an unspoken agreement between the two that they wanted each other. they’ve agreed on it during dinners, during their family vacations and during those days when toto wolff was invited into christian’s home and she was there too.

they’ve always agreed on it. yet toto was letting her down like this— like the agreement should remain unspoken and unheard of.

“are you seriously going to let his stupid mouth and his whole big brother act dictate what you want, toto?” she asked with a hint of irritation in her tone. “i’m not christian— and he’s not me because he doesn’t know how much you fucking want me. and i do. i do understand.”

“i allowed myself a couple of months— months to decide on whether or not i was going to stay in his team,” she continued. “i could’ve signed before the season was over but i didn’t. because this gives me the chance to work with your team— to work with you.”

“this,” she pointed at the contract in front of her. “gives me the chance to make you realize that i’m not just an extension to your friend’s name. that your feelings for me shouldn’t be deterred by your friendship with my brother— who i want nothing to do with because it’s not his life that’s being put on hold. it’s mine.”

she let out a heavy sigh and chuckled humourlessly. “but i suppose we shouldn’t mix business with pleasure.”

he merely stared at her as she stood up. she flashed him a smile as if she hadn’t just gone off and berated him for listening too much to christian.

then she said, “i’ll come back next week. i’m expecting the contract agreement to be modified by then so we can finalize the deal.”

yeah, who the fuck was christian for him to dictate who she wanted and who toto wanted?

the door slammed shut as she turned around, the gap between her and toto was little to nothing as his breath fanned across her face. he dipped his head and captured her lips in a lustful kiss.

she almost moaned at the feeling of his tongue tangling with hers. her body burned in desire as she craved for more.

toto wanted more too, and she could tell that by the way he ravaged her without hesitation.

his office at the factory was filled with nothing but silent screams and sounds of low growl and skin slapping. everybody had left hours before she arrived at the factory.

thankfully the mercedes staff wouldn’t have to hear their employer fucking the most scouted talent at the pit lane right now— and even if they did, it was in their best interest to keep their mouth shut about it.

but toto and the woman couldn’t find themselves to care at the moment, both were too drawn to each other as toto’s cock thrusted into her deeply.

she held into the leather couch and cried quietly, tears threatening to fall from the pleasure that she felt when his cock continued to rub against the sensitive spot that nestled inside her cunt.

“fuck, schatz,” toto hissed from behind her, pulling her back against his chest as he wrapped his hand around her neck and squeezed it lightly. she gasped, catching the last of her breath before he let go and kept his hand around her.

then his other hand took hers and placed her palm flat against her stomach, making her squirm and moan. “do you feel that, liebling? that’s my cock. such a filthy girl- wanting a big cock inside this little pussy of hers,” he chuckled darkly as he continued to fuck her.

she loved the feeling of it— his cock buried in her cunt while he manhandled her body. the constant protrusion in her stomach drove her wild. she had always known that toto was taller and bigger than most— she just hadn’t expected to crave for more when she felt her lower stomach bulging as he fucked her.

“so desperate f’me,” he muttered, bottoming out inside of her as she whined. her whining subsided when he squeezed her throat again.

“ah shit~” she gasped breathlessly, feeling the pressure around her neck increasing as her eyes rolled back in pleasure.

“so fucking tight,” toto grunted in her ear, nipping on it as he continued to fuck her relentlessly. “is this what i’ve been missing out on, then? your desperation for me and for my cock, hm?”

and when his grip loosened, she let out a sigh and quietly whimpered, “yes— wanted your cock so bad, toto.”

“you’ve got it now, schatz,” he muttered, moaning at her walls throbbing around him as he continued, “i fucked my cock at the thought of you, you know? wanted to fuck you so bad as much as you wanted me.”

“stroked my cock when you wore those short dresses,” he taunted, earning a whimper from her as she continued to listen to his filthy words, “wishing it’s your hands. i could just hear your voice telling me how your hands couldn’t even wrap themselves around my cock- you are so small in comparison to me— i can’t believe this cunt of yours could even fit all of me.”

“toto, i- i,” she whined, “‘m- ah, hah~ ‘m gonna cum.”

“i know, liebling,” his thrusting became frantic as he chased his high and hers. “i can feel your cunt around me— you’re about to cum aren’t you?”

“mhm— toto pleaseee~” she cried out, “please cum inside me.”

