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dfortrafalgar · 9 days ago

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Rectify- Part 2

Law x Fem Reader

There's no shame in using a safety net to catch you when you're falling.

Warnings: direct mentions of past domestic violence, hurt/comfort, unspoken romance, fluffy ending

A/N: this is a sequel to my request fic 'Rectify'! I typed this on a whim after re-reading my own work, and after having a few really rough days recently, it was pretty cathartic to hammer this out. It's not my best fic recently, but sometimes you just need something simple.

There was a handwritten note taped to the door of your apartment.

Your feet stayed planted in front of your door as your eyes glazed over the sloppy writing over and over again. You couldn’t even bite the inside of your cheek as a nervous tic, the harsh bruise still covering your jaw causing aches and pains even two weeks later. It was embarrassingly noticeable. Your friends questioned it, your professors questioned it, passersby on campus gave you strange looks. It was humiliating.

A victim of domestic abuse. That’s what the school psychiatrist had told you.

Humiliating.

The note was snatched from your door, the tape on the back of the paper ripping off with an obnoxious tearing sound.

Right. Law was still there.

Standing next to you, he crumpled the note with a firm scowl on his face, steely golden eyes seeming to flicker with a barely-subdued rage. In the two weeks since the incident with Bellamy, he had barely left your side. And you liked it better that way.

“Pussy,” the medical student swore under his breath, his gentle hand against the small of your back a harsh contrast to his words. “Come on, let’s go inside.”

You silently nodded, blinking out of your paranoid daze and fumbling for your key in the pocket of your coat, undoing the lock and pushing the heavy door open. The apartment was still occupied by only you, with your roommate having gone home for winter break. In her absence, however, Law took over.

It seemed the two of you had formed an unconventional routine, with Law making sure to keep tabs on your mouth injury every single evening. For the first four days, he continued to supply you with an antibiotic rinse for your tongue, going out of his way to cook bland and soft foods for you to easily ingest without irritating your injury. He masterfully reduced the inflammation of your bruise and even helped you apply concealer for the first few days before you grew exhausted of the tedious ordeal (and the pain of your beauty blender being blotted over your tender jaw). He did all of this without question, without expecting any thanks or repayment, and you, likewise, didn’t comment. You were afraid that if you did, the influx of tears behind your eyelids would finally spill out.

So instead of vocalizing your questions, your concerns, and the nagging confession in your mind, you insisted that Law sleep in your bed, under your sheets, with your legs tangled together and his calloused, tattooed hands planted safely on your back and waist.

“Hey.”

A quiet, firm voice saying your name shook you from your thoughts. When had you been seated on your couch?

“What are you thinking about for dinner?” Law was washing his hands in the kitchen, peering around the doorframe to where you sat.

You shrugged. “I don’t think I’m too hungry.”

The faucet was turned off, the sound of the man drying his hands on a cloth towel following suit before he entered your living space, sitting next to you on the couch. You wasted no time crawling into his lap, resting the uninjured side of your face across his legs. His hands ghosted across your shoulder, and you couldn’t see the way his eyes softened with remorse.

“I still think you should go back to the school psych again,” Law mumbled, rubbing your skin through the fabric of your shirt.

“They won’t help me,” you replied, voice muffled thanks to your curled up position. “She’s just gonna tell me to go somewhere different.”

“Maybe that’s what you should do,” he added.

Those same hot tears began to sting, slipping out of your eyes and pooling across the bridge of your nose. “It’s fucking humiliating. All of this.” You balled your fist against your chest. “I don’t even feel safe in my own apartment anymore. Why did I let myself get involved with that crew?”

“You couldn’t have known,” Law added. He lost count of the amount of times the two of you had this conversation in the past 14 days, but that didn’t matter to him. He’d tell you as many times as you needed to hear it- none of what transpired was your fault.

“All he did was hit me once and yet I’m a mess because of it.”

Law’s jaw clenched. “Doesn’t matter how many times. He hurt you.”

“But–”

“No ‘buts’,” Law’s firm voice refuted, shutting down your protests. “You were hurt, end of story. You’re not accounting for the emotional abuse he put you through, the words and comments.”

“I hate that word,” you uttered. “Abuse. It’s sour.”

“It is.”

You rolled onto your back, gazing through your teary eyes at Law, who gazed down on you with nothing but patience and tenderness.

“Don’t you ever get sick of me acting like this?” you suddenly asked.

Law’s heart skipped a beat in his chest, his throat tightening with pity at how feeble your voice sounded. “Never.” He leaned over your form slightly, tracing the backs of his inked fingers over the unblemished side of your face. “Have you ever felt sick of me when I have bad nights thinking about my dad? Have you ever thought I was annoying when I’d come to you crying as a teenager?”

You frantically shook your head. “Of course not.”

“Then you need to believe me when I say I’ll never feel like that with you, either.” His words were level, soft yet firm, and you were left with no choice but to believe him. “Doesn’t matter if he hit you once, twice, or not at all. You were hurt by him regardless, and you deserve to be able to feel the emotions that come with that. Because it was you who got hurt, no one else matters in this situation but you and your emotions.”

“I suppose so,” you said back meekly.

“And,” he began again. “There’s nothing wrong with asking for help from a professional to guide you through this. I could even join if you wanted me to. Regardless, I think it would be good for you to talk to someone with more experience than me.” A small smile crawled onto his lips. “I’m really only good with physical illness.”

“Nah,” you replied, your own shaky grin appearing. “You’re patching me up on the inside just fine.”

“You know… if it would help you feel safer…” he suddenly blurted, anxiously averting his eyes from your tender gaze. “I wouldn’t be opposed to you lodging in my dorm until all of this blows over. Or… longer than that, even.”

You felt your face warm up at his offer. “You mean it?”

“He’s leaving notes on your door. If I’m being honest, I’m too anxious to leave you here alone.”

Law had a justified point.

“I have a futon,” he added.

“I don’t want the futon,” you stated.

Law’s knuckles continued to stroke the side of your face, the softness of your cheeks feeling like the finest velvet over his rough skin. “When the school psych opens again next semester, we’ll go and get you a referral.”

“And I can move my favorite pillows onto your bed,” you chirped with a grin, the weight of the situation finally lifting off of your shoulders, even just slightly.

“And I’ll start carrying around my nodachi on campus–”

“NO! I don’t want you to get arrested!” you nearly shrieked, a full laugh erupting from your lungs at the thought of Law’s obnoxiously large sword that he purchased in high school for the hell of it. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down to lay on the couch next to you. “Just promise you won’t leave me alone…” you mumbled shyly, voice barely above a whisper.

“That’s the easiest promise you could ever have me make,” he replied, nuzzling his lips into your hair.

#x reader #reader insert #fem reader #one piece x reader #op x reader #trafalgar law x reader #law x reader #trafalgar d water law x reader #trafalgar d water law #trafalgar law #law oneshot

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mariaofdoranelle · 5 months ago

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Lollapal-oops-a: part 1

Written for Rowaelin Month day 6 - Misunderstanding leading to disaster; @rowaelinscourt

Fic masterlist

Rowaelin Month 2024 masterlist

Hey guys!! I have three parts planned for this, all of them due this month <3

Warnings: none other than the prompt itself hehe

Words: 965

Aelin’s internship at Damaris Publishers had been a learning experience in many ways, but one she didn’t see coming is that, sometimes, you meet a scary-looking, highly muscled and tattooed IT guy, and the only bonding experience you’ll have with him is over the favorite drag queen you two have in common.

Or at least that was what got her rooted to the floor as she stared at the computer screen Rowan Whitethorn forgot to lock on his way to the break room. Five tabs open—two of some nerdy stuff she wouldn’t bother with, and three of Edna Thornie: her Vogue Get Ready With Me on YouTube, her special appearance at the Kinky Boots musical for the Doranelle tour, and another about her upcoming Lollapalooza show this weekend.

“Did he forget it again?” Fenrys asked on his way to her, palms rubbing with giddiness to prank his friend once again.

Aelin snorted. “Yep. Are we Ctrl+Alt+Arrowing him again?”

He made a show of stopping, both hands on his hips to think. “I dunno. Too basic, too predictable by now. Lemme think.”

She gave one last look at his screen—a giant picture of Edna Thornie in all her fake-titted glory, breastplate so big it could be a Z cup and unbelievably cunty go-go boots. Aelin really did love the drag queen’s artistry, but not on her office crush’s screen.

Not a crush, she had to correct herself for the first time, a few months after deciding he was too hot for his own good. Aelin had to get over it, and quick. One minute of silence to mourn the dick she’d never bounce on—because no straight man would watch Edna Thornie do her makeup routine on his own volition—then back to work.

She asked Fenrys, “Rowan, he’s a big fan of Edna Thornie, ain’t he?”

“Yep,” Fen said with a small smile. “If you look past that grumpy shell of his, you’ll find that he really loves her.”

That grumpy shell was what got her. One oat milk latte, and she wouldn’t be so confused to see a drag queen on his screen.

“And you don’t find it a little odd?” Aelin inquired while removing the batteries from his mouse. She was going to put a post-it with a winky face underneath it, a little mercy so he wouldn’t spend too long to find out why it isn’t working.

“Why would it be odd?”

“He doesn’t look the type, that’s all.” Aelin shrugged. “I never would’ve guessed.” She tried to conceal the disappointment in her face as much as possible, but it was hard to when she was one conversation away from asking him out.

Her friend unplugged one of the cables. Frowned at it. Took a moment to study Aelin’s expression, and it was a while before he said, “I think Edna’s come a long way as an artist, specially being part of a marginalized group, and I think it’s a good thing that Rowan is that supportive and proud of her.” He said with a finality that was odd for the lively man, Fenrys left no room for discussion. “Don’t you agree?”

“Yes!” Aelin blurted, only now realized how shitty it was of her to comment on that. Just because she misplaced Rowan as straight, it didn’t give her the right to talk about him like that. It was no one’s business, and so out of line of her. “Yes, of course. I’m a fan too, I’m going to her show at Lollapalooza, it’s just… um. Nevermind.”

“Okay, then…” he trailed. “Now, how long do you think it’ll take for him to find out if I cover the end of this cable with tape.”

Aelin’s eyes widened, and she easily entertained him, happy to have the weird conversation over. “You evil genius!”

Fenrys grinned, and today’s prank was settled. She wondered if they would get more ruthless with Rowan now that she knew nothing romantic would happen, but Fenrys was pure evil either way, so things would hardly change.

Once the shenanigans were done, Aelin decided to refill her water bottle, only to find Rowan hunched over his half-eaten snack.

“Fancy some coffee?” he asked, then pointed at one of the two coffee cups in front of him.

She grinned. “That’s so sweet, thanks.”

No, not just grinned. Aelin had kind of melted on the spot. Chocolate hazelnut cappuccino from the overpriced cafeteria, no special occasion at all. Family aside, she wasn’t used to get this treatment from guys who didn’t want to get in her pants. Every time he was sweet and thoughtful to her, it was just about him being a good person and nothing about getting Aelin naked. What an unusual realization.

“How’s that…” Aelin squinted her eyes at his prepped lunchbox because Mala forbid Rowan eats a non-muscle-building meal like the common folk. “Kiwi?”

“Very… sweet?” He frowned at it. “Consumable? Functional. Very Thursday snack.”

Aelin tilted her head, endlessly amused by this man’s inability to eat exclusively for pleasure. “You eat fruit every Thursday? As in, a calendar?”

His eyes crinkled with a good kind of intrigue, or so it seemed. “You do know that meal planning is quite common, right? And doctors say it’s best to eat fruit everyday—not just on Thursdays.”

“That’s so very fruity of you to say!” The joke was out before her mind could filter it out.

He laughed. “Well, I do like to eat fruit.”

Aelin shook her head with a small grin. “I bet you do.”

She wanted to ask if he’d be at Edna Thornie’s show this weekend as well, since Aelin was going alone, but it’d would give away that she had just snooped into his computer—why ruin the prank this soon?

