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darlingdaisyfarm · 3 months ago

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₊˚ʚ Rain in the woods (Ford Pines x fem!reader) ₊˚✧ ﾟ.

part 1 | part 2

NSFW (mdni)

There’s something about Gravity Falls in the autumn that feels like a secret the world only tells to those who stay long enough to hear it. The air smells like damp pine needles and earth, the leaves of the trees cover the ground with a carpet of golden, rusty and red shades. Mornings here are misty, cold enough that you can see your breath, but not quite winter's chill. It’s the kind of cold that makes you want to wrap yourself in something soft, makes you crave warmth. It’s a cozy time.

Gravity Falls in the fall is just. . . different.

In the late afternoon, the rays of the sun break through the crowns of the trees, flooding everything with a lazy golden light. And sometimes when you’re out by the edge of the Shack, you catch a glimpse of deer moving quietly through the woods, their dark eyes watching you with curiosity before disappearing into the shadows of woods.

The Mystery Shack is the same, just a little too quiet now that the kids have gone back to California. It’s not empty, not really, but there’s a weight to the silence. Mabel’s infectious laugh and Dipper’s constant questions replaced by the softer, quieter rhythm of life with the twins. You’ve been here for months now, long enough that the place feels like home. Especially when the twins, Stan and Ford, are around. But that’s where it gets complicated.

It’s Ford.

You’ve fallen for him. Hard. It’s ridiculous, really, because he’s so much older and you know you shouldn’t, there’s no logical reason for it, no sense in how your heart races every time he looks at you or how your stomach flips when you catch a glimpse of him doing something, like sorting through research papers or tinkering with one of his strange gadgets.

But god, it’s the way he wears that red turtleneck, isn’t it? It clings to him in a way that makes your thoughts go to places they shouldn't. It’s so simple, so casual and yet it wrecks you. Every time you see him in it, you feel the warmth between your legs. You don’t even realize how much it’s affecting you until you're practically soaked, wishing he’d notice. Wishing he’d touch you.

It doesn’t help that he’s so damn wise, so much older and that age difference? The way he corrects you, not in a condescending way, but so softly, so patiently. Like that time when you were trying to help him with some gadget, fumbling over wires and he came up behind you, placing those big hands over yours.

“No, not like that. Here, let me show you.”

His voice was so calm, so gentle, and his hands. . . they just took over. His touch was firm but careful, like he knew exactly how to handle you and it made you melt right there on the spot. You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from moaning because��holy shit, how could he not feel what he was doing to you? His breath warm on the back of your neck, his fingers touching yours with just enough pressure to make your knees feel weak.

It’s pathetic how much you crave that. How much you want him to just take control, to manhandle you a little bit, gently, of course. You can imagine it so clearly: him pressing you up against a wall, those strong hands pinning your wrists above your head, his mouth on your neck, groaning something about how you’re “too young for this”, how he shouldn’t, but fuck, you know he wants to. You can see it in the way his eyes linger on you when he thinks you’re not paying attention, the way his fingers sometimes twitch when you're near, like he's resisting the urge to reach out and touch you.

And it’s not like you’re subtle either. Maybe that’s why you’re out here now, watching him from the window as he rakes up leaves in front of the shack. It shouldn’t be hot, shouldn’t make your mouth go dry, but it does. It really fucking does.

Because it’s Ford and every single thing about him makes you ache.

For example, Ford’s in the kitchen, humming under his breath while he chops vegetables with a methodical precision that’s so him. You’re sitting at the table, scrolling through your phone, trying to distract yourself from the fact that just watching him move around the kitchen has you practically dripping. God, how does he do that? He’s not even trying to be sexy, just making dinner in that stupid, red turtleneck and apron Mabel had given him. . . and here you are, practically imagining yourself on your knees, begging for it.

You hear him muttering something to himself as he stirs the pan, his brow furrowed in concentration, but your attention is broken when he turns to you with that familiar, slightly exasperated look on his face.

“You know,” he says calmly. “these phones. . . they just eat up time. Back in my day, we didn’t have things like that. We actually talked to each other during dinner.”

You laugh, because of course he would say something like that. Ford, being thirty years in another dimension, has no clue what the modern world is like and it’s just adorable, yes. But you’re also too busy imagining all the things you’d rather be doing with your mouth than explaining social media to that old man.

Still, you put the phone down because something about his tone always makes you want to listen. Maybe it’s the way he says things, like he’s so much older and knows better, and you can’t help but get a little turned on by the way he’s so gentle when he scolds you.

He moves past you to grab something off the counter and when he leans close, you catch a familiar blend of pine and old book scents. It makes your thighs clench together involuntarily because now all you can think about is how you’d kill to taste him. To kneel in front of him while he’s still wearing that turtleneck, his eyes watching you as you take his cock in your mouth, sucking him so slow, so deep, until he can’t help but grip your hair and guide you.

Your hand twitches in your lap, resisting the urge to touch yourself right there at the table, but fuck, it’s hard not to when he’s right there, all casual and focused on making dinner like he has no idea the effect he’s having on you.

You shift in your seat as your thoughts get dirtier. Like how it would feel to straddle his lap while he’s working on his journals, his big hands on your hips, holding you as you ride him slow, dragging your cunt along his cock while he tries to concentrate on his notes. You can picture it so clearly, his jaw clenched, brows knit when he’s trying to stay focused, but fuck, he’s too close to losing it, too close to breaking and finally giving in, flipping you over and taking you.

“Are you alright?”

Ford’s voice pulls you out of your fantasy, he looks at you curiously, like he knows something’s up but can’t quite put his finger on it. You must look like a wreck right now, all flushed and flustered.

The next morning, even after you spent the whole night touching yourself afterwards, you still can't get enough. Your fingers working desperately between your legs, hips arching up off the mattress, trying to keep quiet even though the need clawing at you is making it impossible. You’re soaked, drenched in the thought of him, Ford, in that damn red turtleneck, that stern look on his face when he’s focused on anything other than you. You want to shove that look right off his face, make him fall apart, make him whine your name.

It’s shameful, really, the way you’re so gone over him. The age gap shouldn’t do this to you, but it only makes you hotter, messes with your head in the best way. He’s older, so much smarter, more experienced, and all you want to do is kneel at his feet and beg him to show you exactly what all that experience feels like. You think about his rough hands gripping your hair while you choke on his cock, that raspy voice telling you to take it, all of it and when you obey, next thing you hear is “that’s it, such a good gi—“

Fuck, your breath catches, and you’re so close, rubbing your clit faster, thighs trembling. Your whole body feels tight, ready to snap, your mind filling with images of Ford pinning you down, fucking you into the mattress until you can’t breathe, until you—

“Hey, can you come in here for a second?”

His voice breaks through your fog like a fucking bomb exploding. Your eyes wide in shock, your body jerks, because you’re so close to cumming you could scream. “Shit,” you whisper harshly, hands flying off your slick cunt like you’ve been burned, heart hammering in your chest.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

It takes you a second to pull yourself together, to stop panting like you’ve just run a marathon. You wipe your wet fingers hastily on the bedsheets, muttering, “Coming, Ford,” though not the way you wanted to.

You get up on wobbly legs, your body still buzzing, still so damn close it’s torture and you head toward the kitchen, running a hand through your hair like it’s going to make a difference. How the fuck are you supposed to face him now?

Ford’s sitting at the kitchen table, papers spread out in front of him, and his eyes flicker up to you the second you walk in, what makes your stomach flip, your heart pounding in your chest.

You’re trying so hard to act like nothing’s wrong, like you weren’t just moaning his name touching yourself five seconds ago. “What’s up?” you ask, even though your voice is shaky, your mind still spinning. Your thighs press together, trying to dull the ache that hasn’t gone away.

Ford looks at you for a moment longer, like he’s trying to read you and it makes you panic inside. God, you hope he doesn’t know. “I found something interesting in the woods today,“ he says, that familiar thoughtful tone returning. “It looks like an anomaly of some kind, a gravitational distortion, but it’s hard to be certain without taking a closer look. Normally, I’d go with Dipper, he was always eager to go anomaly hunting with me over the summer, but now that he’s gone back to California, I thought. . .” Ford pauses. “maybe you’d be interested in coming with me tomorrow to check it out?” he glances up at you and for a moment, his gaze softens in that way that always makes your heart skip a beat, just the way he looks at you when he says it makes you nearly collapse.

He’s so fucking hot without even trying.

Your heart’s pounding for a whole different reason now. “Yeah, sure,” you reply, trying to sound casual, like you weren’t just fucking yourself into oblivion a minute ago. “I mean, I’m no Dipper, but I’d love to help!”