“yeah? you want me to cum inside you?” he hummed in pleasure, “do you want me to fuck this pussy of yours ‘til you’re full of my cum?”

“ye- yes, yes!” she exclaimed, mewling as she continued to plead, “‘s so- so good. so fucking good— please fill me up!”

“how bad do you want it?” he could feel himself nearing his orgasm as well, but he couldn’t help himself. “tell me. how bad do you want it, liebling?”

“soooo bad~ god! toto,” she sobbed.

“it’s just me, liebling, there’s no need to call me god,” he chuckled one last time as he groaned loudly, feeling her spongy walls clenching around him as she let out a loud whine. “fuuuuck~ schatz, i’m gonna— oh fuck!”

his cock twitched against her walls and painted them white, his thrusting slowing down as he let out a long sigh.

pulling out of her, toto sat on the couch and observed her tear stained face with a smile. his large hand pulled her body on his lap, hearing her breath quiver as she gathered her composure.

“this better not be the last time, toto,” she whispered in his ear, wrapping her arms around his neck with a soft sigh.

he chuckled quietly, “you’re working alongside me now, schatz. and you’re stuck with me outside of work. i know this isn’t the last time.”

don’t mix business with pleasure? sure.

after all, business brought stress. pleasure took the stress away.

toto knew that she’d be able to handle both. he was nothing but proud of her. he couldn’t believe that this resilient woman finally became his.

he wouldn’t let go of her that easily. not when he finally had her.

♡ moony’s reminder 🅶 (general): @hiraethrhapsody @avaleineandafryingpan @topguncultleader @enhacolor

♡ moony’s reminder 🅴 (explicit edition): @glitterf1

#formula one imagine #f1 imagine #f1 smut #formula one smut #toto wolff smut #toto wolff imagine #toto wolff x reader #toto wolff fanfic #mercedes amg petronas #formula 1 #f1 fic #toto wolff #toto wolff fanfiction #💌 re:moony’s planner #♔ something sinful ⎯ f1 smut

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edwardslvrr · 10 months ago

Text

OBSESSED 𐙚 lando norris

౨ৎ lando norris x singer!reader

the one where reader releases her album about her best friend and he finally realises how in love she is with him ( based on this request )

taglist if you'd like to be added to my taglist, message me privately or comment on this post

warning this is all fake and just for fun, no hate to any of the people mentioned. Just a reminder that this is pure for entertainment хохо

main masterlist 𐙚 lando masterlist

౨ৎ yourinstagram no location

liked by landonorris and 2.194.958 others

yourinstagram GUTS (spilled) is out!! and the music video for obsessed too!! the GUTS have been spilled 🫀💋🧣

view all 7.194 comments

username holy shit-

username umm i fully believe this is about lando..

username the whole album fr is😭

username man is so clueless it’s actually frustrating

username every single song is about lando fr, i have no prove i can just feel it

username i’m speechless fr

username lando you better watch out babe

username came from the twitter thread.. i’m in SHOCK

౨ৎ f1fan twitter

౨ৎ yourinstagram posted on their stories

viewed by landonorris and 4.107.793 others

replies to your story

username you are so bold to release that and i support it 100%

username tell that man you love him, please woman

landonorris look @ you gooo!! congrats on the 50 mil streams on Obsessed! 🤩 yourinstagram thanks lannn!!

username absolutely deserved, smashed that album!!

username obsessed might’ve been fucking psychotic and i’m so here for it

౨ৎ messages yourbestfriend/yn

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artist-issues · 2 months ago

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Sounds like Moana 2 felt like the rushed tv movie it was supposed to be.

THIS IS THE MOANA 2 CRITIQUE POST

I'm tired of excusing things with the word "rushed." If you have less time to produce, you should simplify what you're trying to say. That way, all your small amount of time can be spent on carefully building the best way to say it. Moana 2 felt very unfocused. It felt like it was trying to say:

"You Can’t Survive in Isolation" (but like why not? why do they need their neighboring islands? Don’t make up a reason—tell me the reason the movie showed you.)

"There's Always Another Way” (what? As opposed to what? One way? What One Way was Moana demonstrably sticking to before the not-really-villainess sang her song? Wasn’t finding that One Way ((“learning where to go by remembering who you are/where you’ve been”)) the whole point of the first movie? Now we’re throwing that out the window?)