A/N: I’m actually discontinuing this fic so Edna Thornie is Enda and they’ll hook up after the concert k bye love y’all xx

You can get notified when I update by either turning notifications on for @mariaofdoranelle-fics or joining my (sometimes glitchy) one general tag list!!

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#rowaelin #rowan whitethorn #throne of glass #rowaelin fanfiction #rowan x aelin #aelin x rowan #rowaelin fanfic #throne of glass fanfic

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scarlettmacbeth · 4 months ago

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The way you move ain't fair you know - Steddie Fanfic - AO3 - Stranger Things

Steve had enthusiastically told Robin about the successful date.

—So what happened next?

—I walked him home, we hugged each other again, and he went inside —Steve said, smiling.

—Wait... you didn't kiss him?

—Well... no —Steve confessed, blushing—. I do not want to put too much pressure on him; we will take things slowly.

Eddie came through the door and greeted them enthusiastically, as if the thought had summoned him. Robin couldn't help but notice that even as he addressed her, Eddie's eyes followed Steve's every movements. She gladly accepted the excuse to leave them alone when two more customers entered the store.

—I want to rent a tape —Eddie leaned his elbows on the counter and rested his palms on his cheeks as he said, crookedly grinning—. ‘Nightmare on Elm Street’ .

—You have already seen that one —Steve said immediately.

Eddie looked at him puzzled.

—You rented it a month and half ago.

Eddie blushed as he bit his lip. Good memory , he murmured.

—What about you?

Steve raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

—Have you seen it?

Steve shook his head.

—Come watch it with me —Eddie said casually, scratching the back of his neck—. Tonight, at my place?

The exhilarating thought of going on another date with Eddie washed over Steve.

—Sure, I’ll be there.

He arrived on time and brought beers. The trailer was messy, but there was an obvious effort to conceal the wrinkled clothes under the bed and the dirty dishes in the sink. Processed food cans and packages piled high in a couple of trash bags in the kitchen corner. The movie was set to start, the couch was cleared, and snacks were placed on the table. When Eddie walked past him, Steve felt the freshness of his recently washed hair, and his stomach muscles twitched. He had visited Eddie's place before, but they had never gone there by themselves, let alone on a date.

On the screen, Nancy found Tina's diary and began to read about her nightmares. In the meantime, Steve had settled into a cozy stance with his head resting on Eddie's shoulder and his legs propped up on the couch, while six beer cans were scattered across the floor. Eddie's jacket still carried the lingering smell of tobacco and marijuana smoke, and his long hair exuded the scent of lavender shampoo. Steve reasoned that the fragrances themselves had little to do with the strange calm and thrilling ecstasy he was feeling at that very moment, and that the boy wearing them was much more responsible. He wished he could smell his skin directly, feel it beneath his fingers, and use his lips and tongue to commit the shape and texture of his tattoos to memory. Eddie eventually relaxed, his feet on the coffee table and his arm stretched out on the back of the chair, after being taken aback by his sudden closeness. When Steve approached, resting his cheek on his chest, Eddie sighed contentedly and allowed himself to play with the strands of hair that felt so close to his face, pure softness and perfume. He had often fantasized about using his fingers to tousle that flawless mane. He shut his eyes and took a deep breath; upon opening them, Glen dozed off, making him a prime target for Freddy.

—You totally look like Johnny Depp —Eddie blurted out.

—What? —Steve said—. I do not.

—Of course you do, the typical movie heartthrob —Eddie answered softly—. You should wear crop tops sometime.

Steve looked up at him, their gazes locking. He laughed softly, a calm laugh that brought back memories of breezy summer nights. Eddie was astounded by its warmth, feeling it ascend within him and land on his chest. His heart skipped a beat, and the hand that had become entangled in Steve's hair trembled slightly. What was this bond that held them together in the middle of the night, an inexplicable electricity in the air? It did not need to be explained. Their friendship had begun with terror, suffering, and loss and had since blossomed into something lovely and delightful. Eddie enjoyed the sensation of tension created by Steve's hand resting on his thigh, only hindered by his jeans' fabric. How could he not see that I am all red and sweaty? He can not help but notice the effect he has on me . It was the paradox of the innocent villain, who causes harm by accident; his tender gazes and adorable dimples stabbed like darts into Eddie's soul, drowning in the shivers of that sweet torture. The more Steve gave him, the more his insatiable heart demanded; he knew that if he kept pulling on that string, it would eventually snap, and he was ready to fall with the end in his grasp. The certainty of his impending fall caused his veins to swell with vertigo.

Upon rising from the couch, Steve faltered; he had glanced at his watch and conceded, with resignation, that it was time to leave. Eddie guided him to the door and gave a little start when he felt Steve's lips lightly touch his cheek.

—Good night, Eddie —he smiled as he left—. I had a fantastic time, next time is on me.

With his fingers still firmly planted on his cheek, Eddie gave a forceful nod, as though he wanted to trap Steve's runaway kiss there.

***

Read the complete fanfic on AO3:

Eddie has been crushing on Steve for some time, but accepted the fact that his love is unrequited. When Steve asks him out on a date, Eddie agrees, believing it to be purely platonic, just a friends' thing. It takes him three dates and two kisses to come to the conclusion that he is in fact dating Steve Harrington.

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bebeautifull · 1 month ago

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Vegan and Cruelty-Free Makeup Brands You Should Know: Be Beautiful Recognizes the Best Options for Conscious Beauty

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Vegan and cruelty-free products are just as effective as their counterparts. Be Beautiful features high-performing products that prove this myth false.

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pandorasopenboxes · 1 year ago

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Names Beneath Scars - Chapter One

Summary: Soap thought the job would be easy; infiltrate and escape with valuable info. The attached price tag should've raised some alarm bells, but for a million dollars all he could hear was silence.

But he never expected to meet his soulmate here.

Not in the group he is meant to betray.

Pairings: John "Soap" MacTavish/Simon "Ghost" Riley

Rating: Mature

Tags (for now): Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks

Snippet:

It looks empty . Although Soap masks his surprise at the obscure sight of his new – shared – room. He was told that the other resident had been living in this place for approximately two years, but there are little to no signs of another life even stepping past the door. It seems as if Soap’s packed boxes – the brown cardboard sealed with multiple layers of shitty tape – are the first proof of a person moving in here. This is ignoring the very few indicators of another presence, like the creases on the second, made bed from the duvet not being spread out properly. Or the pillow having a distinctive dent from a head resting on it after many fruitful nights. Soap’s own presence and personal items appear to overwhelm the space, even his footsteps through the door stamp out the strange stillness, unable to hear the chatter of his neighbours or the crude laughs from those making their way into the lunch hall down the corridor. Despite this, Soap glances over the room given to him and the oddities attached to it; he makes a note of how the dull grey shade is spread with at least one coat of paint, appearing to reveal the ageing brick walls when light hits it at a certain angle. Pieces of modern tech, the only visible possession belonging to his roommate, with its neon blue light, attempts to brighten two corners of the room and causes a stinging sensation in Soap’s eyes. The precise placement of some tech, such as the half-opened laptop, exposes a sense of detachment as if the owner does not care about its safety. That it can always be replaced, like the brandless water bottle which sits close enough to be spilt on the light-up keyboard. The harshness of the colours, combined with the blackout curtains draped over the only window, are like needles tattooing their image into his eyes. The sensation only gets more and more cruel as he continues to step into the room. His first aim should be to turn on the light bulb, it’s resting somewhere on the wall to his side, where he would have to pat several times to feel the distinctive bump of the switch. Soap finds himself craving natural rays from the sun, as it is one of the rare, sunny days in London. He wants to make the most of it. Thankfully, navigating a room half concealed in darkness is the easiest part of this task. Soap would have usually considered this very odd of him to do so. Doing something as simple as this, he means. No enemy is hiding in the dark, with a knife ready to use against him.

Continue to read on AO3

(posted this a while ago, but did not post it here)

#call of duty #ghostsoap #soapghost #modern warfare 2 #ao3 fanfic #fanfiction #john mactavish #simon ghost riley #soulmate au #Names Beneath Scars

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republicsecurity · 9 months ago

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Y88PZ Induction

Y88PZ was led into a room containing a comfortable massage table. It was an unfamiliar experience, but he acquiesced and lay down. Soon after, another medic, 3EN6T, entered the room. Fully trained and clad in a snug red T-shirt and shorts, his shaved head and muscular arms attested to his physical fitness.

3EN6T introduced himself politely and began the massage. His skilled hands gently pressed vertebrae, loosened tense muscles, and used fragrant oil to care for and relax Y88PZ's body. It was a strangely pleasant experience, and Y88PZ found himself in a state of relaxation and tranquility.

After a while, he was asked to turn over, and 3EN6T continued the massage on the front. This included his face and scalp. The touches were gentle and soothing, and Y88PZ felt so comfortable that he gradually slipped into a restful sleep.

As Y88PZ slowly awoke from his deep relaxation, he noticed that he couldn't move. His gaze wandered around the room when he suddenly observed the return of 3EN6T. In his hands, he held a mysterious device whose purpose remained concealed to Y88PZ at the moment.

With a serious demeanor, 3EN6T approached and began explaining the enigmatic contraption. His words echoed like a grim prophecy in Y88PZ's ears. With a calm voice, 3EN6T elucidated the significance of this moment. Y88PZ was informed that he would now receive his service identification code.

Like all young men serving their duty, he traded his civilian name for a five-digit alphanumeric code. The words of 3EN6T echoed in Y88PZ's ears. "During your service, you are not allowed to speak or inquire about private names."

Y88PZ's gaze followed the movement of the device as 3EN6T gently brought it to his chest. The machine started its work, and Y88PZ felt the slight burning pain of the needle imprinting ink into his skin.

Once the tattoo on Y88PZ's chest was complete, 3EN6T approached and began gently massaging the fresh tattoo with a soothing cream. The gentle movements and the pleasant scent of the cream made Y88PZ relax a bit as he absorbed the moment in silent acceptance. Once the cream was evenly distributed, 3EN6T took a foil and carefully taped it over the fresh tattoo. The foil served to protect the skin and facilitate optimal healing.

Amidst the silence and immobile posture, another medic entered the room, his red jumpsuit with a cord marking him as an instructor. Despite his young age, he too sported the shaved head that was part of the paramedic uniforms. It was the first time Y88PZ heard his new code—a reminder that he was now part of a collective whole.

Y88PZ couldn't help but voice his curiosity, "Why was everything so gentle, sir?"

The instructor looked at him, his eyes reflecting a mix of experience and duty. "Son, the Paramedic Corps is more than just control and demands. It's a caretaker, a guardian for its members. It's the ultimate welfare state, ensuring not just discipline but also the well-being of its recruits. ... The gentle approach helps you adjust to the regimented structure, eases the transition into a life where discipline and care go hand in hand. It's not just about molding soldiers; it's about shaping individuals who can thrive within the collective strength of the Paramedic Corps."

#cadets #recruit #instructor #paramedic #basictraining #induction

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hazeltailofficial · 10 months ago

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spark-glow · 1 year ago

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5, 16, 19, 32, 38, and 50 for Juliette :)

― JULIETTE LAVOIE .

5.) Do they have any tattoos? If so, what are they and do they have any special meaning? -

I definitely think she has some, but I just haven't thought a lot about what they might be. First thing that came to mind was a pair of hearts on her hip bones. Maybe a double venus on the nape of her neck. Stuff that's easily concealable when she's on the job.

I think she's absolutely gotten some stick and poke ones now that the apocalypse is here. Probably something angry because that best reflects how she feels. That woman is all sorts of muddled up inside.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

16.) Do they have or want kids? -

Right now? No.

I think there was a point in time where the idea seemed novel to her, but that could very well just be her trying to fit into societal expectations when she was younger. Yanno, marry a handsome man, have his kids, live in his nice house. The older she got, the more that whole idea became less and less appealing to her, especially the 'marrying a man and having his kids' part.