Ford’s lips curve in an approving smile, and it’s almost painful how beautiful he looks when he does that. Like a reward for doing something good. God, you’d do anything to get more of that look from him.

He watches you for a moment, his brows knitting together like he’s thinking too hard. “Are you alright? you seem. . . a little distracted.” his voice sounds way too caring, the edge of concern mixing with that sharp, authoritative tone that always makes your knees weak.

Oh, if only he knew just how distracted you are.

Well, now you don’t know how you ended up out here, freezing your ass off, trudging through the woods with Ford while he’s talking about electromagnetic fields and spatial distortions. The chill bites into your skin, and of course you didn’t think to bring a jacket, because why would you, when you were too busy fantasizing about him fucking you senseless? You were so distracted by that goddamn turtleneck and the way his hands move when he talks that you didn’t even consider how cold it might get. Now you’re out here, shivering like an idiot, trying to keep up with him while your body is screaming for warmth, for heat, for him.

Ford doesn’t seem to notice your suffering. He’s in his element, rambling about science and anomalies, gesturing toward the trees like he’s uncovering some deep cosmic truth. And you want to care, you really do, but all you can think about is how fucking good he looks in that tan coat, how his hands would feel on your skin, holding you still, keeping you steady while he. . .

You try to focus on his voice, but it’s useless. Your mind is gone, stuck on the idea of him pushing you against one of these trees, ripping your clothes off, his six fingers bruising into your hips while he pounds into you, telling you to take it, like you were made for him.

You grit your teeth, the cold biting at your cheeks as you shake off the thought or try to, anyway. It’s fucking useless. Every word that comes out of his mouth makes you sink deeper into fantasy. You can’t help it; you’re obsessed and he doesn’t even know.

". . . and that's when I realized that the energy trail was much stronger than I had originally assumed,” Ford continues, but to you his voice is distant, like you’re hearing it through water. You’re so far gone in your own head that you almost miss it when he asks, “Are you alright? You’ve been unusually quiet.”

Fuck. You blink, realizing he’s staring at you now, his eyes narrowing slightly behind his glasses. You clear your throat, trying to act normal, like you weren’t just picturing his cock inside you two seconds ago. “Yeah, uh, I’m fine. Just, um, a little cold.”

Ford’s eyes flicker down to your arms, bare except for your thin shirt, and his brow furrows in that disappointed way. “You didn’t bring a jacket?” he asks in a stern lecturing tone, voice strict and that drives you insane.

You cringe inwardly. Of course he’s going to scold you. You love it. “I. . . forgot,” you admit, feeling like a damn child being corrected.

He huffs softly, shaking his head. “That was careless. You should know better by now, especially given the weather this time of year.” he sighs, but without further ado takes off his coat and hands it to you. “Here, put this on. We still have a ways to go.”

You take the coat, feeling the warmth spreading through your body — not only from the fabric, but also from the fact that it belongs to him. It smells like him, this subtle blend of his favorite coffee and old books, and you pull it around yourself, feeling the weight of it settle on your shoulders. It’s too big, swamping you completely, but somehow that just makes it better. You’re wrapped in him now and it’s driving you crazy.

“Thank you, Ford,” you mumble, pulling the clothes tighter around you. The cold air is still biting at your skin, but now, with his coat on, you can almost pretend it’s his arms holding you close.

“You really should be more careful,” Ford continues, his voice taking on that fatherly, lecturing tone again. “Out here, exposure to the elements can be dangerous. Hypothermia can set in quickly, especially if you’re not properly prepared.”

You can’t help it, the way he talks, the way he corrects you, makes you want to drop to your knees right here in the dirt. It’s infuriating and so fucking hot at the same time.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” you mutter, rolling your eyes even though you’re still so turned on it hurts. “I’ll remember next time, Professor Pines.”

Ford pauses, his eyes flickering to you at the sarcastic tone in your voice. “You’d better,” he grins.

Fuck, why does he have to be like this? All you can think about is him pinning you against a tree, that authoritative tone pushing you further into submission, his hands rough on your skin, his voice in your ear telling you how badly you need it, how good you’re going to be for him—

“Honestly, you seem. . . distracted, again,” Ford says, he stops walking, turning to look at you.

Shit. “What? No— I’m just tired.” how the hell are you supposed to concentrate when all you can think about is getting railed against a tree by the man who’s currently lecturing you about hypothermia?

Ford gives you a look like he doesn’t believe you for a second, but thankfully, he doesn’t push it. Instead, he just sighs, turning back toward the woods. “Try to focus, okay? this anomaly isn’t going to find itself.”

You bite your lip, nodding even though your mind is anywhere but on the anomaly. If only he knew what you were really thinking about. If only he knew how badly you wanted him to stop being so goddamn serious and just fuck you dumb in the middle of these woods.

The two of you finally reach the spot Ford had been leading you to, hidden deep in the woods, tucked between towering pines and thick underbrush. It’s a small clearing, but something about it feels. . . wrong. The air here is heavier, like it’s charged with something invisible. Ford crouches low, gesturing for you to follow him into the bush, and you drop down beside him, trying to keep your breathing steady, you watch as he surveys the area with full concentration.

“There,” he murmurs, pointing ahead of you. “do you see it?”

You squint through the branches, at first, you don’t see anything unusual, just trees and shadows. But then, something shifts. A flicker of movement catches your eye, something that shouldn’t be there. It’s wrong, like it’s not part of this world. It’s hard to focus on, almost like it’s glitching in and out of existence, flickering at the edges like static. You can barely make out its form, part animal, part shadow, part something else. It’s small, no bigger than a dog, but the way it moves, the way it breathes, feels unnatural.

“What. . . is that?” you whisper, leaning closer to Ford, your shoulder brushing against his.

He glances at you with a glint of excitement in his eyes. “Distortion in the structure of reality,” he explains quietly. “I’ve seen creatures like this before. They exist in pockets of dimensional instability, places where our world overlaps with others. Their form isn’t stable, which is why they appear, uh, fragmented.”

You stare at the thing, amazed. It moves silently, its body flickering like a bad signal, its limbs elongating and shrinking as it drifts through the clearing, unaware of your presence. You should be scared, but all you can think about is how close Ford is to you, how his voice sounds in your ear and how much you want to feel him right now. You can’t focus, not when he’s explaining these wild theories with that serious tone, making you feel like an idiot for not understanding.

“And what does it. . . do?”

Ford’s gaze remains fixed on the anomaly. “They’re typically harmless,” he murmurs, “but they’re drawn to specific atmospheric conditions. This one, for example, seems to respond to shifts in barometric pressure and electromagnetic fluctuations in the atmosphere. But more interestingly,” he pauses, glancing at the sky, “rain tends to destabilize them completely.”

You blink, confused. “Rain?”

Ford nods. “Rain disrupts their ability to remain in our dimension. The water molecules interfere with the dimensional rift that keeps them here. It’s fascinating, really. I’ve observed this behavior before, it’s as if the rain itself acts like a natural disruptor!”

You’re about to ask him more when, as if on cue, the first cold drops of rain start to fall, splattering against the leaves and the ground. Ford’s eyes widen and you glance back at the anomaly. The creature twitches, its form flickering more violently now, like it’s struggling to hold onto something.

The rain falls harder, and within seconds, the creature’s form starts to dissolve. It doesn’t vanish all at once, no, its body breaks apart in fragments, each piece flickering and glitching until there’s nothing left but empty air. One minute it’s there, the next it’s gone.

You stare at the empty clearing, rain dripping down your face, soaking into Ford’s coat. “It. . . it’s gone.”

Ford leans back slightly, his eyes still big in surprise. “The rain destabilized it completely.” there’s something in his tone, something deeper, like he’s not ready to leave yet. Ford wipes his glasses with the sleeve of his turtleneck.

The rain starts falling harder, drops turning into a full downpour that soaks everything in its path. You stand there, wrapped in Ford’s coat, but he’s not as lucky, his hair quickly becomes drenched, plastering to his forehead in thick, graying strands. The fabric of his red turtleneck clings to his body, outlining every muscle, every curve of his broad chest and shoulders. The rain slides down his skin, leaving little rivulets of water dripping from his neck, his hair curling at the edges, making him look even more handsome than he really was

You can’t stop staring. He’s just so damn hot, god bless him. You feel a rush of heat despite the cold rain, you bite your lip, fighting back the urge to push him against the nearest tree and kiss him.