"Together But a Little Different" ("Different" as in 'In-New-Circumstances' not "Different" as in 'We’re-Different-So-It’s-Hard-to-Relate-to-One-Another,’ which would've been the better, more cohesive sense of ‘Different’.)

“Something-Something Stories Are Important” (literally they just substitute the phrase “we’ll die” with “our story will end.” No mention of why that’s bad, or what makes a story a story, no reason why stories are important, or what for, just throwing the word “story” around vaguely.)

And none of those "themes" I listed just now had a lot of work put into them. That’s it, in a nutshell. But I can flesh-out my argument for those, and present what I think they could’ve easily done differently, if they’d just picked one and worked hard to make it simply good. SPOILERS BELOW.

“You Can’t Survive in Isolation”

We're told in a quick vision that Moana's people will die if they stay in isolation—but there's no showing us that.

In fact, what we've been shown is that they're thriving, they're fine by themselves. They were in the first movie. They are at the beginning of the second.

So we're not convinced that they need what the whole adventure is supposedly about. Compare that to the first movie! Totally doesn't measure up to the storytelling quality!

In the first movie, the whole first act sets up the idea of darkness reaching through the ocean from Tefiti's missing heart, killing everything. That’s especially bad for Moana’s people. We know that because we’re shown how Moana's people are so deeply connected to the ecosystem of their island, and how every part of it is needed for their way of life to continue—then were also shown that Moana has a deep, personal longing to leave the island. There’s a real connection to home and an urgent need to leave it, and that creates really good emotional tension.

So by the time we're shown (not told in one scene, or through snatches of overdone dialogue, but shown) how the darkness will destroy everything if she doesn't go, we really believe it. We have lots of reasons to empathize with and believe in Moana’s reason for going on this mission. We also feel for her having to make the big decision; we’ve been shown that she’s trying to live up to her responsibilities, and leaving the island would seem like a dismissal of those responsibilities, but we can also see how doing nothing and staying actually would be a dismissal. We feel that tension because they showed us several believable reasons to feel it.

But when Moana is singing “Beyond,” which is supposedly about her conflicting feelings about leaving, and the need to go? I’m just bored. Not emotionally invested. I just saw her going back-and-forth, leaving and coming back, leaving and coming back, one song ago, in “We’re Back.” And everything was fine during that song. Leaving-And-Coming-Back is the dream she’s been living as a voyager. So why is she suddenly convinced it’s a hard decision to…leave-and-plan-to-come-back?

“Because the last voyager died doing this mission she’s about to go on! She might die too!” Okay but all you did was tell me that. You didn’t show me Moana nearly-dying (like she did the first time she tried to cross the reef, or the first time she tried to tackle Te Ka on her own) and then realizing, “gee, oh no, I could die this time,” and then having to make a renewed decision to go anyway. You didn’t put work in, so I don’t believe it.

But the emotion Moana is feeling about leaving is also undercut, like I said, because there doesn’t seem to be a need for her to leave. All they did was tell me that Motunui is in trouble if it stays isolated. But no proof. They were fine isolated from other islands in Moana 1. They have been fine up until now in Moana 2. One random vision of an empty pavilion for three seconds isn’t going to make me forget that and believe that continued isolation will do anything negative to them.

And another thing, what does “uniting with other islands” even mean?” Why would it be such a good thing?

Nobody mentions trade. Nobody mentions learning from one another, or demonstrates learning from one another. Honestly, having Kele teach Moana or Moni or the Kakamora, an actual other-islander, about farming would’ve been a great demonstration of “why we need to meet new people and get out more.”

Having Kele LEARN TO SWIM would have been a SLOW ONE DOWN THE MIDDLE.

But nooo. They just half-bake suggest the idea that the old man doesn’t like leaving his comfort zone, but then never let one of the others have a real conversation with him about why he needs to learn new things from new people. NEVER. It’s just “bouncy vague song, almost-jump-in-the-water-under-coercion BUT NEVER ACTUALLY DO IT, banter and one liners” for the rest of the movie! (And don’t tell me Kele “learning to speak Kakamora” was an example of him “getting out of his comfort zone.” No. Kele never demonstrated a lack of desire to meet and learn new things from strangers. He demonstrated a hatred of fun and the ocean. All the others could also understand the Kakamora literally whenever they needed to, so that wasn’t a special-character-arc for Kele.)