She's older now. She knows other lesbians that're parents and I think the idea has crossed her mind again with that new frame work but... I dunno. I think she realizes that she's just not in a place where she can do the job right and safely. That's a lifelong commitment, and she hardly even knows who SHE is.

Maybe down the line, after she figures some shit out and learns how to breath, then she could be a good mom but... It's not gonna be something she actively pursues. Especially now that there're zombies outside for the foreseeable future.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

19.) How easy is it to become their friend? -

Juliette is a pretty prickly lady, so not a lot of people bother. I think she liked it that way for awhile, but then she started to realize just how lonely she was becoming. It sorta ate at her for awhile, but she never wanted to be the type of person to show outward weakness yanno? She wanted to be self sufficient and capable, so she just buried it. Not a great idea.

If you try, and earnestly try, it's not all that hard. You just gotta learn how to play her ball game, because she won't play yours. If you can put up with her attitude and get passed all the red tape, then she's a pretty good friend. Maybe even a little bit of a sweetheart.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

32.) If they could change one thing about themselves, what would it be? -

This is a difficult question, because I think if you asked her this, then she wouldn't have an answer at first. I think she's very... unsatisfied with who she is and where she is some days. She regrets not following her passion more, she regrets not being more authentic to herself, she regrets the time she's wasted. She doesn't process that she's only 34 and, hopefully, has the whole rest of her life ahead of her.

If you asked her, she'd probably take a drag off her cigarette and be quiet for a long time and then go, "Maybe make it so I'm not so much of an indecisive fuck up."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

38.) What are their dreams like? Do they have any recurring dreams/nightmares? -

She suffered from night terrors a lot when she was little, and because of that she kinda doesn't like to sleep. She'll usually lay down for a few hours and then get up, do some stuff, and then lay back down. Sleeping in bursts makes it less likely for her to have an episode.

In all honesty, she doesn't have terrors much anymore. Maybe once or twice a year at that, but it's still not great. I'm sure the first time it happens when she's with her little group is, uh, eventful.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

50.) What is your favorite thing about them? -

She's kind of a manifestation of my want to be more true to myself. I admire her for that. She has a lot of drive and a want to be more whole and i'm trying to use that as inspiration for myself too. <:)

Also she's got a funny little accent ( ! FRENCH CANADIAN ! ) and I think its fun to imagine how she sounds sometimes. Oui oui.

#SONAR #ask meme #my ocs #juliette lavoie

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markjosephh1 · 4 months ago

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Non-Surgical Hair Replacement London

Non-Surgical Hair Replacement in London: A Comprehensive Overview

For many individuals experiencing hair loss, non-surgical hair replacement in London offers a practical and effective alternative to traditional hair restoration methods. In London, a city known for its advanced medical facilities and innovative aesthetic treatments, non-surgical options for hair replacement are gaining popularity. This article explores the various methods available, their benefits, and what to expect from the process.

Understanding Non-Surgical Hair Replacement

Non-surgical hair replacement refers to a range of techniques designed to restore the appearance of a full head of hair without invasive procedures. These methods can be ideal for those who may not be suitable candidates for surgical hair transplants or those who prefer a non-invasive approach. Common non-surgical options include:

1. Hairpieces and Wigs: Custom-made hairpieces and wigs have come a long way in terms of quality and realism. They can be crafted from either human or synthetic hair, offering various styles, colors, and lengths. Modern hairpieces are designed to blend seamlessly with the wearer’s natural hair, providing a natural look and feel.

2. Hair Extensions: For those looking to add volume or length to their existing hair, hair extensions can be an excellent option. They come in various types, including clip-in, tape-in, and fusion extensions. Extensions can enhance hair thickness and overall appearance without the need for surgical intervention.

3. Scalp Micropigmentation (SMP): SMP is a non-invasive procedure that involves tattooing tiny dots on the scalp to replicate the look of hair follicles. This technique is particularly effective for those with thinning hair or complete baldness, creating the illusion of a fuller head of hair. It is also used to cover scars from previous hair transplant surgeries.

4. Hair Loss Concealers: These products include powders, fibers, and sprays designed to camouflage thinning areas of the scalp. They can be applied easily and are often waterproof and long-lasting, making them suitable for daily use.

5. Topical Treatments: While not replacements, topical treatments such as minoxidil can be effective in managing hair loss and promoting hair growth. These treatments can be combined with other non-surgical options for enhanced results.

Benefits of Non-Surgical Hair Replacement

- Instant Results: Non-surgical options provide immediate improvements in appearance, allowing individuals to enjoy their new look right away without the waiting period associated with surgical methods.

- No Downtime: Unlike surgical hair transplants, non-surgical methods typically require little to no recovery time. Individuals can resume their daily activities almost immediately.

- Customization: Non-surgical hair replacement methods can be tailored to meet individual preferences regarding style, color, and density, ensuring a personalized solution.

- Reversibility: If desired, non-surgical methods can be easily removed or changed, providing flexibility that surgical options do not offer.

- Less Risk: Non-surgical procedures generally carry fewer risks and complications compared to surgical interventions, making them a safer choice for many individuals.

Choosing the Right Non-Surgical Option

When considering non-surgical hair replacement in London, it’s essential to assess your specific needs and preferences. Here are some factors to consider:

- Consultation: Schedule a consultation with a hair restoration specialist or stylist experienced in non-surgical options. They can evaluate your hair loss pattern, discuss your goals, and recommend suitable solutions.

- Quality and Realism: If opting for hairpieces or wigs, choose a reputable provider that offers high-quality, natural-looking products. Consider visiting salons that specialize in hair replacement to see their offerings firsthand.

- Maintenance: Different non-surgical methods require varying levels of maintenance. Understand what is involved in caring for your chosen option to ensure it remains in good condition.

- Budget: Non-surgical hair replacement options can vary significantly in cost. Determine your budget beforehand and explore various providers to find the best fit for your financial situation.

Conclusion

Non-surgical hair replacement offers a versatile and effective solution for individuals experiencing hair loss in London. With options ranging from custom wigs to scalp micropigmentation, individuals can find a method that suits their needs, lifestyle, and aesthetic preferences.

If you're considering non-surgical hair replacement, consult with experienced professionals in the field to explore your options and find the right solution to restore your confidence and achieve a natural-looking appearance.

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capitalhairrestoration-uk · 4 months ago

Text

Non-Surgical Hair Replacement London

Non-Surgical Hair Replacement in London: A Comprehensive Overview

Understanding Non-Surgical Hair Replacement

Benefits of Non-Surgical Hair Replacement

- No Downtime: Unlike surgical hair transplants, non-surgical methods typically require little to no recovery time. Individuals can resume their daily activities almost immediately.

- Customization: Non-surgical hair replacement methods can be tailored to meet individual preferences regarding style, color, and density, ensuring a personalized solution.

- Reversibility: If desired, non-surgical methods can be easily removed or changed, providing flexibility that surgical options do not offer.

- Less Risk: Non-surgical procedures generally carry fewer risks and complications compared to surgical interventions, making them a safer choice for many individuals.

Choosing the Right Non-Surgical Option

When considering non-surgical hair replacement in London, it’s essential to assess your specific needs and preferences. Here are some factors to consider:

- Maintenance: Different non-surgical methods require varying levels of maintenance. Understand what is involved in caring for your chosen option to ensure it remains in good condition.

- Budget: Non-surgical hair replacement options can vary significantly in cost. Determine your budget beforehand and explore various providers to find the best fit for your financial situation.

Conclusion

0 notes

lunarianbeams · 3 years ago

Text

Extensive protest gear/safety advice from a twitter thread. Additional images from thread will be in a reblog. Images described in read-more and in alt text.

link to full thread (link one)

link to free protest medical book "Riot Medicine" (link two) by Håkan Geijer (link three)

image id: Twitter thread from Gwen Snyder is uncivil @/ gwensnyderPHL

image one: Seeing people share that swim goggles are great against tear gas, which is something I used to believe and advise. Then I learned that blunt force to swim goggles can pop your eyes [out] of their sockets, so please don't wear swim goggles in situations where cops may assault you

image two: First tweet in image states "Plastic lab goggles are the way to go, ideally with ballistics protection so they don't shatter if you take a rubber bullet to the face. Contacts trap tear gas, and according to my ophthalmologist, polycarbonate glasses are your safest bet during protests." Second tweet in image states "A lot of plastic lab goggles are vented to prevent condensation, but you can use clear packing tape to seal them up. Conveniently, you can also leave the tape dangling a bit and then seal it back up when things get heated so condensation is less of a bother."

image three: first tweet in image states "Don't wear hanging jewelry or loose clothes, or anything fash/cops can hang grab and on to. It's best practice to cover your face (N95 it up to protect yourself/others), avoid wearing 'unique' or custom attire, and conceal tattoos. Wear your shoes that you can run in." second tweet in image states "You don't need a special solution to clean tear gas out of people's eyes. Water or saline in a cheap peri bottle is a godsend. Be careful not to touch the peri bottle to anyone's eyes directly if you're treating multiples, you don't want to be spreading infection inadvertently."

image four: first tweet in image states "Wet wipes are your friend. Clean any tear gas-exposed skin thoroughly and ASAP. I couldn't chop jalapenõs for at least a month after the 2020 gassings, my skin would burn just being around the oil in the air." second tweet in image states "Remove any tear gas-contaminated clothing ASAP. Keep it in a sealed plastic bag (ideally outside) until you can wash it (ideally multiple times). This is especially true if you have asthma or if you have pets - your clothes can give off chemicals that pets are very sensitive to."

image five: first tweet in image states "If you're thinking about a gas mask, do your research. The good ones are expensive, and there are a bunch of airsoft 'gas masks' that are just costume wear. Respirators and goggles together make a more affordable alternative." second tweet in image states "It's possible to reduce tear gas spread by covering a canister with a traffic cone, but the canisters are very hot and can explode, so be careful. DO NOT pick them up to toss them from the crowd unless you are wearing heat-protective gloves. They can burn you."

image six: first tweet in image states "Police will often fire smoke canisters along with tear gas to reduce visibility and increase confusion. There's not much you can do about that, but be aware." second tweet in image states "Tear gas is usually deployed not by a spraying mechanism, but by firing canisters into a crowd. These are heavy, metal projectiles. you do not want to take one to the head, and you should keep your eyes open and be ready to assist in case others do." third tweet states "Tear gas is an abortifacient. Not much you can do about that, but if you're pregnant or TTC [trying to carry] you should be very aware of that reality so you can make informed decisions on the ground."

image seven: first tweet in image states "'Rubber' bullets (also called baton rounds) are regular bullets covered in plastic. They are SUPPOSED to be fired at the ground so they hit people on a lower-impact rebound. In practice, cops will fire them directly at you. They are no joke." second tweet in image states "'Rubber' bullets can blind or maim you, especially when shot directly. Don't minimize the risk. If you take a body hit, ice packs help. When my partner got shot, we iced one site and not the other and the difference was MASSIVE. Consider carrying instant ice packs"

image eight: first tweet in image states "Know your local legal collective scene. If there's an arrest hotline, get that number on your arm in Sharpie. There's no guarantee you'll get a call, but if you do, use it to call them. Have quarters on your person for jail pay phones." second tweet in image states "Assume someone in your group chat is going to forget to lock their phone, and that cops will see what you've said in there. Be super-mindful about potentially incriminating speech." third tweet says "If you're white, mass arrests are really not the time to give police an earful. They'll often try and get their revenge by taking out their anger on the most vulnerable people in custody, especially nonwhite folks."

image nine: first tweet in image states "In my area, we generally recommend having an ID on you if you think you might get arrested (if you're engaging in jail-packing tactics, disregard). It's a personal choice, but it speeds up processing, which means you're less likely to get sent to county for the weekend." second tweet in image states "Don't thank cops at protests. Don't give them hugs and take cute photos with them. They aren't our friends, they use photos of that stuff for feel-good propaganda to counter accountability measures, and it makes the people they target feel like you don't have their back"

image ten: first tweet in image states "Prioritize your ability to run when it comes to footwear, but if you have steel toe shoes/boots that fit that need, that's a plus. Toes are vulnerable to police car trampling, and 'accidental' sideswiping by drivers who hate you and your cause." second tweet in image states "Photos are a complicated subject. Livestreaming is almost always a bad idea, since cops can use those streams to surveil, and since you may accidentally broadcast information that can be sued to identify or prosecute other protesters." third tweet says "Be very careful with night videography / photography at protests. I'm not going to say never do it, but be VERY mindful that folks tend to take more militant action at night and you don't want to accidentally incriminate anyone."

end id /

#protests #roe v wade #healthcare #activism #know your rights #protest tips #blm #reproductive rights #abortion #pro choice #resources #image described #image desc in alt text #resist #if anyone has suggestions/edits for image id lemme know!