Ford wipes his face again with the back of his hand, visibly irritated by the rain now. His expression grows more serious as he watches the empty clearing where the anomaly had been. The rain’s still coming down hard, and Ford’s soaked through, he runs a hand through his wet hair, pushing it back, but the rain keeps coming, relentless.

“We should head back, there’s no point in staying here now that it’s gone.”

There’s something different about his tone, more serious, frustrated, maybe? He turns, starting to walk back the way you came, and you follow, the tension between you is growing. It’s obvious he’s frustrated, his normally calm demeanor slipping just a bit, and you know it’s not just because of the rain. It’s the anomaly disappearing, vanishing right in front of him, after all that work.

You pull his coat tighter around you, trying to keep up, but it’s hard to focus on anything besides how good he looks, even now, soaked through and visibly annoyed. Every step now feels tense, the silence between you stretching uncomfortably, broken only by the sound of your boots squelching in the mud and the steady rhythm of the downpour.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, you reach the Mystery Shack. Ford’s steps quicken as he approaches the door, shaking the rain from his hair like an irritated cat before pushing it open. You follow him inside, immediately hit by the warmth of the indoors, the cozy smell of wood. The contrast between the cold, wet outside and the warmth of the Shack feels surreal, your skin prickling as you step out of your soaked boots.

You turn to Ford, feeling a little shy as you glance at him. “Thanks. . . for the coat,” you murmur in a soft tone, giving him a little smile.

He nods, still looking slightly annoyed, but the tension in his shoulders seems to ease a bit. “Of course,” he speaks. “you shouldn’t have come without proper gear in the first place.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite to it. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ll. . . I’ll make us some tea,” you offer, eager to warm up and maybe soften the mood between you two. “You want a cup?”

Ford glances at you, thinking, then nods. “Yeah, that would be nice.”

You head to the kitchen, still feeling the weight of your earlier thoughts clinging to you, but trying to shake them off as you busy yourself making the tea. The warmth of the kitchen seeps into your bones, and soon the kettle is whistling, the scent of the tea filling the air. You pour two cups, careful not to spill as you carry them back out to the living room.

But the moment you step back in, everything stills.

Ford’s standing there, his back to you, and he’s in the process of pulling off his soaked turtleneck, peeling the wet fabric off his skin, revealing his bare back, broad, strong, skin glistening from the rain. You freeze, eyes wide, the cup trembling in your hands. You almost drop it right then and there, the mug slipping slightly as you catch your breath, heart racing, your brain is an absolute mess

Holy shit.

Ford turns slightly, glancing over his shoulder at you, completely unaware of the effect he’s having. You look down, watching the movements of his body, the way the muscles roll under his skin as he turns to face you fully now. You can see the soft gray hair on his chest, the way it leads down to the waistband of his pants, and suddenly, you’re not thinking about the tea or the rain or the goddamn anomaly anymore.

Ford glances at you, frowning slightly when he notices the way you’re standing there, staring at him, barely able to breathe. “You alright?”

You nod, “Y-yeah.” but you’re barely listening, the pounding of your heart too loud in your ears, your body too warm, too needy. All you can think about is how you want to tear the rest of his clothes off, feel the weight of his body pinning you down against the kitchen counter, hear him grunt your name as he ruins you. You’re imagining how he’d taste, how he’d groan as you took him in your mouth, his hands fisting in your hair, his hips pushing deeper until you're choking on him, eyes watering, but you’d love every second of it, because this is Ford.

You can barely stand on your feet and all he does is run a hand through his wet hair, oblivious. "You sure?"

And then you blink, realizing that you've been staring too long, but it's too late to back off.

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treedoctorusasworld · 2 years ago

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The Importance of Tree Nutrient Management for Sustainable Landscapes

Growing healthy crops full of nutrients requires healthy soil, atmosphere and water. Nature struggles to provide good results without proper fertilizers. These fertilizers would increase the nutrients in the soil. Fertilization is also one of the amazing tools used by arborists for promoting the healthy nature of trees and soil. Fertilization assists with better nutrition for trees growth and yields better.

Why Tree Nutrition And Fertilization Is Important

Normally, nature takes time to develop and refine the cycle for abundantly resupplying the soil with the required nutrients. This cycle is disrupted in the landscape through leaf removal, lack of insect population, plant selection, and more.

These are the most important reasons for fertilization. Trees show signs if they lack nutrients in the soil. For example, the trees with the heaves having shades of yellow denote it is suffering from nutrient deficiencies.

Choosing the leading arborist would be a convenient option for spotting the issue in the tree and providing the proper solution. Sometimes, large concentrations of potassium sources could also occur below the soil surface. These are quite difficult for the plant root to absorb.

Mining this potassium would be one of the naturally occurring nutrients for the soil surface. Fertilization is one of the best ways to provide the plant root with convenient potassium and other nutrients required.

Below are the reasons for adding Tree Nutrition and Fertilization:

Rapid effect on crops

Predictable and reliable

Water-soluble and easily dissolve in the soil

Supply specific nutrients and specific fertilizers with nutrient specific nature

Easy to transport and store

Provides enough food to feed a large population

Increase crop yield

Easily absorbed by plants

Difference between Mineral Fertilizers and Organic Fertilizers:

There are about 17 nutrients that are important for plants to grow healthy. Each plant requires different fertilizers to grow along with nutrients that are deficient in the soil. Crops would extensively remove different nutrients from the soil.

Organic fertilizers like animal waste, along with compost have been used for centuries. These are also valuable sources of nutrients as well as organic matter. It automatically enhances the soil structure. Mineral fertilizers are also quite important in meeting the increasing food requirements of the growing world population.

Amounts of nutrients present in organic fertilizers would vary, and it is less concentrated compared to mineral fertilizers. Mineral fertilizers would automatically reduce the amount required for vehicles to transport.

Based on a recent report, the global population has been estimated to be more than 9.8 billion by 2050. Growing population requires increased crop yields as it is necessary to produce food for everyone.

Reasons For Fertilizing Shrubs And Trees:

1. Boost New Growth:

Normally, most trees and shrubs grow every year with reserves from the previous year. Proper Fertilizing of the spring provides the extra kick for its new growth. Providing the best tree nutrition and fertilization is a significant option for boosting new growth abundantly. You could expect better results.

2. Maximizes Nutrients:

Roots grow in-depth in the ground over time, so they come into contact with beneficial fungi. These also encourage nutrients as well as water absorption abundantly. Tree nutrition and fertilization are quite effective in giving the best results over a short time. It also supplements the 3 macronutrients such as

Phosphorus

Nitrogen

Potassium

These are essential for growth as well as metabolic activities. Tree fertilization helps to maintain the health of urban trees by providing nutrients for growth. Regular watering along with pruning is important.

3. Enhance Growth Rate:

Root systems extend for long distances and are suitable for healthy growth. The fruit-producing plant automatically delivers the larger and tastier fruit to the extent. Normally, early spring is one of the best times for giving fertilizer to your woody plants.

It enhances the growth rate abundantly. Applying fertilizers during this period would provide the trees and shrubs using the right amount of nutrients.

4. Minimizes Land Used:

Fertilizers also hold the key part in using the same area of land again and again for growing crops. It also extensively provides excellent benefits for the planet, so the farmer does not require to clear off the new tracts of land.

There is no need to remove animal habitats or kill trees. Fertilizers can be used on the same land to remain nutritious. These would also provide nutrition required for the plants to grow.

5. Reduces Weed Growth:

Some people are hesitant to use fertilizers as they are concerned about the growth of plants. Removing the weeds from amongst the plants and trees is quite important. Ensuring the grass in the lawn would provide thick and healthy attributes for preventing weed growth.

These are used to provide additional nutrients to the plants. Using the exact fertilizer can prevent weed-killing products containing harsh chemicals. It would be helpful for saving your money and growing plants. It also ultimately reduces exposure to toxins.

6. Better Water Absorption:

Even a small amount of rain and rainfall would have a better impact on the property. Lawn with extra soggy after the smallest rainfall, then you can use fertilizer.

Normally, fertilizer is quite helpful in strengthening the roots of the grass. Apart from these, the strong grass root can easily absorb water. They are also less likely to have puddles in the lawn or even muddy patches.

Nitrogen-rich fertilizers and tree nutrition for apples are suitable options for trees and shrubs to grow abundantly. These are also suitable options to improve the yield of crops with higher water absorption.

7. Fertilization For Sick Trees:

Applying Organic fertilizers for trees and shrubs is the perfect option for improving fertility and texture in soil. Most Gardeners use fertilizers to address the certain needs of plants that include nutritional needs.