Even though, my point is, they could’ve easily had a character arc for Kele. And that would’ve had something to do with “learn new things from new people, or die stagnant and stuck in your ways,” look, see, a mini-object-lesson in one character’s journey about the theme of the movie. But noooo

They could’ve done the same type of “learn-something-new-or-die” with Moni. Have him be convinced that doing things the “traditional Motunui Wayfinding Way” on this, his first adventure, is the ONLY way to do things. But he’s not good at it, no matter how much head-knowledge he has. And then the Kakamora (or literally any non-Motunui-character) could’ve shown him a newly-developed style for him to learn and grow.

They could’ve done the same type of “learn-something-new-or-die” with Loto. But nope. She just has a really poorly-done, poorly-written, poorly-performed snippet of a song where she mentions how… “perfection is a myth, the journey is just failing, learning, then death, no destination, ever.” But that ridiculous, absolutely absurd worldview is not portrayed as something she’s wrong about or needs to grow out of. It’s portrayed as a good, quirky, revolutionary thing.

But that’s not the same thing as portraying the value I’m describing. Loto just sings about it and invents-and-reinvents canoes. She does not learn how to make canoes from outsiders. She doesn’t learn anything from anybody. She is portrayed as a solitary genius with her own ideas who’s never once shown to be wrong about anything in the whole movie, and everything she tries works. She never messes up or makes a mistake, for all her singing about it. So she never actually “falls on her face, then gets up and learns.” Even though learning from others would be the literal only way for her character to portray the idea of this vague theme they throw out there, “You Can’t Survive in Isolation.”

The point is: there is no reason, in-movie, SHOWN, for the audience to believe that Moana should “re-unite the islands.” There’s no believable demonstration of why that would be a good thing, and no believable demonstration of why not doing it would be a bad thing.

So then why do we care if she risks her life and Maui’s life to re-unite the islands? For a bunch of nameless nobody background characters to show up for a five-second afterparty on Motunui at the end? Ridiculous.

Moving on.

“There’s Always Another Way”

So BUMP ALL THAT, I GUESS.

Matangi, everybody’s Cherished Hope for a New Villain, sings a song and it’s about “get lost, there is no one way, there’s always a different way.”

Fine. Cool. Whatever. The whole point of the first movie was that there’s this symbolic, ancient, WAY of sailing and living your life bravely. And Moana doesn’t know what that One WAY is because her tribe had forgotten it, so she has to learn it. It’s cool, because you navigate by looking at where you’ve been, to see where you’re going. It’s the whole “remember who you are in order to face life’s challenges, not hide from them.” That’s “the Way.” But whatever. Dump that down the toilet, new movie. You know why? Because everybody’s obsessed with “There’s No One Truth,” and “There Is No Right and Wrong,” and “Let’s Experience Things Just to Experience Them, the Journey is the Destination Because We’re not Going Anywhere!” Blah blah blah ridiculous inane sewage slop.

BUT whatever, fine, IF you mean it in a “There’s Lot’s of Ways to Solve Most Problems, Try Try Again,” sense, that’s okay. That’s true for most problems (not all, but most, certainly there are more than one ways to sail.) Sure. that message, if that’s what they mean, is fine. That’s the sense in which Moana takes it, at least, when she dives down to touch the Core Island and break the curse instead of it rising.

But you know what? Yeah. They don’t flesh it out. They don’t take time to show that that’s what’s happening. Moana doesn’t try to teach her new crew how to sail, and they suck at it, but if she lets them do it their own way or whatever, then they work—and she learns there’s “more than one way.” That doesn’t happen.

The Kakamora that joins their team doesn’t solve all his problems with blow darts, or violence, or whatever—and then Moana, or the kindhearted Moni, or the peaceful Kele, tells him, “no, there’s another way, you don’t always have to do things your violent way.” That doesn’t happen.

Loto has one moment where she applies the way she was already living according-to, from the moment we meet her, not a NEW way, to the canoe so that the gang can out-sail magical waterspouts. And it works for like twenty seconds, is played like a great triumph, before they all get smashed into the ocean anyway.