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sunnysanae · 2 years ago

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how the genshin boys are as seatmates 2 (and their first interactions with you)

settings. modern!au, highschool!au. gn!reader (majority), fluff scenario. school was a boring place to be, but your seatmate definitely made time pass a lot quicker. *.、xiao, kaeya, al haitham

part 1 : zhongli, childe, thoma, diluc, itto, scaramouche, ayato

xiao even though the two of you sat elbow-to-elbow, the boy rarely made out any words with you. xiao was a quiet, focused student that didn't like to be distracted during his work. when group assignments were arranged, he was the usually one to request the task's solo completion. upon all the discouragement, you often bothered him with your curious interrogations. unforeseen to most, he would almost always immediately respond. even if the answers to your questions echoed around the same note: a concoction of "boring"'s, "foolish"'s and other remarks of his feigned disinterest. on a couple of select days every week, the boy who plopped into the chair beside you would be ever so slightly more agitated than normal. when he rests on his palm to type on his laptop, you could clearly mark the scratches and scrapes on his arms—peaking out from the cuffs of his sleeves—not to mention the concealed tattoo massing over his forelimb. today's lesson prolonged queerly longer than usual, while you seemed to wander off in your thoughts, eyes glued to the haemorrhaging markings stained on the teen's forearm. violence was banned on the campus, and as the student council safety rep, you were concerned for how the boy could have possibly gotten injured.

xiao's firm, stern voice dragged you back from your headspace. "what're you staring at?" he quirked his brow up in inquiry. out of total shock and embarrassment, you respond instinctively, grabbing a band-aid from the packet in your backpack. intuition told you despite the boy's difficult character, and conceivable annoyance of your company—he deserved some care. ushering the boy to stay still, as you concentratedly pressed your fingers to tape his tears and rips. before he was able to muster a thanks, the bell rang, and you escaped from his sight yet again. 'just some unbothersome blemishes, no need of such a big fuss', he murmured, face red as he leaned against the fence, cautiously ripping off the multicoloured bandages from his skin. you'd left your etch on his heart, one that he wasn't able to just rub off.

it was rare to come across individuals as kind and ardent as you, and even rarer for them to be quite so incomprehensibly caring to everyone. so maybe this time, he won't choose to work alone on the assignment due next week.

kaeya a walking magnet is what you'd use to describe the man beside you, in looks, and in personality. easy-going and light-hearted in his speech, and able to start a conversation with just about anyone. people needed a kaeya, someone who would listen to their blabber, someone who would keep their secrets, and was interested in what they were up to. you loved sitting next to him, sharing with him your heart's deepest riddles, and sniffing in big whiffs of his oud-wood scent. programmatically laying short glimpses at his unveiled, azurite eye. as a student, you discovered he was the type that seemed to care the least about the scores, while secretly achieving the best. you'd sometimes spot him dozing off in class after lunch, gently tugging on his soft hair to wake him. groggily stretching his tanned arms, phasing out a huge yawn, rubbing the spot on his affrayed scalp. "don't y'know the importance of resting, name?" he mumbled, burying his nose into his unbuttoned white sleeves. "hm, maybe i do, kaeya" you nodded, ducking your face into your arms in coherence. but recently, you've been finding yourself at a loss of knowledge for him. while kaeya was always able to make you laugh, remembered all the most petite details about you, and knew every little bad habit of yours. you were such a horrible friend, to have not acquired knowledge of a single attribute of his, over the many months you had spent next to each other.

before your last lesson with the prussian-blue alberich, you went around in circles inquiring people what they knew about him. no one was able to recall their acquaintances vividly, other than his appearance at parties, and jolly content-less communication. a thunder of pseudo-realisation had stricken your mind, 'kaeya was a truly lonely man who spent his school life on socializing and networking. yet, all he was left with was a blurry memory in some randomer's head'. by the time you had sat in the chair neighbouring his, guilt filled you. you blurted out, "kaeya, i'm thinking we should talk more. you're always listening to me talk, and maybe this time i could be the one listening to you," voice decrescendoing with every note. pausing to take a deep breath, confidently pitching up your voice, "kaeya, do you feel lonely?"

a burst of blissful, genuine laughter escaped his lips, "lonely? me? not with someone here nagging me all the time, that's for sure."

he smiled to himself. not everyone made the effort to understand him, and not everyone was going to get that privilege. maybe you could be an exception.

al haitham research paper genius, the instructor would always showcase his works as examples. the gray-haired man never batted an eye at the professor's prattle, preferring to plunge into his own, self-taught, studies. al haitham expressed himself in short, curt statements; favouring silence over chatter. however, whenever you found yourself desolate in the understanding of new practicals and experiments, the man next to you was always able to go out of his way to be of your aid. honestly, you felt more educated by al haitham than the teacher—he would likely agree.

it was the week before exams, and all your learning for the year was to be revisited. it was the busiest, and most chatter-filled week of the year for al haitham. "haitham, what was the big glass thing called again?" a funny, incomprehensible expression enveloped his features. there was no way he could have understood your silly, irreconcilable description with any piece of lab apparatus. in turn, he leaned over to your desk to observe the tool in query; his turquoise highlights swaying downwards to the left. "I've told you this before, name." he disappointedly said, eyes fluttering closed, sighing between syllables. "tell me again" twitting at him, poking him with your eraser loosely in your hands. "tell me again, al-oh-so-smart-clever-intelligent-haitham. the things you tell me? i remember them three times more clearly!" glittery praise drooling from your lips. he giggled inconceivably at your sarcastic commendations, "b-u-r-e-t-t-e. burette. you got it this time?"

upon his unapproachable facade and untalkative demeanour, he found patience and merriment in assisting those who yearned to learn. he didn't mind your perpetual persistence, because he knew this was your worst subject. in you, he found a glister of himself—inquisitive and attracted by knowledge. though you were more—brave and unafraid of making and admitting to mistakes. al haitham had become accustomed to your presence in his work, your chatter was the only exception he was uncoerced to make.

knowledge came to those who fought for it, truth came to those who merited it, and al haitham? he came those who were like you.

an. i have a clearly observable trope of being the exception. sending my love to these three adorable boys.

#genshin impact #kaeya genshin impact #kaeya x reader #kaeya fluff #kaeya alberich #xiao genshin impact #xiao x reader #xiao fluff #genshin impact headcanons #genshin hcs #genshin impact fanfics #al haitham #al haitham x reader #genshin impact al haitham #genshin headcanons #genshin fluff #genshin imagines

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foodieforthoughts · 4 years ago

Text

Make it work

Summary: You knew the moment you saw the package at your door that Chris had some plans in store for you.

Pairing: Chris Evans x Reader

Warnings: 18+, RPF, naughty talks, use of toys, flirty Chris, smutty talks, implied smut

A/N: Picture drabble time! It's kind of a followup/part of Morning Ritual. I can't get enough of this man and his ASP chats are not helping.

*First gif from the link

**Other gifs from the link

Title: Make it work

As soon as his face appeared on your screen, you knew he was in a different kind of mood today. Donning his printed shirt and the white undershirt which did little to conceal his chest tattoos, Chris was all smiles and had greeted you with an excited "Hey!" with the conversation quickly turning into the most fun and energetic one you have had ever since being separated due to the pandemic.

Like everyday for the past weeks, you were on your customary video call with Chris. Only that it was a Sunday and instead of an early morning call, it was in the afternoon. You would have generally slept in through the morning, but the package delivery earlier that day had kept you awake ever since.

It was from Chris and when you had texted him to ask about it, he had written back in all caps, "Do not open it."

Your conversation was flowing smoothly when you asked him about Dodger and while he started recalling an incident that happened over the week with the pup chasing behind a squirrel in the park, you eyed the brown package sitting on your table. You waited for Chris to finish his story before you said, "You know I love Dodger and I love listening about him." You slid the box in front of you and pointed towards it, "But I have to interrupt. I am dying to know what is inside this box."

"What do you think it is?" He asked, grabbing his beer to take a sip.

You tried not to squirm when he chugged his beer while maintaining eye contact with you. You were in that phase of your cycle where your man could melt your panties even with a side glance. For a long second you couldn't look anywhere but his lips, wishing desperately that they were on yours right now.

Shaking your head and clenching your thighs shut, you looked back to the box and began tearing it open.

"At least give me a hint of what I should expect." You mumbled while trying to take the tape off the sides. You looked up at your teasing boyfriend who seemed to be enjoying your dilemma of not knowing what you had in store.

"All I can say is..." He stopped when you let out a loud gasp.

Your mouth fell open looking at the package in front of you. Inside the outer cardboard box there was black box with a pink vibrator printed on it. It was the kind that could be controlled by an app and a remote. Seeing that the plastic covering was torn, you were sure that Chris had already configured the settings with his phone.

"Chris," You began, feeling your cheeks heat up by every passing second.

"Before you feel cornered," he raised his hand to stop you from saying anything. "We don't have to try that. Anything that makes you uncomfortable is off the list."

You looked up at the screen and Chris waited patiently for your reaction. He had a smile on his face, watching you intently as you took the box out and turned it around in your hand.

You felt your face flush with warmth and your heart flutter at his words. You smiled at him, unboxing the device and taking out the curved toy in your hand. Reading over the instructions, it was supposed to be a g-spot stimulator; reading that was enough to make you wet between your thighs.

"How did you come up with this brilliant idea?" You asked, placing the box and the silicone toy on the table.

Chris laughed while running his hand over the side of his head, a nervous tick that he did when left flustered. "I was only looking over at a website for myself and then Scott walked in the room-"

"Wait-what?!" Hearing that his brother might know what kind of sexual shenanigans Chris was upto, you felt a renewed wave of blush travel up to your cheeks. Your ears heated up at the possible scenarios of them discussing which device will provide you 'maximum pleasure'.

"You know Scott is not bothered by such things right?" He asked, shrugging his shoulder. "Infact, that one was selected by him."

"Chris!" You covered your mouth with your hand, groaning but also laughing.

"He also wants feedback of how it felt, so he can recommend it to his friends." Chris clearly was having too much fun with your embarrassment as he laughed while he spoke.

"I'm not going to do that!" You protested even though you were enjoying this yourself. Very rarely Chris was in a jovial mood these days, hating the distance between you two and being holed up in his house. He also had a lot of projects lined up for which he was constantly stressed and to add up to his thoughts, he was worried about his family and your safety.

So you went with the flow of the conversation, watching him laugh and explain to you how the device works. He showed the screen of his phone which had the app open and to demonstrate he turned the vibration on. The pink toy began vibrating on the table, rattling along the surface as Chris alternated between low and high vibrations.

"Oh god." You giggled and reached towards it to make it stop. But Chris immediately turned up the strength of the vibrations and it bounced on the surface, making you shriek in response.

Chris laughed loudly. He had his pearly whites on display, squinting as he laughed with the prominent laugh lines on the edges of his eyes. He looked adorable to you and the sound of his deep laugh made your heart strings strum with it.