Tree nutrition and fertilization can be beneficial for plants to become stronger and fight infection. Using Fertilizer for plants and trees would be a great option. These also ensure that your tree receives the nutrients needed.

Tree Doctor USA is the leading specialist well-versed in inspecting the landscape, trees and shrubs. Tree care experts suggest the right tree nutrition and fertilization required for your trees.

Original Source: Top Reasons Why Tree Nutrition And Fertilization Is Important

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tremendouscreationperson · 4 months ago

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Part 2 of this

Next part here

Stan hadn't been able to help it. He had asked for your address to keep in touch.

He was able to now.

Able to send and receive letters. There had been a few instances when he was on the road that he dialed your number and your ma or pa answered, he had pretended to be a wrong number for them.

He was too chicken to talk to Ford why did he think he could talk to you?

But letters were different.

He could do letters.

You'd explained how you moved to California for college and loved the area so much you decided to stay. He had known you wanted to go to college but the three of you had always said you'd stay near New Jersey.

He wished so much that he kept in touch but his life was shit. He made things shit. He was shit.

His dad had been right.

He wasn't even worth turning up to a funeral for.

Stan paused mid sentence. Maybe he shouldn't be exchanging letters with you, maybe he should just stay away.

But a letter couldn't hurt.

He wouldn't have to change his voice or wear gloves or pretend he had smarts.

He could relax.

If something seemed off in the letter he could restart it.

And so the correspondence continued.

It took a year and a half before you suggested coming down to see Mr Mystery himself.

Ford explained that his Uni grant had stopped so he was relying on good ol' fashioned tours of his labs to make money, only the real science didn't interest the resistance so he had to be creative.

You were sure he bored his patrons to death by explaining the rays and dials and tubing he had before coming up with the idea to sell to his clientele.

If only Stan was here. He'd be able to come up with good monsters and ghouls, just like in school.

You were able to find some sketches he gifted you (from a comic he was determined to publish) to send in your letter. Hopefully Ford could use them for ideas. It was a little bittersweet to part with them but ultimately it was for the greater good and you could always ask for them back.

So, now, here you were merely proposing a meet up but it felt... Well it felt wrong? Yeah, Ford and yourself were mates but Stanley was always the glue that kept you together.

Despite the mixed emotions you pushed on and signed your name before shoving it into an envelope and sending it off.

The journey to 'Gravity Falls' - brilliant name - was not awful.

It took a solid 6 hours of driving but you knew it would be worth it. Knew it had to be done.

You would keep your friendship with Ford alive for Stan. You'd be the honorary sibling.

Once you were in Oregon you pulled up the map he had sent and followed the instructions he scratched onto it. 'Don't turn by the Horse Scarecrow go further to the Pig', 'There's a big boulder by the town sign be careful, I swear it moves', 'left by the tree that looks like Dolly'.

They were odd instructions but they were perfect. The town was definitely unique.

It was 9 when you finally made it to the 'Mystery Shack' and you had to admit it was cute. There were homemade arrows pointing in all directions and a copious amount of question marks dotted about.

The sign on the door read "closed" but you could see at the back there were lights on.

Climbing out of your car you twaddled over to the back door, rucksack slung on your shoulder, the soft sounds of a TV wafted through the door as you knocked.

The TV stopped and you could hear wood creaking as Ford approached. The door opened and revealed him wearing a suit with a large question mark tie.

He smiled down at you, gesturing for you to enter. "Hi."

"Hey." Your eyes scanned the room, mostly homemade wooden furniture with the odd trinkets or pop of colour. There were a few sciency looking gadgets but otherwise this was a humble home. "It's really cute in here."

Ford scratched the back of his neck. "Thanks."

The silence was slightly weird but you anticipated that it may be a bit weird at first. Just have to push through it.

"Have you eaten?" He asked.

"No but to be honest I'm zonked." You chuckled. "Long journey."

Ford clasped his hands. "Of course, well, you can have my room. I'll take the couch."

"Uhm, I can't kick you out of your room." You didn't realise that he would have to vacate his bed for you to visit. "I'll stay on the couch."

"You take the bed, I won't hear anything else about it." He added the last part as your mouth opened to argue.

Staying with Ford was odd.

He was more casual than you remembered.

Gave fewer lectures.

But otherwise your stay was pleasant.

You helped him in the Shack; printing t-shirts, manning the register, flicking the lights on and off, making spooky noises when needed. It was fun.

You enjoyed your time here because it was silly. You were able to let loose whilst watching some suckers gape at a wax figure or a crudely put together unicorn.

After leaving it really didn't take long to decide on coming back.

Spending every other weekend up in Oregon became your routine. Yeah, the drive was shitty but it was worth it.

Ford loved it. Or well.. if he didn't he didn't say anything.

Eventually you were gifted a cot upstairs and you considered staying for longer.. perhaps even for an indefinite amount of time. It was quite conflicting wanting to stay with Ford.

You still loved Stan. You'd always love him but you saw so much of Stan in Ford it was ludicrous.

The way he'd swindle and trick, his Mr Mystery persona, and whenever a patron was a little handsy, the way he'd threaten them.

Ford never did that. He outwitted people. He was the brains.

But maybe that changed in the time you spent apart. His father had made the two of them box and from Ford's ears he'd kept up the sport.

Through all your time at the shack there was only one thing that truly bothered you. It was a teeny tiny detail but it drove you insane.

Ford never removed his gloves.

He was always wearing them.

Everyday, every night, every meal, everywhere.

You'd seen his hands before.

Everyone back home had.

They were just hands!

Maybe he didn't want the town to think they were real, wanted them to think he was a fraud because being a freak was worse?

It didn't matter in the grand scheme of things but it was agitating you.

"Put teeth on it." You suggest, sitting on the floor with your back leaning against the wall.

Ford made a face but nodded, prying the crows beak apart. He wandered around the shop, opening cupboards and drawers. "I'm sure I had som-"

"The blue cabinet." You pointed.

Ford opened it and voilà he produced a jar of teeth. You didn't bother to ask if they were real, either of the answers would be weird. Yes = weird. No, where did he get such realistic teeth? = Weird.

You observed Ford positioning the teeth, he waited for your approval which you gave and began gluing them.

It was late in the evening and he had promised the town and its tourists something big. So crow with teeth and a skunks tail it was.

He was precise with the glue gun but still stopped to talk with you, ever the gentleman. How had their father made them?

You hated their dad with a passion.

He was an absolute asshole.

You'd tell him that, too.

He didn't even come to the funeral. You'd assumed he had passed but Ford told you he didn't want to come. His parents were starting afresh with Shermie.

No, you wouldn't include Caryn on that. She was lovely but Filbrick...

Filbrick was something else entirely. In fact, you remember first meeting him, he glanced up at you over his newspaper before returning to the words. Stan had reassured you that that type of behaviour meant he liked you but you knew differently. You knew, even at age 10, Stan was covering for his father.

Ford hadn't experienced that. He never knew what it was to disappoint his father and you felt for Stanley. You were even present once when Ford tried to explain that Stan seemed to take short cuts and maybe that was why Filbrick was disappointed. It was later in the week when Stan confessed that he had to take short cuts, of course he did, because how else could he possibly keep up?

"Ah shit!"

Your eyes shot back to Ford who was shaking his left hand. Quickly standing to assist. "What happened?"

"Just a burn, it'll be fine." Ford brushed you off, resuming the task at hand.

You scoffed. "Ford, take the glove off, you idiot."

"It's fine." He insisted.

"You're sticking to things!"

Ford grumbled but didn't reply.

"I've seen your hands before. There's no one else around. Why are you being weird?"

"I'm not weird." He huffed turning away from you. "Don't look."

You rolled your eyes before turning away. "Fucking hell, if I didn't know any better I'd say you were Stan pretending to be Fo-"

It hit you.

All the stupid chats, all the late night beers, all the jokes, the lame costumes, the zero science talk, the scams, the lies, everything.

Your body had turned without your brain catching up and you were face to face with a Stan. Not 100% sure which one.

Stan's eyes were wide, gloved hand clutching his ungloved one. You took three steps to him, invading his personal space, to place your own hand on top of his. Slowly you tugged on it and revealed the five digits.

Wh-what did this mean?

This was Stan?

Stanley?!

Where was Ford?

Why?

Why did Stan need- what was he doi- where wa-

His palm gripped yours. "I can explain."