Kele, again, would’ve been a great example of “learn to do things in a different way, or problem-solve by try-trying again.” Because he’s old and they set him up as hating life for no reason and not wanting to do new things. But they didn’t do anything with him.

And guess what else—at the end—when Moana has her own demigod powers, and her own magical-arm-tattoo ripped off from Tears of the Kingdom—guess what her magic power is?

To stick her oar in the water, and light up one current or “path” for the boat to take to a new destination.

A Path. ONE SINGULAR SOLITARY WAY.

Not “a new way.” Not “all possible ways.” Not “multiple ways.” Not even two ways. One. Even though the big lesson she sacrificed her life for, even though the one and only song Matangi got to sing, was about how “there’s always another way.”

WHILE they’re singing a reprise of, “We Know THE Way.”

It’s like being in a conversation with someone who starts a sentence and then forgets what they were saying halfway through, and winds up saying worse than nothing.

“Together, But a Little Different”

Like I said, if you told me that the Main Point of the movie (not one of many vague ideas, but the Main Point) was “Together, But a Little Different,” I immediately would’ve said:

“Oh, so it’s about having to adjust to long-distance relationships. Maybe even death.” Or, maybe, because I saw the trailers, I’d go, “Oh, so it’s about keeping what makes us unique, but uniting when we need to, in spite of our differences. ‘Together, But a Little Different.’”

No. It’s not about any of that. It’s just a phrase the Grandma’s Ghost says whenever she hugs Moana to remind her that she’s still “with her.” She’s still with her; she just glows and can shapeshift into a manta ray now! That has tons of application for real life. 🙄

It’s supposed to be her words of comfort to pass on to Moana, who can then pass it on to the people in her island, so they know that she won’t “ever really leave them.” But like. Then why should I care that she’s leaving them? Why should that be sad? If there’s no sacrifice in being apart, in leaving for the adventure, then the adventure keeps feeling low-stakes and boring and kind of pointless.

If you tilt your head and squint, it’s also maybe-applying to Moana’s pointless ugly annoying Little Sister character, Simea. Simea is in the movie so that someone can be immature for three seconds about how Moana’s always gone from home. And I do mean exactly three seconds, that’s all the emotional drama we get, and it’s not built up to either. She says, “Never come back? -sniff sniffle- I don’t want you to gooo!” And then runs away and then Moana takes a break from singing the next day to briefly explain to Simea about how she can pass messages through the ocean. Then she’s fine.

But the way this theme is thrown around, you think it would mean, “Moana Has to Go Away Sometimes, But if You Remember Her She Never Leaves You.”

But seriously. Again I say to you, who cares? We know Moana is coming back. We know that. Nobody in the audience seriously believes she’s never coming back when she leaves for this adventure. If we did, maybe we’d care that Simea cares. But we don’t.

Even when Moana “dies,” and it’s the perfect time to be like, “seeee, what we feeeared has happened, she’s dead, she can never go home to Simea!” THERE IS NO FOLLOW-THROUGH. There’s not even a cut to Simea back on Motonui, feeling through the ocean or the Force or whatever movie mumbo-jumbo that her sister is gone. And there is not even a deadline, in the movie, for Moana to accomplish this mission, so it’s not like she could be running late and we could get some scenes of Moana’s family mourning. Simea having to do something, take some big step, that show’s she’s willing to go on even if she can’t be with Moana anymore because she believed Moana about how she’s always with her—something like that.

My point is, Simea has no real point, so she doesn’t add to this “Together, But Different.” idea at all. And we already know that it doesn’t mean, “overcome our differences” from what I said in the first Theme.

But what they could have done? They COULD have gone whole-hog and MADE MOANA A BELIEVABLE DEMIGOD. Instead of a vague joke about tattoos that leaves the question open-ended, a pointless and theme-breaking display of shiny superpowers, and no other change to the status quo—

—they could’ve shown that there are consequences to that action—maybe she’s a Demigod of Navigation, or something like that, and the condition is, she can sail around connecting islands, but she can never stay on one too long. So she’ll never be able to live with Simea and her parents again on Motunui, but it’s the price she has to pay to connect the islands. Then she’d have to show Simea how they can still be “Together, Just a Little Different.”

Or someone could’ve gotten hurt or disabled, giving off the idea that even though everything is “different,” they can still be “together.”

Maui could’ve died and passed his fishhook powers, AND MINI MAUI, on to Moni or Moana. “Together, but different.”