"You are being so naughty today!" You chuckled when your regained your composure, and quickly turned the device off.

"Yes, yes, I am." He took a deep breath to calm himself.

"I miss you so much." He titled his head to the side, a wistful look on his face. "When will I get to hold you again?"

The change in the tone of his voice ached your heart. You sighed, running your hands through your hair and finding yourself at the loss of words.

"Soon. We are still making it work though." You tried to be optimistic. You worried that one day the distance would be too much and Chris will move on to someone present physically near him. You had stayed awake many times in the night, laying in bed alone, wishing that you had never left the country for work.

"Do you worry about us?" Chris had his cheek rested on his knuckles, his eyes fixed on you through the screen.

You pushed your chair closer to the table, resting your elbows on the wooden surface. Chris imitated your movements, clasping his hands together in front of him. You instantly noticed the watch you had gifted him, the unmistakable golden body of the watch shining in the sunlight through the window. Smiling softly at your man and hating the solemn look on his face, you reassured him.

"I do worry about us, but I know we'll be okay. It's not going to affect how I feel about you, how much I love you and how much I want to be with you."

Chris sighed, finally his lips breaking out into a smile. "I love you too. I want nothing but to be with you."

You nodded at him, trying to blink the tears away. You did not want to waste a day crying over a situation that was out of your control. So you came up with a plan.

"Babe, are you alone?" You asked, picking up the bright pink toy in your hand.

Chris's eyes twinkled when he looked at your hand and how you twirled the device between your fingers. He slowly nodded, raising his eyebrow as you stood up.

"Be right back." You excused yourself and made your way to the bathroom. Washing the silicone toy before use, you striped yourself off of all your clothes and stood in your naked glory. You switched on the device and carefully inserted the toy between your silken petals, marveled at how easily it slipped inside you since you were already drenched. You blushed that Chris could have this effect on you even from many miles away.

On your way back to the computer, you took a glass of water as your throat went dry anticipating the things that would occur.

"Chri-" You wanted to sound sultry but with a jolt of vibration that hit your sweet spot with ferocity, you yelped out. Your hands jerked forward and the water spilled on the carpet and you looked wide-eyed at your boyfriend laughing on the screen.

"Oh shit!" He had his eyebrows raised in surprise as you stood with the empty glass in your hand. "I didn't know you would get water too. Sorry, sorry." He clasped his hand over his mouth, waiting for your reaction.

He might have expected you to get mad at him. But you weren't even the least bit angry. If anything, that single shock of delicious stimulation had your entire body ready for some loving. So instead, you placed the glass on the table and sat down on your chair. Bringing your arms to rest underneath your breasts, watching as Chris's eyes travelled to your hardened nubs, you smirked to yourself.

"You have to make it up to me now." You twirled a stray strand of hair around your finger and noted how Chris's stare turned into a lustful gaze. "Come on now. Strip."

"Yes ma'am." He said before peeling his shirt off his body.

#chris evans fanfic #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans rpf #chris evans x reader #chris evans x you #chris evans smut #chris evans fluff #chris evans #chris evans drabble

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hrina · 4 years ago

Text

Be Sweet, Pt. I

PAIRING: Harry x Reader RATING: M (minors dni!) WORD COUNT: 6k

hey everyone! here's part one of my new enemies-to-lovers series :) this fic will be five parts in total, but i'm only posting the first part on tumblr. you'll be able to read the rest of it on patreon if you wanna sign up!

as always, reblogs and feedback are very much appreciated. i love hearing your thoughts! enjoy.

~*~

August 27th, 2021

“Who’s opening tomorrow?”

Ella scrubs a wet rag across the table closest to the door. You cast a furtive glance up at her, flipping absentmindedly through the jumble of papers on the counter in front of you. Nick’s messy scrawl catches your eye, and you pause, reading the haphazard comment written at the bottom of the page.

Customer requested a very specific shade of pink trim. See back for details.

You flip the order, scoffing at the Pantone strip taped to the other side. The square labelled Quartz Pink has been singled out, encircled in bright red. Jesus fucking Christ.

“Alice and Olly, I think,” you say, shoving the form to the bottom of the pile.

“That’s good,” Ella grunts, returning the napkin holder and the sugar dispenser back to their spots on the table. “And you’ll swing by sometime during the afternoon?”

“Yeah,” you say, drumming your fingers over the papers. “I’m gonna help Olly in the back. You know how much he hates dealing with fondant.”

“How could I forget?” Ella rolls her eyes, smiling to herself. You grimace when she tosses the damp cloth in your direction. It lands on the counter with a loud splat! You nudge it away with your elbow, shaking your head.

“Gross.”

“You’re gross,” Ella says.

“I’m lovely,” you reply. She grins.

“Where’s Alex taking you tonight?” you ask, changing the subject. Her eyes light up instantly, and she clasps her hands together against her chest.

“It’s a surprise,” she says, giggling girlishly.

You groan. “I hate surprises.”

“It’s a good thing he’s not your boyfriend, then, isn’t it?” she retorts. You snicker, and she continues: “He told me we should stop off at home to change, though, so I’m guessing that wherever it is, there’s a dress code.”

“Ooh, fancy.”

“Right?” She twists her wrist, peeking at her watch. “He should have been here by now. It’s already a quarter past seven.”

“The hospital is just down the street,” you remind her, organising the mountain of orders into a neat stack. “Give him another five minutes.”

She nods. You spin on your heel and push through the door leading to the backroom of the bakery. The large space is split into two sections: on your right, there’s a wall of ovens, and a cluster of metal racks filled with pale, unprocessed dough. On your left, tables and counters lined with all sorts of decorating necessities—piping bags, spatulas, scrapers, turntables. You make your way toward the small cabinet perched against the nearest wall and pull out the top drawer, sliding the orders inside. Olly should have no trouble locating them tomorrow morning.

When you return to the front of the shop, Ella is locked in a passionate embrace with a gangly, dark-haired man. You recognise him immediately.

“Doctor Dao,” you call out, resting your elbows on the counter. “Did you at least wash your hands before putting them all over my best friend?”

Alex and Ella break apart swiftly, but he keeps one arm wrapped around her waist. “Hey, cookie,” he says, flashing you an apologetic grin. “Didn’t see you there.”

You arch one brow, lips curling into an amused smirk. “I’ll say.”

Only then do you catch sight of the other man lingering by the door, and your smile quickly morphs into an irritated frown. Harry is watching you with twinkling eyes, like he knows the effect his presence has on you. How could he not? You don’t try to hide your disdain, especially when it comes to him.

“Harry,” you say curtly, lifting your chin in stubborn acknowledgement.

He brings two fingers to his temple—a mock-salute. “Sweetheart.”

You clench your jaw. God, he makes your blood boil. Rather than responding, you turn back to Alex, who is now smoothing his palms over Ella’s silky brown hair. “You’re late,” you tell him. “You were supposed to be here when we closed.”

“Sorry, cookie,” Alex says, and he sounds like he means it. “My last surgery of the day had a few…complications.”

You purse your lips as the annoyance melts away. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” He nods, blowing out a heavy breath. He looks tired. “We figured it out.”

“That’s good.”

Alex directs his attention back to Ella, leaning in and pressing a chaste kiss to the tip of her nose. “You ready to go?”

“Yeah,” she replies. “Just let me grab my bag.”

“Cool,” he says. “You don’t mind if we drop Harry off at his place, right? His car is fucked, apparently.”

Ella’s grey eyes widen. She peers over her boyfriend’s shoulder at Harry. “What happened?”

Harry waves away her concerns, chuckling quietly. He tugs on the collar of his blue scrubs, and you can’t stop your gaze from trailing across the plethora of tattoos inked into his arm. Your nose wrinkles at the sight. He looks ridiculous. What kind of doctor would agree to don such outrageous body art?

“He’s being dramatic,” Harry says, shooting Alex a pointed glare. “My car’s at the shop right now, but I’ll have it back by tomorrow evening at the latest.”

“Oh.” Ella relaxes. “Okay, that’s great. Babe—” She turns to Alex. “—when are our reservations?”

“Eight-thirty,” Alex says. “Plenty of time.”

“Awesome,” she chirps. She scurries around the counter and playfully bumps her hip against yours. “My purse is in the back. Give me one second.”

And then she’s gone.

You stare at Alex, fighting a clever smile. “Tonight’s the night, huh?” you murmur, quiet enough so that there’s no chance of Ella overhearing.

He beams, shouldering his knapsack and dragging his sweaty palms down the front of his shirt. His scrubs are a light purple, you note. The shade compliments his dark skin.

“Yeah,” he replies, gnawing anxiously on his bottom lip. “She’ll say yes, right?”

You scoff, rolling your eyes good-naturedly. “Of course she will.”

Just then, Ella bursts through the door, her leather purse swinging wildly against her waist. “Alright!” She claps once, striding over to you and planting a wet, sloppy kiss onto your cheek. “I’m off.”

“Bye,” you say, wiping her saliva from your face with the back of your hand. “Have fun.”

Alex waves at you as she tugs him out of the bakery. “See you later, cookie.”

You wink. “See you.”

Harry is the last one to leave. He glances at you momentarily, the corners of his lips quirking up into a smug smile. The look makes you bristle. He’s absolutely infuriating.

“Got any leftover almond croissants?” he asks. Silent laughter taints every word.

You point to the exit. “Get out.”

He bows his chin in farewell, approaching the door. “Sweetheart.”

“Asshole,” you reply flatly. Now that your friends are out of earshot, you’re under no obligation to tolerate him. Sometimes, you find yourself actually craving his company, just so you can drop the pretence and really give him a piece of your mind. You’re a mature adult, and you won’t ruin a social gathering because of one presumptuous dickhead, but everyone has their limits. You don’t owe him shit.

Harry chuckles to himself, and you clench your fists at your sides. He shoots you one last maddening smirk before disappearing out the door. You rush forward, latching it swiftly and ensuring that the sign against the glass reads ‘CLOSED’. Once you’ve successfully locked up, you march into the back of the shop, plucking your own purse off one of the metal counters and tugging it over your shoulder. You shut the light and return to the front, scanning the clean tables, the empty display cases, the shades drawn over the windows. Shards of the sunset stream through the cracks in the blinds, casting orange stripes along the floor.

All clear, a voice in your head whispers, and you sigh.

Finally—you can go home.

August 28th, 2021

Quick, frantic knocking rouses you from your sleep. Blearily, you sit up on the mattress, knuckling at your puffy eyes. The hardwood floor is cold against the soles of your feet when you climb out of bed. You shiver.

The insistent clamour continues as you pad down the hallway. You tug at the hem of your worn, baggy t-shirt, concealing your midriff. Ella wastes no time after you open the front door, surging past the threshold and vaulting herself into your arms.

“He proposed!” she squeals as the two of you stagger backward. You freeze, remembering Alex’s plans from the day before. His apprehension, too—the way he wiped his clammy palms against his scrubs and anxiously dug his teeth into his bottom lip. Shock ebbs and flows through your veins for a fraction of a second, but then you’re sweeping Ella into a tight hug, rocking your bodies from side to side.

“Oh my God,” you say. Excitement festers beneath the murky exhaustion clouding your mind. “He did it.”

Ella steps back, brows knitting together in bewilderment. “You knew?” When you nod, she scoffs, aiming a half-hearted swat at your bicep. “And you didn’t tell me?”

“Why the fuck would I tell you?” you retort, rolling your eyes at the demand. “Come on. Let’s see it.”

A bright grin stretches across her lips, and she holds up her left hand, wiggling her fingers keenly. You spy the ring resting on the fourth digit: a simple platinum band topped with a large, clear diamond. Grey morning light bounces off the gemstone, and it winks at you as if it knows something that you don’t.

“Gorgeous,” you breathe, gripping Ella’s wrist to bring her hand closer. You scrutinize the ring carefully, smiling to yourself. “He’s got good taste.”