Part 3

@breadandbiscuits @aratheegreat @sp00kyfr0gs @doggosnoodles12 @50shadesofwinchesters @living-in-a-veil

#stanley pines x you #stanley pines x reader #stanford pines #stanley pines #grunkle stan #gravity falls

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ultravi0lence14 · 24 hours ago

Text

Thoroughfare

DEAN WINCHESTER X DOE!READER

WARNINGS: sexual content (MDNI), fingering, hair pulling, finger sucking. first smut, pls i know it’s bad🫣

SUMMARY: with a light whisper of ‘do you wanna see the west with me?’ dean had you right where he wanted; by his side and sitting pretty in the front seat of his car.

WC: 3.3k

the humid air of the western skies lingered on your skin, bringing a humid and sticky sheen to your arms and shoulders. dean had all the windows rolled down, a testament to the light breeze that broke through the stickiness of montana.

your cotton tank top stuck to your skin, slick sweat making you feel like it had melded with your body. the cutoff’s you wore weren’t any better, adhering to your thighs like glue. the stubborn weather of a mid july afternoon didn’t allow for any cold; no chill wracking you through the bone, only a sickly, immobilizing heat that crashed through your senses and made it’s way into your dna.

though some part of you didn’t seem to mind. the rolled down windows allowed you to stick your head out the open space, wind blowing in your hair as you took in the blurred and rolling sights of crooked leafless trees and dried up fields.

dean wasn’t any better. one of his hands rested on the steering wheel, long nimble fingers clutched tightly so he could steer you to wherever the road leads you two. his other hand — firm in it’s grip, rested on your thigh. his fingers travelled into the inside of your leg, fingers delicately dancing across the seem of your shorts as his eyes stared at you from his peripheral vision.

you were ethereal, an angel sent from God just for him. your hair, unruly in how the wind tossed it about, was flowing behind you like a fairy with her wings. the side profile of your face was directed towards dean, your back facing the passenger side door as you stuck your head out in the placid and dry air.

the fullness of your cheeks was properly on display to dean’s eager eyes, and he wanted nothing more than to run his lips across the skin, brushing delicate kisses onto your cheeks and face until you were covered in his love. he could faintly see the plump pout of your own lips, eyes shimmering with admiration and desire as he pictured running his tongue across them; your soft lips pressed timidly against his as he pulled you into his body, almost swallowing you whole.

he loved you, so incandescently. you were the face of beauty, a true goddess in the eyes of the eldest winchester. it wasn’t just your delicate features that pulled dean in, it was the way you carried yourself, a graceful mist following you wherever you went.

softness rolled off of you in tidal waves, and dean loved how your gentle nature contrasted and grounded his frequent pessimistic and grumpy behaviour. the human embodiment of a doe; a creature full of love and life, who walked through flower gardens erupted by spring like it was her calling.

it didn’t help that your eyes resembled one of the animal; big and round, always so soft and caring. he loved you so much, it physically made his soul ache.

you were always there for him, never wavering even when times got tough. you didn’t love his job, believing that hunting was dangerous and the stem of all of his childhood and lasting trauma. but dean always waved you off, saying that this was his life, and he would never do anything that would jeopardize a life and future with you.

but he could still see the emotional tole it was taking on you, weighing on your heart like a heavy burden that you shouldn’t be carrying. he ached for you to feel secure in this life that he was giving you, but dean also knew that everyone needed breaks. so, he decided to give you one.

a couple nights ago, the two of you found yourselves tangled in the sheets of a nebraskan motel, limbs intertwined as dean embraced you in his arms, your fingers drawing small hearts on his chest.

“let’s go to california.” the random outburst from dean had you pulling away from him slightly, lifting up on your elbows so you could get a better look at the man who’s eyes glimmered with hope and mischief. “what are you talking about, dean?”

“what i’m trying to say is,” dean sat up as he spoke, resting against the headboard and grabbing your hips so he could pull you into his lap. “let’s go to california. you are always begging me to go to malibu, and you deserve a vacation every now and then.”

the smile on your lips was beaming, a shine that could light up a thousand skies. dean wanted to bottle it up, put it in a jar, and never let it leave his side. he felt your hands move to his shoulders, those big, beautiful eyes staring at him with unbridled excitement. “you’re being serious right now? this isn’t just some sick joke?”

“no jokes baby,” he drawled, hand brushing your soft hair away from your face. pulling his face closer to yours so he could brush his lips against your ear, dean whispered so softly you believed you were imagining it. “do you wanna go see the west with me, pretty girl?”

you were elated the whole car ride, excitedly babbling about all the things you two would do in the golden state. as the nights rolled into days, the air started to get more and more humid, which led to the very moment that dean was in now. he shook his head from the memory of how he got here, watching your smile take up your whole face as you giggled at something unbeknownst to him. he didn’t really think about the why, he was too busy getting drunk on the sound of your laugh.

lightly patting your thigh, dean grinned over at your windswept and sticky frame as your giggles danced alongside the flow of the wind. “c’mon crazy girl, get back in here. can’t have you falling out.” his words held a joking lilt, yet you could see the concern in dean’s eyes. with a joking huff, you retreated back into the car, legs immediately sticking to the leather as the hot air melded your skin like sticky glue.

“oh c’mon dean, it’s so hot.” you groaned out, another giggle rippling through your lips as you saw dean playfully role his eyes in your peripheral. “i can basically feel my skin melting off.”

“you’re so dramatic,” his teasing was palpable, you could feel it in the way his smile reached his eyes and how his fingers clutched a little tighter onto your thigh. “what do you think cali’s going to be like, baby? think it’s going to be an ice box?”

letting out a grunt as you smacked his arm, dean watched with love struck eyes as your grin got impossibly even more wide. “you’re such a jerk, dean winchester!” dean swore he has never smiled harder in his life than when he was with you. that sweet, playful nature always brought out the best in him, and he didn’t even dare think about a life without your brightened presence.

crossing your arms over your chest, those pretty pink lips dean loved so much puffed out in a pretty pout. dean’s hand itched on your thigh, wanting to reach up and pull down your bottom lip. “i’m prepared for the weather in california, dean.” your voice broke him from his revere, making dean slightly cough as he intently listened to your ramble

“we won’t be spending all the time in the car. we’ll be at the beach, santa monica pier — oh i’m so excited for all the rides!” the vibrant glimmer of your excitement shined through the car, hitting dean straight in his heart, spreading until it was pumping through his veins.

“yeah, no rides, doe.” the previous excitement in your eyes dwindled, a shocked expression breaking through. “what? we have to go on the rides dean! it’s almost like a birthright.” he just loved how you expressed yourself, loving how when you defended the things you loved, your eyes got wild and your cheeks tinted. it was such a pretty sight, though dean was starting to believe everything about you was pretty.

dean’s words came through his lips in a chuckle, a grin etched onto his face as he looked at your pretty features. “i don’t do rides. never have, never will. sorry, sweets.”

shaking your head in disdain, a sad pout decorated your face, turning towards dean as he continued to drive down the desolate, montana road. “you’re such a buzz kill, do you even know what fun is?”

your question was a joke, your voice light and airy as it always was, but this time with a twinkle of comedy. but dean was already so wound up from the image of how pretty you looked with the wind blowing in your hair, illuminating you like a framed painting, that an idea slid into the depths of his mind.

a smirk adorned his lips as he shifted the wheel, pulling the impala off to the side of the road. your face twisted up in confusion as dean pulled the gear shift into park, cutting the ignition and turning his body to face you. your lips parted in question, about to voice your thoughts before dean’s hands grabbed at your calves.

with a squeak from your lips, dean hauled your legs onto the front seat, moving your body so your back was leaned against the door. he then tracked his fingers down the smooth expanse of your skin, grabbing at your ankles and pulling you down until you laid flat on your back.

the space was cramped, but dean somehow found a way to make it work; bending your legs at the knees and spreading them open so he could fit in between them. words were lodged in your throat, a sputter of air leaving your lips as dean situated himself. he had that shit eating grin on his face, and you could already tell that he had something wild up his sleeve.

“dean!” you exclaimed, hands going to rest against his chest as a laugh erupted from your lips. “what are you doing?”

he just smirked, trailing his hands from your ankles up your thighs, one hand gripping your waist as the other worked to pop the button of your shorts. “just showing my girl how fun i can really be.”

the words that fell from his lips were amplified with the sound of your zipper undoing, and your eyes widened suddenly at the realization of what dean had in mind.