Nothing, nothing at all like that happens. It’s just a pretty phrase that could’ve meant something, but any meaning it actually has hamstrings the whole emotional weight of the story instead of fueling it.

“Something-Something Stories Are Important”

The thing here is. I already said it. You can’t just say words and expect them to be impactful, in a story. You’re supposed to show what they mean and why they’re true, and THAT’S what creates an impact.

So when you’re talking about “stories” in a story, you definitely should not have nothing to say.

And I can feel it. I’ve seen none of the promotional material, I don’t watch the interviews, I haven’t checked BuzzFeed or ScreenRant or the Disney Youtube page in a while, but I can feel it.

I can feel them trying to say, “Something Something, ‘Storytelling’ is a big part of Pacific Islander Culture!” I can imagine the headlines. “[Actor or Disney Exec Name Here] Invites You to Celebrate Your Story with Pacific Islander Heritage Month!” They’re so into “culture as a marketing tool” these days.

But they say it so lazily. Just repeating the word “story” over and over in the movie doesn’t pay tribute to how important “stories” are to Pacific Islanders. Or to anybody.

You know what makes stories impactful? They point at truth, when the darkness and misunderstandings and evil of the world threaten to distract you or hide the truth. That’s what makes stories impactful. I’m sure Pacific Islanders use stories in that way—to pass on what they believe to be true, in a way that can be retold and remembered.

So MAKE THAT THE THEME OF YOUR MOVIE. Instead of just having Moana replace “Nalo wants to kill us” with “Nalo wants to end our story” for Empty Effect—instead of having Grandma say something about “your e

Okay okay.

Nalo is a silly, lazy villain. He is clearly a Thanos rip-off in design and introduction in a literal post-credits scene, and his most-present form, in the movie, is just a big ocean thunderstorm. But the laziest thing about him is that he’s the Conflict that everyone is trying to rise up and overcome, and the whole reason he sunk the Island was “He gets power from humans being divided.”

That’s never explained. It’s never shown at all why he gets power from the vague “humans are divided” thing. He has no scenes. He has no interactions with other characters (till the end-credits scene.) A range of his power, like “here’s what it looks like when the humans are divided—oh, now here’s how much less-powerful he is when they’re together!” is never shown. So. No consequences if the heroes fail, no change to the status-quo, villain-wise, when they win.

If Nalo wanted to end their stories, though, that would be another thing.

Stories are meant to be told. They’re for the benefit of others. So what they should’ve done is made the secret key of Nalo’s power hidden. Unknown. Nobody knows how to beat him. And he’s not sinking some unfindable island in another dimension. He’s just devouring the resources of the weather with his ever-more-powerful storms, (kind of like the darkness leaking through the ocean from the first movie) and nobody can stop him.

But that’s because each island, around Oceania, has clues to how to beat him. Clues in their stories. But they can only sail so far from what they know before his storms kill them. So he’s literally making them weaker by using his power to keep them apart, and making himself stronger by defending his weakness. Now they can’t Wayfind to each other, and learn one another’s cultural advancements or stories or beauties, because Nalo is powerful enough to make storms that rip their boats apart. But if they could learn from one another’s stories about the things their ancestors used against him, they could get rid of him.

That’s what they should’ve done. Shown why Nalo was a threat and how the Main Theme was the key to overcoming that threat.

They did not do that.

They made stories just a hot button word to be thrown around with no impact. In a story.

The point of this post is that Moana 2 had a lot of potentially-good points, and it made none of them, so it was totally unsatisfying. If it had just focused on one, the other little benefits they were trying to fit in could’ve been mentioned more naturally.

The way that Beauty & the Beast is all about ONE theme: “True Love is Self-Sacrificial.” But because of the tools it uses to tell that story—a beast that it would take a lot of self-sacrifice to be stuck with forever—you get little side-themes thrown in, supporting and draping decoratively over the ONE theme: “Beauty is Found Within, So Don’t Be Deceived By Appearances,” etc.

Moana 2 should’ve just picked the Story One, and it could’ve had that theme, and it’s cultural-nod cake, and it’s unifying-effect cake, and EATEN IT TOO.

And we could’ve eaten it. And WE could’ve enjoyed it! But no. Money money money lazy lazy lazy.

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