“Doesn’t he?” she gushes, beaming like an idiot. You beckon her into the kitchen, and she collapses onto one of the tall stools positioned in front of the marble island. A quick glance at the digital clock on the stove reveals that it’s only eight in the morning. You groan, rubbing gentle circles against your temples.

“I was hoping I’d get to sleep in today,” you say, lips curling into a wry smirk.

Ella shoots you a sheepish, apologetic smile, sliding her purse off her shoulder and placing it on the counter. “I’m sorry, cookie. I couldn’t wait.”

“I’m just kidding,” you tell her, floating around the room to prepare a pot of coffee. “So…how did he do it?”

She launches into a frenzied retelling of the night before. Alex brought her to the same restaurant they’d visited four years ago on their first date. They ordered their food and made conversation. Things proceeded as usual until the end of the meal, at which point Alex set his napkin down on the table and excused himself to the restroom. Two minutes later, the waiter arrived with the bill. Ella accepted it graciously, scanning the thin paper and pausing at the question scrawled at the very bottom of the slip. When she snapped her head up, searching for her boyfriend in the crowded dining area, she found him kneeling a few feet away from her chair, a small velvet box nestled securely in his steady hands.

“I started crying immediately,” she tells you, groaning at the memory. “I couldn’t keep it together. It was so embarrassing.”

You toss your head back and laugh. Despite the crimson blush staining her cheeks, she joins in. The coffeemaker beeps, signalling that the pot is ready. You fetch two mugs from the cupboard and fill them with dark liquid. Ella accepts her drink eagerly, blowing cool air across its surface. You grimace as she takes a tentative sip—you’ve never understood her penchant for unsweetened black coffee. Sugar and cream are a must.

“I’m so happy for you, El,” you tell her, stirring a small spoon around your mug. “You’re going to be the most beautiful bride.”

Her eyes grow damp. You snicker quietly, reaching across the island and swiping your thumb beneath her bottom lashes. She catches your hand and kisses your knuckles softly, clearing her throat.

“Will you—?” She releases a shuddering breath. “Will you be my maid of honour?”

You stiffen at her request. Her gaze rakes over your face, like she’s searching for any clue as to how you might respond. At last, your shoulders sag in relief, and an ecstatic smile splits across your cheeks.

“Of course,” you say, voice thick. Tears gather in your own eyes, but you blink them back furiously. “I would love nothing more.”

She sets her coffee down and skirts around the counter, yanking you into another bone-crushing hug. You grin as she presses a handful of sloppy kisses to the side of your head. Her elbow knocks against your abandoned mug, and a few drops of coffee spill down the side of the cup. You laugh at her enthusiasm, pulling back and sweeping your hands over her silky hair.

“It’s probably way too soon, but have you guys started discussing anything?” you ask, arching one eyebrow.

Ella flushes pink, averting her gaze. “Um…when we got home, there wasn’t really much of a discussion going on.”

You cackle, poking at her ribs. “Oh, he gave it to you good, didn’t he? It’s a miracle that you’re not limping right now.”

“Be quiet,” she yelps, stamping her eyes shut.

You lift your hands and shoot her a teasing smirk. “I’m not judging, okay? If anything, I’m living vicariously through your various sexual conquests. It’s been months since I last got any action.”

“Maybe that should change,” Ella says, folding her arms over her chest. “You and Harry could probably fuck out your frustrations. His dick is huge, apparently.”

You balk. “Ella!”

She shrugs, grey eyes widening comically. “What? Alex told me!”

You snort, but say nothing. She watches you cautiously, examining your features for any signs of acquiescence. Any indication that you might actually be considering her lewd suggestion. You almost gag.

“Why do you hate him so much, anyway?” Ella asks, flicking an invisible speck of lint off her shoulder. “You’re not still hung up on that fiasco with the almond croissant, are you?”

“I’m not doing this with you again,” you say, and she sighs.

“Okay, I’m sorry. But can you at least try to be civil while we plan the wedding? For my sake.”

After mulling over her words, you slouch in defeat. “Fine. But only for you,” you say, throwing a stern finger in her face.

She beams. “Thank you.” Something dirty flashes behind her pale eyes. “And if you do end up sleeping with him, I want all the details.”

You shove her gently and scoff. She laughs.

“Honestly,” you start, shaking your head, “it doesn’t matter how huge his dick is. I’d rather walk across hot coals than let somebody like him climb into my bed.”

“What makes you think it wouldn’t be the other way around?” Ella snickers. You glare at her, but she just steps back, raising her hands in surrender. “Alright, alright, fine. Have it your way. But I’m expecting you to find someone in time for the big day. Don’t let your plus-one go to waste.”

You roll your eyes, thoroughly unconvinced. “Noted.”

September 2nd, 2021

“Olly!” you call, sticking your head into the backroom. “Ella and I are going on our lunch break, but Leyla will be here in, like, twenty minutes. You going to be okay by yourself until then?”

Olly doesn’t even bother looking over his shoulder, too busy piping little flowers along the sides of the rectangular cake laid out in front of him. He lifts one hand, waving away your concerns before running his palm over his short blue hair. He buzzed and dyed it just last week after claiming that he couldn’t stand how the long brown curls stuck to the nape of his neck. It took a few days to get used to the change, but now that the initial shock has faded, you have to admit that he looks great.

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Olly says, putting the finishing touches on the cake. He sets his piping bag down and turns toward you, wiping his palms against his red apron. His left ear bears a swirl of shiny silver piercings. “I’ll be out in a second.”

“Thanks,” you say, flashing him a small smile. He returns it, and then you’re spinning on your heel and letting the door swing shut behind you.

You find Ella waiting outside the bakery. She urges you along, and you squawk at her impatience.

“What’s the rush?” you ask, falling into step with her as you both amble down the sidewalk. “We have forty-five minutes.”

“I don’t want Alex’s sandwich to get cold,” she explains, holding up the small paper bag clutched in her right hand. You snort.

The two of you make it to Ridgefield Hospital in record time, mostly because Ella grips your arm and gives it a forceful tug whenever you start lagging behind. You walk through the automatic doors, ignoring the row of ambulances parked outside. The secretaries sitting at the front desk shoot you a few distracted smiles—they’ve all grown accustomed to your frequent visits by now.

Ella babbles endlessly as you enter the elevator, pressing the button for the fifth floor and waiting as the metal doors slide shut.

“I want to ask Alice and Leyla to be part of the bridal party, but I’m scared the guys will feel bad if Alex doesn’t choose them as his groomsmen. Like, I think they’d understand, considering I work with the girls and we’re all pretty close, but I don’t know.” She nudges you with her elbow. “What do you think?”

“I think you should do whatever the fuck you want,” you tell her, shrugging. “It’s your wedding. And I don’t think Olly, Marcus, or Nick will mind if they’re not part of the bridal party. Olly doesn’t care about that stuff, and Marcus and Nick already have their hands full with their jobs at the bakery. Plus, they know Alex has his own friends—not just the ones he’s met through you.”

Ella nibbles on her bottom lip, her head bobbing in agreement. “Yeah, you’re right.”

You lay a placid hand on her shoulder. “You’re already overthinking this. You’ve only been engaged for a week. Enjoy it.”

She shoots you a grateful smile just as the elevator dings and the doors glide open, and the two of you step out onto the hospital’s paediatric floor. It’s a stark contrast to the other sections of the building. Instead of barren white walls, these ones are painted with all sorts of pretty, colourful decorations—flowers, rainbows, sunsets, animals. A massive sign in front of you denotes the different divisions on the floor and where to find them: the ICU, the operating rooms, the palliative unit, the psychiatry wing, and the oncology department. You and Ella turn right, making the familiar trek to Alex’s office.

“He should be on his lunch break, too,” she says. “Unless they paged him for another emergency surgery.”

You hum in response.

Sure enough, you find Alex at his desk, twirling a blue pen between his fingers as he pores over the stack of papers in front of him. Ella knocks gently against the open door, and his face lights up when he spies her standing in the threshold. He moves quickly, crossing the room in five long strides, and plants a searing kiss onto her lips. You look away, rocking awkwardly on the balls of your feet.

“Hey,” Alex murmurs after he and Ella break apart. That’s when he notices you behind her. “Hey, cookie.”

“Hey,” you reply. You toss your thumb over your shoulder. “I’m just going to—you know, the usual.”

He nods.

The last thing you see before you turn around is Ella holding up the brown paper bag, and Alex’s face splitting into a bright, easy smile.

You meander through the halls, trailing your fingers over the rich artwork covering the walls. The end of the corridor cleaves in two; you turn left and enter a large atrium. The ceiling is high and peppered with skylights. A small cafeteria sits off to the side, clusters of families chatting and laughing together as they eat. Children sprint around the space, their arms outstretched. Some of them are dressed in normal clothes—others don pale hospital gowns, their skinny legs bared for all to see. You wrench your attention away from them, fixing it instead on the far wall.

Slowly, you cross the room, surveying the vibrant handprints stamped against the plaster. There has to be hundreds of them, you think. They vary in size—some are so tiny you could cry. Colour becomes scarcer the higher you go—the youngest children are too short to reach those levels, obviously—but still. The sight takes your breath away. You visit this mural every time you find yourself at the hospital, and every time, you unearth a new detail that you hadn’t noticed before.

You walk along the length of the wall, dragging your fingertips across the dry, smooth paint. Purples and pinks and oranges and blues. Reds, greens, yellows, browns. Each handprint is a person—a pair of little feet that scuffled over this very floor, a blank story that had yet to unfold. Briefly, you wonder how many survived whatever illnesses plagued them, and how many succumbed to their conditions. The thought makes your throat grow tight with emotion, so you quickly shove it aside.

Ten minutes pass before you’re leaving the mural behind and heading back the way you came. You’ve just rounded the corner when a strong, solid body barrels into you. You grunt at the impact, smacking one palm against the wall to steady yourself.

“I’m sorry,” you start, lifting your head to meet the stranger’s gaze. “I wasn’t paying—oh.”

Harry smirks, his green eyes glittering with mirth once he recognises you. You purse your lips, wishing the ground would just open up and swallow you whole.

“Harry,” you say, nodding stiffly.

He folds his arms over his chest. “Sweetheart.”

His brown hair is tousled, and his biceps strain against the white button-up adorning his torso. Black slacks cover his legs, and he’s wearing a pair of pristine leather shoes, ones that look like they might’ve cost a month’s worth of rent. Your teeth grate together noisily. The sound echoes in your ears.

“What are you doing here?” Harry asks, as though the two of you are old friends. You want to scoff—you’d rather stick your hand in an oven than make idle conversation with him.

“Visiting Alex,” you say tightly, stepping back. “Ella brought him lunch.”

At that, Harry straightens. “Ella’s here?”

“Yes.”

“I wish I’d run into her,” he murmurs, pinching his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger.

You throw him a scowl. “Asshole.”

Harry cocks one eyebrow, tilting his chin haughtily. “Forgive me if I prefer her company to yours. At least she doesn’t treat me like I’m some insufferable bastard.”

“Maybe if you stopped being such an insufferable bastard, I wouldn’t treat you like one,” you shoot back, planting your hands on your hips. You tense as Harry’s gaze rakes down your body—head to toe, like he’s sizing up an opponent. His nose wrinkles in disdain, and you fight the urge to deliver a sharp, backhanded slap across that pretty, perfect face.

Harry opens his mouth, and you brace yourself for whatever retort he has prepared. What comes out is nothing overtly nasty, but it is enough to make you want to shrink away and curl into yourself until you wink out of existence.

“You smell like yeast,” he says, and tosses in a derisive sniff just for the added effect.

You recoil as the words slam into you, blinking in shock.

Asshole. Rude, arrogant, condescending asshole.