“we can’t do this now, dean.” you exasperated, hands pushing at his chest as his fingers worked to take off your pants. “someone could drive by, they could see us for christ’s sake!”

dean just leaned down to leave a lingering kiss on your forehead, shimmying the waistband of your shorts a little ways down your waist before his hand on your hip shifted to go under your ass. “no one’s been on the road for miles, sweet thing. we’re alone, everything is going to be okay.” his words were followed by the softening of his eyes, the hand that had been undoing your zipper went up to stroke your cheek. “do you trust me?”

sliding your hands up from his chest to around his shoulders, a soft, serene smile graced your lips. you brought your face upward, brushing your mouth against his as the shallow breath’s leaving dean’s lips hit your own. “of course, i always do.”

you felt him smile against your lips, placing a delicate kiss on your nose before he pulled back slightly. “good,” he breathed, hands going back to your waistband. “now, lift your hips f’me, baby.”

a dusty blush adorned your cheeks as you obliged, hips lifting slightly as dean slid your jean shorts from your legs. when they got to your ankles, dean helped you kick them off, picking them up and throwing them somewhere in the backseat with a grin.

“that’s much better.” words wrapped around a grin as his fingers dipped into the waistband of your panties. the giggle that left your lips at his comment turned into a shallow whimper as one of his fingers dipped into your folds, his fingers slipping through your already wet cunt.

a breath left dean’s lips, eyes blowing wide as he watched your face twist in pleasure from the finger he had down your pants. “jesus, sweets, you’re already fucking soaked. did i do this to you? was it my words and my finger that got you this wet?”

a high pitched ‘mhm’ left your lips as you nodded your head, eye’s half lidded as you watched dean stare down at his finger teasing your folds. moving the finger that was teasing your entrance towards your clit, lightly pressing down and eliciting a sharp moan from deep in your gut. “there’s my girl,” dean cooed, his fingers moving in tight circles on your sensitive bud. “you’re doing so good for me baby, such a good fucking girl.”

the sensation was overwhelming, a shot of bliss the curled in your gut and wound into your soul. your half-lidded eyes caught sight of dean, his head down as he watched the way his finger played with your clit. the mid-day sun was washing over his figure, bathing him in such a light that made him look almost angelic.

as dean pulled his finger away, you felt a sense of emptiness unfurl in your stomach. a deep whine left your lips, hips lifting upwards to try and chase the high that dean was providing you. “more dean. please, give me more.”

“patience, pretty girl.” his voice was soft, but there was an air of demand and dominance that hid behind the cracks of his voice. “i’m just getting started. didn’t know you were so needy for me.”

another whine tore from the depths of your throat, whimpering as dean slid the side of your underwear out of the way, exposing your cunt to his eyes and the cold air that was whirling through the car’s vents. a groan rumbled in his throat, your eyes half lidded as you watched him put the finger covered in your slick in his mouth.

“jesus christ, you taste like a fucking dream.” his words sound slurred, and they were heightened as two of his fingers went back to your leaking pussy, prodding at your entrance as tiny whimpers left your throat. “i can’t wait to see how you look stuffed with my fingers, gushing all over my hand like the good girl i know you are.”

the whine that would’ve left your lips at his words turned into a deep moan, dean’s middle and pointer finger entering your tight walls, his own ragged breaths mixing with yours as he felt you clenching around him.

he watched as your breathing grew ragged, chest heaving up and down as you gripped onto his shoulders for dear life. he didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, so dean waited until you gave him the green light, his other hand smoothing down the hair the fell in your face.

after a couple of moments, he felt your hips rut into his hand, eyes screwing shut in pure pleasure. that was all he needed to thrust his fingers into your tight walls.

high pitched whimpers left your lips as dean’s fingers prodded at your cervix, a guttural moan leaving your lips as he brushed against your g-spot.

“there it is,” he breathed, hollow breaths leaving his own lips as he watched his fingers go in and out of you. “that’s the spot, isn’t it baby? you like it when my fingers make you feel good?”

all you could let out was a guttural moan, hands clawing at dean’s clothed chest for any sign of resolve. too caught up in your own pleasure, you didn’t realize that dean had forgotten to roll up the windows, your loud moans and whines flowing through the wind and alerting anyone who drove by about what was going on inside of the impala.

but in the moment, you didn’t seem to care. dean started to move his fingers faster, your hips rutting up to meet the frenzied pace of his hand. the coil in your stomach was starting to tighten more and more, and you couldn’t help but scrunch your eyes closed and slightly turn your head as the euphoric feelings started to intensify.

though that didn’t last for long, because without a warning, the hand that dean had previously used to smooth down your hair tangled in it’s strands, gripping tightly as he pulled your head upwards so you were face to face with him.

“open those pretty eyes for me, sweetheart.” his voice held that same softness with a lilt of dominance, fingers quickening as he felt your orgasm approach. “i wanna see you when you cum. see how good i make you feel when i fuck you with my fingers.”

your eye’s shot open, lips parted and heavy pants and whines leaving your throat as dean kept going with the relenting pace. “i can’t- fuck, dean! i’m gonna cum!”

the pace at which dean’s fingers were moving inside of you was relentless. each thrust of his fingers hitting your g-spot as his piercing green eyes stared into yours. at your words, he moved a little faster, lips brushing yours as his voice travelled from his lips to yours. “c‘mon, my sweet girl, come for me.”

you could feel it, the bliss that started in your core and creeped it’s way into your entire body. the coil in your stomach tightening and tightening until, like a crashing wave, it gave way.

you came with a loud cry, back arched and head leaning into dean’s hand embedded into your hair. you watched as dean kept moving his fingers inside of you even as you gushed around his fingers. he was transfixed, completely enchanted by the bliss that took over your face.

“there you go,” he cooed, the hand in your hair lessening as his fingers started to slow down. “pretty girl, all messed up, coming on my fingers. you look fucking unreal.”

his words were mixed in with the small whimpers that left your lips, mouth parted and cheeks flushed with bliss. there was drool running down the corners of your mouth, and you felt as dean took his hand out of your hair and wiped it away with his thumb.

you whined as he pulled his fingers out, feeling empty without his fingers deep inside of you. looking down, you watched as your juices spilled out of your entrance, dean immediately dipping his two already wet fingers in the mess and putting them in front of your mouth.

“open up for me, doe. want you to taste yourself on my fingers.” with wide, wet eyes, you parted your lips for dean to place his two fingers on your tongue. when you closed your mouth, sucking on the two digits, you felt as the pads of middle and pointer finger prodded at the back of your throat.

“that’s my girl.” dean breathed out, watching in awe as he stared at your pretty face sucking your juices off of his fingers. he swore you weren’t real in that moment, too good to be true. yet as you swirled your tongue around his fingers, he realized that you were his, and he was yours, and he wouldn’t trade that for the world.

as you came down from your high, dean cleaned you up with a napkin that he found in his centre console. when he was done, he helped you sit up, moving your underwear back into place and allowing you to take a breather.

realizing your shorts were in the backseat, you leaned over the seat to try and find them, jumping as you felt dean land a smack on your ass.

“jesus dean,” you laughed, grabbing your shorts and sitting back down. “can’t get enough can you?”

“when it comes to you?” he grinned, turning the car back on and starting to pull back onto the street. “i can never have enough,”

TAGS: @haunteres @starzify @floralscented @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @honeyryewhiskey @foolinthera1n @vaiieydoii @bluemerakis

NATTY BABBLES: i’ve been so wrapped up with my angel series, that i wanted to reset and write a little dean story. also, this is my first time writing smut, so i know it’s probably ass, but just bare with me😭

#supernatural #dean winchester #imagine #supernatural x reader #fluff #ultravi0lence14 #dean winchester imagine #dean winchester x reader #dean x reader #dean winchester one shot #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x doe!reader #ethel cain #southern gothic #dean winchester smut

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austinbutlerslovers · 26 days ago

Text

Model Patient

Label Mature 18+

Summary You’re a high fashion model, with a fast paced life, until it all comes crashing down leaving you desperate for the gentle care of Dr. Butler.

💝Romantic Smut 💝Austin as a doctor • compassionate •caring •adoring •doting• wanting to wait• body worship• improvement of body image •nurturing• attentive • genuine care• hesitant to engage with intimacy• gentle stimulation • soft fingering •protection • lovemaking • orgasms •aftercare 🔗 Masterlist

📖 Proof Reader @purejasmine 🚨heavy mentions of e.d.• lack of self love •attention seeking behavior

Model Patient

The energy backstage is chaotic, a whirlwind of shouted instructions, last minute adjustments, and the sharp scent of hairspray filling the air. Leo, the man with the clipboard, shouts orders over the commotion, his shrill voice cutting through the noise.

“Hydrate! Models, drink water!” he yells, glancing at each of you with hawk-like precision.