“I own a bakery,” you grit out. Harry shrugs, but says nothing else. Your lips flap wordlessly as he pushes past you, his shoulder bumping against yours. You watch him go, massaging the tender spot on your arm with shaky fingers. Your eyes fall to his ass for only a moment before skittering away, and a hollow laugh catches in your throat.

What a fucking prick.

September 17th, 2021

“Attention, everyone!” Ella stands at the head of the table, clinking her fork delicately against her glass. “I wanted to make a little toast.”

The conversation around you tapers off into silence. You sit back in your chair, focussing on your best friend. She looks splendid in her pretty blue dress, her dark hair twisted into an elaborate knot at the nape of her neck. She peers around the room, chewing nervously on the inside of her cheek. When her gaze locks with yours, you grant her a tiny, encouraging nod.

She beams, her next words imbued with renewed enthusiasm. “I wanted to thank all of you for coming here tonight to celebrate our engagement with us.” She holds out her hand, and Alex presses a gentle kiss to her knuckles. “We’re so grateful to be sharing this milestone with such a wonderful group of people.”

You inspect the other guests gathered around the table. To your right sit Alice and Leyla, the first employees you hired when you were trying to get your business up off the ground. It’s odd seeing them like this—poised and elegant, looking nothing at all like they do during the long, arduous shifts at the bakery. Alice’s blond hair has been fashioned into an intricate braid, and Leyla’s brown eyes are lined with dark kohl and smoky eyeshadow. They clean up nice, you must admit.

Next to Leyla: Ella’s older sister, Hillary. They have the same piercing grey eyes, though Hillary’s hair is a shade lighter. You didn’t miss the sour expression that trundled across her face when you waltzed into Alex and Ella’s condo. She’s jealous, you think. Jealous that Ella chose you as her maid of honour instead of her. You’ve been ignoring her resentful glares for the better half of the night, letting her bitterness pass over you like a cloud. Whatever her problem is, it’s clear that the issue lies between her and her sister. You’re not getting in the middle of that.

It doesn’t help that she’s been fawning over Harry all evening. Upon witnessing her coquettish behaviour, you glanced at Ella, brows raised, but your best friend just rolled her eyes and yielded a helpless shrug of her shoulders. At least the attraction didn’t appear to be one-sided—that would have been humiliating, you think—because Harry gave as good as he got, chuckling sincerely and flirting right back. You had to suppress the urge to retch, and sent out a quiet prayer of gratitude when Ella and Alex sat them as far away from each other as possible at the beginning of the meal.

On the opposite side of the table: Alex’s groomsmen—Milo, Sasha, and Connor. You’ve been in their company a few times, mainly on birthdays and other special occasions. According to Alex, they all met when Milo accidentally vomited during their very first anatomy lesson at medical school. Milo insists that the putrid smell of the cadavers was simply too awful to bear, but everyone else claims that he just couldn’t stand the idea of being so close to a dead body. No matter the truth, the story always makes you giggle. The four of them have been good friends ever since.

The five of them, you remind yourself as your gaze settles on Harry, who is lounging in the chair directly across from you.

Harry—Alex’s best friend. Harry—Alex’s best man.

You wanted to rip your hair from your scalp when Ella broke the news. Several images flashed through your head all at once. You and Harry inching rigidly down the aisle, arms linked. You and Harry donning the same colours, your gown complimenting the spry flower pinned to the lapel of his suit. You and Harry flanking Ella and Alex while they recite their vows, glaring daggers at each other behind your friends’ backs. Even now, the mere thought of it has you biting down on an exasperated groan.

You don’t realise that you’ve zoned out until the faint quirk of Harry’s mouth catches your eye. You blink once to yank yourself from your daze, and clench your jaw when you find him staring at you with an amused look on his face. He places his elbows against the arms of the chair and clasps his hands together. Unmistakable smugness emanates from him, as if he somehow managed to crawl inside your mind and saw exactly what you were envisioning. Your nostrils flare, and you fix your attention back on Ella, who has reached the end of her speech.

“Cheers,” she says, holding up her glass. The champagne inside sloshes and fizzles temptingly. Would she allow you to chug the entire bottle, if you asked?

Everyone around the table mirrors her movements, raising their own drinks and touching them together lightly. Quiet, delicate clanking fills the room, and the friendly chatter resumes. You nudge Ella with your elbow, shooting her a proud smile. “That was great, El.”

She beams. “Thanks, cookie.” She then picks up her fork and motions to the plate in front of her, piled high with seasoned chicken and steaming, roasted vegetables. “Let’s eat.”

~*~

“Are you sure you’ve got him?” Alex asks Sasha, gesturing to the very inebriated Connor wobbling at his side.

Sasha wraps one arm around their friend, letting Connor rest his full weight against him. He bares two rows of perfect ivory teeth, flashing a wicked grin. “Yeah. Besides, I’ve been meaning to pay him back for the shit he pulled at the barbecue last month. There’s a Sharpie in my car.”

“You’re going to draw a dick on his face, aren’t you?” Alex muses.

“Obviously.”

With that, Alex bids them both farewell, shutting the door and heaving a dramatic sigh. Ella approaches him after a moment, hooking her chin over his shoulder and murmuring something indiscernible into his ear. He chuckles softly.

“Didn’t peg you as the voyeur type, sweetheart,” a low voice says from behind you.

You jump, whirling around and coming face-to-face with Harry. He’s got a green washcloth slung over his left shoulder—the shade brings out his eyes, a traitorous voice in your head whispers—and his arms are folded neatly across his chest. Your gaze falls to the collar of his black button-up, where he’s undone the first two discs, leaving his sternum exposed. Tendrils of ink peek out from beneath the dark material.

You frown and take a step back, putting distance between your bodies. “You’re such an asshole.”

“So I’ve heard.” His lips twitch, and he rolls up his sleeves. “Now, if you’re done ogling them like a lovestruck puppy, I could use some help in the kitchen.”

You grit your teeth, but follow him into the other room. Harry grabs the rag hanging over his shoulder and holds it out for you. You snatch it from his fingers without a word, and the two of you take up residence in front of the sink. Harry plunges his hands into the soapy water, rinsing the dishes thoroughly before passing them to you. You stand as far away from him as possible while you dry each plate, your movements stiff and choppy. This is not how you wanted to finish off the night, but Alex and Ella spent the entire day preparing the food, and it was delicious. The least you can do is spare them the hassle of tidying up.

The tense silence eats at you, until you feel like you might explode. Unable to bear it any longer, you hastily blurt, “Saw you getting pretty cozy with Hillary before dinner.”

Immediately, you want to kick yourself. Where the fuck did that come from?

Harry snorts, shrugging coolly. “We’ve hooked up a few times, but it’s nothing serious.” He shoots you a mischievous grin. “You jealous?”

“Of Hillary?” you scoff, rolling your eyes. “Please. The woman’s standards are practically underground. Why else would she be interested in someone like you?”

Harry scowls, and hot satisfaction surges through your veins. Yes, the taunt was mean, but no, you don’t care. “You’re a real bitch sometimes, you know that?” he says.

You flash him a petty, insincere smile. “Only to you.”

He squeezes the yellow sponge nestled in his right hand, scrubbing it forcefully across a dirty plate. “Maybe you should find someone to hook up with. It might help get that stick out of your ass.”

“I have better things to do,” you sneer, narrowing your eyes.

“Better than sex?” He chokes on a derisive laugh.

“Yes.”

“Like what?”

“Like…things!” you snap, fingers curling into tight fists. “I run my own business, for God’s sake. And I’m going to make Ella’s wedding cake.” You announce the last part proudly, hauling your chin into the air.

Harry, however, looks unimpressed. He shakes his head, blowing out a heavy sigh. “Uh-oh.”

You pause. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs again, but you detect a hint of malice behind the action. “It’s just…I’ve seen the way you decorate cakes. Ella might be better off going elsewhere—you know, to an actual professional.”

Son of a—

“That’s rich, coming from you,” you say, motioning to the mismatched tattoos littered across his arm. “What would you know about professionalism? It looks like you let a preschooler doodle all over you.”

Harry bares his teeth in a feral grin. “Deflection. I’m not surprised.”

You bristle at his words. “Asshole.”

“You’ll need to get a bit more creative with the insults, sweetheart. I’m growing bored.”

“Is that so?” you say. “I think ‘asshole’ suits you just fine. Maybe you should have become a proctologist instead of a paediatrician.”

“At least I pursued something I was good at. I’m not sure if you can say the same.”

“You fucking—”

“Everything okay in here?” Ella asks, floating into the kitchen. You spin around to conceal your anger, placing your hands against the counter and inhaling deeply. You roll your shoulders back and slap an artificial smile onto your face before turning once more.

“Everything’s fine,” you say, and fake a yawn, covering your mouth with your palm. “I think I’m going to call it a night. I’m exhausted.”

Ella’s bottom lip juts out into a pout. Her red lipstick has faded, leaving only a stain of scarlet in its wake. On cue, Alex walks into the kitchen behind her, setting a steady hand on her hip and cocking his head to the side. “Hey. Everything okay in here?”

You nearly snort. Fucking soulmates.

“All good,” you tell him, nodding brusquely. “I’m just going to finish up with the dishes and head home.”

“Okay.” Alex presses a soft kiss to Ella’s temple, murmuring something about needing to get out of his stuffy clothes. You whirl, drying the last of the plates with frantic, shaky fingers. In your peripheral vision, you spy Harry watching you, but the stupid bastard must possess some scrap of self-preservation, because he keeps his mouth shut. You say nothing else as you whack the rag down onto the counter and stride out of the room.

You don’t miss Alex and Ella’s hushed whispers at the other end of the hall, but a little voice in your head tells you not to interrupt them. You halt at the front door, snatching your purse off one of the metal hooks mounted on the wall. You’re in the middle of putting on your shoes when you hear it:

“I was hoping we could arrange a truce, you know.”

You twist around, palm flying to your chest. Harry is standing a few feet away, his hands still wet with the water from the sink. He clasps them together and ducks his head, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d almost think he was ashamed.

Something vile bubbles in the pit of your stomach. You gnaw on the flesh of your cheek, trying to reel your emotions back in. You refuse to give him the satisfaction of witnessing another outburst.

“Keep your fucking truce,” you spit, and wrench open the door. You shoot him one last withering look before stepping out of the condo and slamming it shut.

#be sweet #harry writing #lmao you can tell i've given up on posting my writing on tumblr cus i don't even tag it with the typical fic tags anymore 😭

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kythed · 4 years ago

Text

what love tastes like

terushima yuuji x reader

synopsis: in which you learn that falling in love tastes like monster

“Taste,” he says. He holds the cold rim of a freshly opened can to your lips, and first it’s metallic, salty, but then it’s sweet.

You take a sip.

“So you’re telling me you’ve never tried Monster before?” he asks, taking a drink himself. The two of you are sitting on a park bench across the street from a gas station. He licks his lips-- the silver ball embedded in his tongue winks at you, a shallow token of youthful rebellion that somehow seems more significant on him.

“Never. I’m more of a Dr. Pepper girl.” You reach for the can again, letting the saccharine liquid sloshing inside coat your tongue. It’s really too much for me, you think. But of course, you won’t tell him that.

“Not anymore,” he says, and he slips a firm hand around the back of your neck, pulling you towards him and daring you to look away with a wicked grin-- it’s attractive, to say the least. “Now you’re my girl.”

You’ve barely parted your lips to respond before his mouth is on yours, tongue halfway down your throat, and you’re whimpering into the kiss as he snakes a hand down your back and presses your body to his. The whole ordeal tastes like Monster and feels far more energizing than the packaging promises.

Within your first day of meeting him, Terushima Yuuji has already claimed you as his own.

And you’re okay with it.

He’s about as healthy for you as the Monster is-- which is to say, not at all.

In your next couple months of dating him, this becomes apparent. He takes you to the edge of the woods at twilight and lights your first cigarette, laughing as you take a draw and end up coughing. Plucking it from your fingers, he holds the cig high as smoke curls into the hazy sky and eventually melds with the faintly orange cumuli. “Guess it’ll take a little practice before you can smoke with the big dogs, huh?”