You ignore him, your fingers flying over your phone as you film a quick clip for a new cosmetic campaign. The lip gloss you are given to promote shimmers under the harsh backstage lights. You pout at the camera, flashing a practiced, sultry kiss.

—Perfect—

You post the video immediately and your heart races seeing the likes and engagement pouring in.

Before you can even set the phone down, the makeup artist is at your side, wiping off the gloss and applying another shade. The constant back and forth is exhausting, a never-ending list of demands and obligations, but you don’t dare complain.

This is the life you’ve worked for, and you’ll be damned if you let anyone think you can’t handle it.

“Stand up,” one of the assistants directs, pulling you toward the fitting station. The designer stands there, fussing over a corset that will showcase the gown you’ll be wearing. You stand still as they cinch it tighter and tighter, the pressure on your ribs growing unbearable.

You sway on your feet, exhaustion clawing at you, but you catch yourself. You don’t have time to falter. Not today.

“Sorry,” you mumble, your voice barely above a whisper as your vision blurs for a second.

By the time you are cinched the other models are already lining up at the entrance of the grand mansion, ready to walk down the closed-off Beverly Hills street for the show.

You join them, your heels clicking against the marble as you walk out the front doors, each step as practiced as your breathing.

It’s showtime.

As you reach the black pavement lined with the iconic palm trees, your adrenaline surges, masking the ache in your legs and the lightheadedness threatening to topple you.

The stretch of Beverly Drive is packed. Celebrities sit on either side of the runway in gilded chairs under the hot California sun, their eyes shaded by designer sunglasses, fans in hand. Photographers are poised at every angle, cameras raised like weapons ready to capture your every move.

This is your moment.

The music blares as you step onto the runway with a commanding presence. Your signature walk—fierce, confident, unapologetic—draws whispers and praises from the audience.

The gown’s flowing fabric catches the wind, billowing behind you like a royal train. The cameras click furiously, the rapid-fire shutters capturing every stride.

Your mind races as you walk, your jaw clenching tightly to make your cheekbones and piercing gaze sharper under the harsh sunlight.

You push harder, strutting like the ground is your kingdom and these people are mere spectators in your empire. But the ache in your stomach and the dizziness in your head grow worse.

The end of the runway looms, the finish line in sight. You reach it, striking a pose as the audience erupts into applause. The cameras flash in a blinding frenzy. For a moment, you feel invincible.

Then, the world tilts.

Your legs buckle, and the applause turns into gasps. You barely register the concerned voices or the rush of people toward you as your knees hit the pavement.

The last thing you see is the blue sky above and the white hot sun blurring into nothingness.

The first thing you notice is the light. Bright, clinical, and annoyingly sterile, it filters through your closed eyelids, pulling you from the fog of unconsciousness.

You groan softly, the sound foreign even to your own ears. Slowly, you blink, your vision swimming as you try to adjust to your surroundings.

The room comes into focus piece by piece—the white walls, the steady beeping of a heart monitor, the faint smell of antiseptic.

And then, your gaze lands on him.

He’s standing at your bedside, his posture attentive, his sandy blonde hair catching the light like a halo. He looks like an angel, his jawline sharp, his blue eyes impossibly kind, and the faintest hint of a smile plays on his full lips. Your heart rate spikes, and the monitor betrays you with a loud, insistent

Beep, beep, beep.

He glances at the monitor, then back at you, an amused look in his eyes. “I hope that’s not because of me,” he teases, his voice smooth and warm. “Though I’d take it as a compliment if it is.”

You blink at him, disbelief cutting through the haze, your eyes darting to the name tag pinned to his white coat: Dr. Butler.

“Shit!” you curse, realizing you’re in the hospital.

The corners of his mouth twitch into a smile, clearly amused by your reaction.

“You fainted during your show,” he reveals, setting his clipboard down.

“Aside from the dehydration and a few mild scrapes from the fall, you’re stable.�� he explains. His tone is calm and reassuring, clearly trying to ease your mood, but the mention of your job makes your chest tighten, shame creeping in.

“I need to go!” you panic, your voice trembling. “People are waiting on me, people are going to be talking about me—I have to do damage control—I need to fix this!”

You try to sit up, and your body protests immediately, feeling a sharp radiating ache through your limbs.

Dr. Butler leans in, his movements calm and measured as he places a steady hand on your shoulder helping you up.

“Slowly,” he says, his voice gentle but firm, his touch grounding you. “You’ve been through a lot.”

You ignore his advice, stubborn as ever, and sling your legs over the side of the bed, attempting to stand. The instant wave of nausea makes your head spin, and your body sways dangerously.

Dr. Butler’s hands are firm on your arms, holding you steady guiding you back to the bed. His grip is gentle, keeping you anchored as your body protests against your defiance.

“This is ridiculous,” you mutter, more to yourself than to him, your voice edged with frustration.“I can’t believe I fainted. In front of everyone,” you say, the shame pressing down on you, the weight of your failure suffocating.

For a moment, you look up at him. His blue eyes are calm as they hold yours, the weight of his concern cutting through your defenses like a knife.

You hate how exposed you feel with him, but you can’t look away, utterly captivated by the sincerity in his gaze.

“You fainted because your body gave out,” he says gently, his tone steady and soft. “You’re dehydrated, undernourished, and overworked. When was the last time you ate or slept properly?”

You flinch at the question, looking away. “It doesn’t matter,” you say sharply. “This is my life. If I slow down, I’ll lose everything.”

His gaze softens, but the resolve in his expression remains. “You’re obviously someone who thrives under pressure,” he says, his voice steady as his eyes look over you, assessing your condition. “But even someone as strong as you needs to listen to their body.”

His words break through your defenses, even though you don’t want them to. You grip the edge of the bed, your knuckles white, as a wave of frustration and shame washes over you.

His words hang heavy between you, his eyes never leaving yours. There’s no judgment in his expression, only quiet understanding and something gentler—something you’ve never experienced before—compassion.

It’s disarming, seeing the unfamiliarity of the warmth in his gaze. You’re used to scrutiny, admiration, even jealousy, but never this. It’s not pity or condescension—it’s genuine compassion, and it catches you completely off guard.

“When was the last time you allowed yourself to rest?” he asks, his tone firm but gentle, his gaze searching yours as if willing you to tell the truth.

You want to snap back, to shrug off his words, but his sincerity touches you. For a moment, you’re not a flawless model expected to be perfect—you’re just you. And he’s looking at you like he actually sees you.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, but as you exhale, your breath shudders as if everything you’ve been holding in—stress, exhaustion, fear—rushes out in that single moment.

His gaze is steady and patient, as he smiles softly. “That’s a start,” he says gently, his tone warm.

Your lips twitch, almost forming a smile, but before you can say anything, he reaches over to collect his clipboard.

“Normally, I wouldn’t do this,” he says slowly, “but I want to make sure I stay updated about your condition. I know your schedule is hectic, so I’ll leave my number with your manager so have her call me if—”

“Give me your number right now,” you cut him off, your tone sharp but resolute. You don’t want him filtered through your agent you need to have him directly.

His brows lift in surprise, then his smile returns, this time softer as you see a hint of admiration in his eyes. “Alright,” he says with a small nod.

He flips to the last page of your chart, pulling a pen from his coat pocket, and scribbles his phone number down. He tears the piece off neatly and hands it to you. Without hesitation, you fold it and quickly tuck it into your palm, as if holding something fragile, something precious.

“Thank you,” you say, the words quieter than you intend, but they carry the weight of your appreciation.

You feel something stir in your chest—gratitude, yes, but something else too, something you’re not ready to name.

Dr. Butler stands up tall, slipping the clipboard under his arm. “Now that you’re awake, I’ve got some phone calls to make.” He explains. “Your team has a car waiting downstairs, so I’ll get started on your discharge paperwork.”

You nod, feeling the exhaustion settling in again, but you still manage to straighten your posture. “Thank you… for everything Dr. Butler…. —I mean it.” You say with sincerity.

His eyes soften as he looks at you, and for a moment, the air between you feels charged, though neither of you speaks it aloud. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Take care of yourself for me,” he says, his voice quieter as he softly smiles.

You nod again, clutching the folded piece of paper in your hand. “I will,” you promise, even though you’re not entirely sure how.

As the door closes behind him, you’re left sitting there, feeling lighter than you have in a long time, the piece of paper burning softly in your palm with an unspoken promise.

Something stirs in you—a feeling you can’t quite name but refuse to ignore. It’s unfamiliar, unsettling, and yet, for the first time in forever you feel calm.

Dr. Butlers number is stored permanently in your phone, the folded piece of paper he wrote it on tucked safely in the small drawer of your vanity.