You flush and snatch it back, determined to prove your aptitude for defiance. By the end of the night, you can blow smoke rings-- he applauds, and for some odd reason your heart swells at his lazy grin.

(The next kiss tastes like tobacco and novelty.)

He shows you each of his tattoos, some of which peek out from underneath his clothes, some of which aren’t exactly visible to the onlooker’s eye. There’s a tendril of ivy climbing down his forearm, a flock of wild cranes taking flight from his left shoulder. A dark silhouette is on his chest, kneeling low to who knows what. You trace the image of an unlit candle on the back of his neck, asking what it means-- for a millisecond, his mouth tightens into an expressionless line, but then he laughs. “Why, you want one too? Let’s go to the parlor then.”

When you decline, he takes a permanent marker from his bedside table and prints a small label on your inner wrist. ‘Mine’ it says, accompanied by an oddly appropriate smiley face. “Then this will have to do.”

(This kiss tastes like ink and enigma.)

He brings you to a decrepit manor on the outskirts of town-- legend has it a young, newly wealthy couple purchased it twenty years ago, unaware its foundations rested on a centuries old cemetery. The spiteful spirits drove them to the brink of madness. The sort of madness that could only be alleviated by the resounding finality of death.

“They were found hanging from their bedsheets in the west wing,” Yuuji whispers to you, his breath tickling your ear. An unwanted tremor runs from your head to your high-tops. You don’t believe in ghosts, so it must be because you’re cold. (At least, that’s what you tell yourself.) “I want that kind of love.”

You turn, surprised to see his expression remains entirely serious. “The kind where you die for one another?”

“The kind where you die with one another,” he corrects, wistfully gazing into the dingy bay windows protruding from the manor’s anterior.

You remain silent.

“Life is just an accumulation of bad decisions, and love is just an accumulation of bad decisions you make with another person,” he muses, still peering at the grandeur of the lonely estate. He turns to you, a dangerous glint in his eye. “Wanna make a bad decision with me?”

The next hour is spent in the modest company of Yuuji, a couple of baseball bats, and the empty halls of a long dead house. There’s no one to witness the two of you shattering each dusty antique vase save for the portraits on the wall. Soon, their frames, too, receive a violent visit from a vindictive bat, usually accompanied by Yuuji’s unadulterated glee and a resounding whoop.

You’re not a fan of destruction. Especially not the destruction of rare, precious items reminiscent of a life bygone. Yet, it’s exhilarating to indulge in it, to swing your bat with a meaningless vengeance and watch as whatever priceless heirloom that evoked your baseless wrath fractures into pieces. You demolish a set of fine china found in the dining room cabinet and Yuuji gathers you into his arms, kissing you fiercely (it tastes like some sort of perverse, seductive joy, rosewater mixed with ashes). He chuckles into your mouth when you push your tongue into his, retribution for your first kiss many weeks ago. It’s deliciously gratifying.

If Yuuji is right, and love is just a mosaic of bad decisions and desire-- maybe you’re okay with that. Maybe this is all I really need, you think, watching Yuuji from the corner of your eye on the drive home. Yellow street lights cast irregular shadows on his angular features, lending him an otherworldly sort of beauty.

“What is it?” he asks, without taking his eyes off the road. One of his hands inches up your inner thigh, giving it a quick squeeze before retreating to the responsibility of the steering wheel.

You hesitate, just for a second. An unseen force constricts around your throat; you banish it with a hard swallow. “I love you.”

One second passes. Then two.

He says nothing the rest of the ride home, and you sit in mortified silence, watching traffic blur by with glassy eyes. You must’ve misread this whole thing. You’re just a fling Yuuji plans on discarding whenever he grows tired… your mouth goes dry with regret.

When you pull up in front of your house, he walks you to your front door. You can hardly stand to look him in the eye.

“Well, thanks for today,” you say, examining your shoelaces with false interest. “I had a lot of--”

“I love you, too.”

Startled, you look up. “I- what?”

“I said,” he says, stepping close, putting a hand beneath your chin to tilt it upwards. Your body is eclipsed by his larger one, and you’re overwhelmed with the sudden urge to hide from his penetrating gaze. “I love you, too.��

A beat of silence.

“Oh,” you breathe, and, suddenly, his lips are on yours, kissing you fervently— but this time, it’s chaste, it’s… loving (and it tastes like honeyed laughter). Only for a second though.

Then his hands are on your waist, fingers gripping hard enough to leave bruises; he’s aflame with a hotblooded passion-- your body is his Holy Grail and your mouth is its rim. He leads you into the hallway, fumbling to close the door behind him. You gasp when he pushes you up against the wall and harshly sucks at the sensitive skin beneath your jaw, your nails digging into his back through the thin fabric of his t-shirt.

“I love you,” he mumbles, painting your neck with a line of ardent kisses, trailing from right below your ear to right above your collarbone. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

There’s something a little too tender in the way he caresses your face the next morning to wake you after he’s slipped his clothes back on, in the way he smiles softly at your bleary eyed confusion, in the way he holds you in his embrace a fraction of a second longer than you hold him in yours before saying goodbye.

Terushima Yuuji may play the part of a reckless delinquent, but he’s not your average troublemaker. There’s something inscrutable behind his gaze, even as he sprays obscene graffiti on stop signs and shoplifts alcohol from the neighborhood drugstore, a walking cliche of hoodlum culture.

There’s something a little too careful about the boy who claims to be careless.

Yuuji is still fun, of course. He takes immense pride in being fun. He invites you to one of his friends’ gigs, some sort of grunge-esque affair with a heavily pulsating bass line and a preponderance of cheap liquor in red plastic cups. The drummer winks at you during one of the songs-- later Yuuji slugs him in the jaw, taking a few hits in the process, and makes a show of kissing you sloppily while the poor drummer nurses his rapidly forming bruise with a pack of frozen peas. (The kiss, of course, tastes like blood and pride.)

He teaches you how to use a switchblade-- “Just in case,” he says, wrapping his hand around yours in an effort to show you the proper grip. In exactly what situation you’d be forced to use a switchblade remains unclear, but when you ask he just laughs and shrugs, spinning the knife in between his slender fingers. “You never know.”

(He tells you a story of a fist fight years ago and lifts his shirt to point out a pale, faded scar-- the other guy brought a knife concealed in his sleeve. You then agree it doesn’t hurt to be prepared.)

The two of you trespass on the regular, scaling fences and picking locks to dip your feet in private pools, to run barefoot on the soft grass of a golf course late at night, to explore taped off tunnels and underpasses.

All of it is fun, all of it depicts your relationship as something accidental, something reckless, the convergence of two beings as coincidental as the convergence of the two cells that provoked the Big Bang.

But your intimate moments, the faintest imprints in between the lines, tell a different story. One onlookers don’t see.

They don’t see how Yuuji places a hand on the small of your back to guide you over a crosswalk, or how he pours a coffee and carefully blows on it before bringing it to you. They don’t see how he laughs when you laugh and smiles when you smile.

They don’t hear what he whispers to you under the sheets-- sweet nothings that would make Cupid himself blush-- as he touches you slowly, purposefully, following your curves deliberately as a sculptor molding clay.

They don’t feel his kisses, delicately placed on your lips, your neck, your stomach and thighs. They don’t feel his eyelashes fluttering on your cheek as he allows himself to rest with you in his most vulnerable state.

It’s during these moments that deep secrets are so shyly exchanged in the sleepy haze of late nights and early mornings. He bares his soul to you in all its imperfection (you suspect you are the only one to have ever seen it in this state). He shatters himself bit by bit like the vases you splintered so long ago, offering you the fragments so you can gradually piece together the entire portrait.

“You know how I told you my dad taught me how to fight?” he asks one of these times. Your head is in his lap as he strokes your hair ever-so-lightly. You nod, looking up into those sweet brown eyes-- they look sad today. “That’s only half true. He didn’t teach me, but I had to learn because of him.”

You take his hand and brush your lips over his knuckles, humming softly, and he takes this small act of comfort and stores it away like he always does.

I’m sorry.

“I’m scared of trying to be someone different than I am now, but I want to be. I wish I could be.”

You can.

“I’m sorry for getting you into so much trouble these days.”

Don’t be.

“I think we should run away, just you and me. We could make it, you know.”

I know.

Of course, all good things come to an end. You know that.

You just aren’t anticipating something so good to end so soon-- as suddenly as Terushima Yuuji becomes yours, he disappears.

One morning, he’s sleeping in the bed next to you, and the next he’s gone without a trace. Literally. He leaves behind no extra t-shirts, no stray sock or phone charger, no note. You pad down the hall, ducking your head into each room.

“Yuuji?” you call. “Is this some sort of joke?”

It’s not.

You call his phone and reach his voicemail. Hey, this is Terushima. Not available right now, probably busy doing somethin’ stupid or taking a piss. Leave a message if you want.

The sound of his voice grows more and more painful to hear over the next six months. At first, you call every day, then every week, then every month. At month six, you’ve stopped calling at all. If he wanted to answer, he would. You don’t even know why you’ve kept it up so long when he obviously left for a reason.

So, you pick up the pieces of your broken heart and cobble them together again. It’s not a graceful recovery, but it’s a recovery, and that’s what matters. The gaping hole he left is gradually filled by your family, your friends-- you don’t go on a single date, but that’s okay. (You’re just not ready. You tell yourself that you will be, someday.)

Soon, you’re whole again. As you discover, there are ways to find yourself other than falling dangerously in love with a dangerous boy.

You run into him one day, eight or so months after his disappearance. You’re filling your car at a gas station, and at the park across the street, he’s sitting next to a girl you don’t recognize. She laughs at all his jokes and sips a can of Monster he offers her. As if he can feel your stare, Yuuji glances over and catches your eye. He jogs across the street, dodging traffic, and you two exchange tentative pleasantries before the conversation comes to an uneasy rest on the taboo-- why he left.

It wasn’t because of you, it turns out. At least, not really. You were just the catalyst.

“I was the problem,” Yuuji says, laughing, though the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “You remember how I once told you I thought love was making your bad decisions with someone by your side?”

You nod, and the wound has scabbed over enough for you to remember it lightly, with a slight curve of the lips.

“You showed me that wasn’t true.” He tugs on the collar of his t-shirt absentmindedly, not quite meeting your gaze. “I started wanting to make good decisions instead. And that just wasn’t me. Love isn’t for me.”

“It could’ve been,” you say simply. He stares at you, momentarily unable to form a response. Then he laughs it off, a sound you used to adore that now sounds harsh and grating.

“Maybe someday,” he says, but his expression tells you otherwise. It tells you how scared he is of ever being that person.

The thing about love is that it gives you something to lose. It gives you a reason to make good decisions. It gives you something to fear for.

As he turns to leave, Yuuji freezes in his tracks. He throws a look over his shoulder. “Just for the record-- it hurt. Leaving. I did love you.”

You smile. It’s a genuine smile, but it’s sad, too. “I know.”

And the thing about fear is that some people can’t bear it well enough to let themselves love someone.

You watch his retreating back for a brief moment before climbing into your car. It’s not until you’re halfway home that you realize you’re crying. Tears roll down your cheeks into your lap, staining your jeans.

You hope he comes to love that new girl, the one he’s sharing a Monster with. You hope she loves him back with all her heart. You hope she spends hours and hours picking through his pieces and reassembling him from the bottom up. You hope she comes to find that his kisses taste like tobacco and novelty, like ink and enigma, like rosewater and ashes and joy. You hope that, to her, those kisses never taste like regret.

You hope that this time, he’s scared. But not so scared he can’t let himself stay.

#haikyuu #haikyuu!!#haikyuu headcanons #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu x reader #hq terushima #terushima #terushima yuuji #terushima x reader #terushima yuuji x reader

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