But life moves at an unforgiving pace for you. They blame your collapse on heat stroke—something palatable, something relatable—and it gains sympathy the world over.

But sympathy isn’t what matters…notoriety is, and your perseverance becomes the buzz on everyone’s lips and within days, you’re diving headfirst back into the chaos of your career.

There are campaigns to shoot—luxury brands that demand nothing less than perfection.

Relentless scheduling, each hour meticulously planned leaving no room for error.

Evenings filled with glamorous galas and ceremonies where you’re expected to dazzle, pose, and exude effortless elegance, always flawless under the scrutinizing gaze of cameras and critics alike.

Fashion shows in other cities come next, with back-to-back fittings, rehearsals, and appearances that blur together in a haze of adrenaline and exhaustion.

The weeks pass in a relentless rhythm. Every minute of your day is claimed by something or someone. The pressure builds like a vice around your neck, and though you’re aware of the toll it’s taking, you push harder, convinced you have no other choice.

When you finally come home one evening, the quiet feels oppressive. The sleek, modern lines of your beachfront house feeling almost sterile.

You toss your purse on the counter in the kitchen and place your hands on the cool marble, your body trembling.

Your stomach twists painfully and you dig through your purse, pulling out a bottle of painkillers to dull the familiar pounding in your head.

Swallowing one with a sip of filtered water, you lean heavily on the counter, hoping for relief.

Instead, the medication makes your stomach churn, the pain clawing at you, sharp and unforgiving, leaving you dizzy and lightheaded.

The room tilts slightly, as you grip the edge of the counter to steady yourself.

Your mind races, panic swelling in your chest as you fumble through your purse for your phone. You scroll through your contacts without hesitation knowing exactly who you need to call.

The phone rings twice before his calm, familiar voice greets you. “Dr. Butler.”

Your voice is shaky, your words tumbling out in a rush. “It’s me. I—I feel awful. I can’t stand, my head’s spinning, and I just… I don’t know what to do.”

His tone softens immediately hearing your panic. “Okay, slow down,” he says gently. “Tell me what’s happening. Have you eaten today?”

“Not really” you admit, your voice small. “I haven’t had time. I didn’t think it was that bad, but now that I’m home… I feel like I’m going to pass out.”

There’s a brief pause before he speaks again, his voice soothing. “It’s alright. You’re going to be okay. Do you have any orange juice, or maybe piece of fruit of candy there?” He asks.

“I haven’t been home in a few weeks but… I …I think I have juice,” you say, glancing weakly toward the fridge.

“Good. Drink a small glass, slowly,” he instructs.

Despite your panic, you manage to open the fridge, your hands trembling as you shakily pour a glass of orange juice.

The cold liquid soothes your dry throat, and as the sugar begins to settle in your system, the dizziness starts to fade allowing you to take a deep breath.

“Do you make house calls?” you ask, half-joking starting to feel a bit better.

You can hear the smile in his voice as he answers, “I do.” His voice as comforting as ever.

“I think I need one,” you admit honestly, his soothing presence feeling like the only thing capable of cutting through the overwhelming chaos you’ve been drowning in lately.

“Where do you live?” he asks and instead of answering, you immediately send him your location.

He pauses as he receives it, his voice steady as he replies, “I’ll be there in an hour.”

You unpack your suitcase and shower with your little spike of energy and slip into a satin camisole with matching shorts and exactly one hour later, the doorbell rings.

You walk downstairs, the excitement pounding in your chest to see him again and you steady yourself as you reach for the door handle, taking a deep breath as you open it.

Dr. Butler stands there, looking almost too good to be true. He’s wearing a long-sleeve white tee that fits him perfectly in all the right places, the soft fabric hugging his broad shoulders and defined arms giving a subtle glimpse at the sculpted muscles beneath.

His sandy blonde hair falls in loose waves, tousled perfectly by the evening breeze, and in his strong arms, he carries a set of grocery bags, that he holds with effortless ease.

“You… brought groceries?” you ask, blinking at him in disbelief.

He grins as you step aside to let him in. “I’m going to cook for you,” he confirms with a warmth that entirely disarms you.

The kindness of the gesture catches you completely off guard, and a small whimper escapes you as your hand instinctively flies to your chest. “You didn’t have to do that,” you say softly, trying to protest but your heart is already melting.

He sets the bags on the kitchen counter, glancing around your open floor plan home.

“You have a really beautiful place,” he says, his voice warm as he takes in the view of the dark waves beyond the sleek living room.

“Thanks,” you reply, leaning against the counter. “I live alone, so… it stays clean.”

He grins and rolls up his sleeves with an effortless confidence. “Well let’s get some food in you.” He says as he begins unpacking the ingredients onto the counter. “I’m thinking something hearty and nutrient-rich—some vegetables, some bone broth—let’s replenish what your body really needs,” he says, his tone warm and reassuring.

You lean over the counter resting on your elbows as you watch him work. His hands move with practiced ease, chopping fresh vegetables and mincing herbs with precision. The rhythmic motion is mesmerizing, and the rich aroma of sautéing onions and herbs begins to fill the air.

You find yourself captivated by the way he moves—focused and sure, his forearms flexing subtly as he mixes ingredients in a pan. He’s completely unaware of how attractive he looks, the soft light from the kitchen highlighting his sharp features and the faint curve of his smile as he works.

“What are you making?” you ask, your voice softer now, curiosity breaking through the haze of your daydreaming.

“A simple vegetable and chicken soup,” he replies, glancing at you with a small smile. “It’s rich, balanced, and should help get your energy back.”

Your eyes linger on him, the kindness in his actions feels almost overwhelming, and you’re not sure how to process it. “Thanks” you say the words slipping out as though your entranced.

He grins lightly, stirring the soup. “It’s the least I can do,” he says, his blue eyes filled with affection as he briefly glances over at you.

As the rich, savory scent of his cooking fills your home, you feel a warmth you haven’t felt in weeks—not just from the food, but from the quiet, unspoken care he’s showing you. For the first time in what feels like forever, you feel grounded… you feel calm.

Seeing his final stir as he taps the ladle, you reach into the cabinet, pulling out two bowls and placing them on the counter. He fills them with the soup, letting it cool slightly, the vibrant colors of the broth and fresh herbs almost too perfect to disturb.

You stand by him at the counter to informally eat there, offering him a spoon.

You enjoy watching as he begins to eat naturally, his movements relaxed and unhurried, but you hesitate, unsure at first, but finally take a spoonful. The rich flavor hits your tongue instantly —salty, savory, delicious— everything you didn’t know you needed.

You continue to eat and the tender chicken practically melts in your mouth as the carrots and potatoes add a comforting, hearty texture. Each spoonful feels like nourishment not just for your body, but for something deeper, something you hadn’t realized was starving.

As you continue to eat together your curiosity gets the better of you as you glance up at him.

“I just realized… I don’t even know your first name,” you remark, your voice softer now, a genuine interest lacing your words.

He looks up from his bowl, meeting your gaze with that familiar calm. “My name is Austin,” he says, a small but warm smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

You pause, studying him for a moment, letting the name settle. “It suits you,” you say honestly.

He grins, shaking his head. “Good because, if it didn’t, I’d have to change it.”

His lighthearted comment makes you laugh, the intimacy of the moment catching you off guard. For a moment, you forget the chaos of your life—until the realization crashes back, sharp and heavy.

The upcoming Variety shoot flashes through your mind, the pressure tightening your chest. You stop eating, abruptly placing your spoon down as your appetite is replaced by a gnawing guilt of the strict guidelines of your recent fitting.

Austin notices immediately and places his spoon down to rest his hand on your shoulder, his touch solid and reassuring.

“What’s on your mind?” he asks softly, his voice low and calming.

“I—I have this variety shoot coming up,” you admit, your voice trailing off as your eyes flicker with guilt. The words feel heavy, as though admitting them aloud solidifies the weight pressing on your chest.

He studies you for a moment, his blue eyes searching your face soft but concerned then without a word, he takes your spoon, dipping it into the bowl and carefully filling it with broth.

“Open for me,” he says gently, his tone firm yet warm as his eyes lock onto yours with quiet insistence.

Caught off guard by the tenderness of his actions, you surrender without hesitation. You part your lips, letting him feed you, the warmth of the broth sliding down your throat, soothing and comforting.

He refills the spoon, his movements careful again, as you open your mouth without question letting him affectionately feed you.

“I picked a soup because it’s simple,” he says softly, his fingers grazing your chin to tilt your face toward him.

“For someone as strong-willed as you, I know it feels almost impossible to take a break.” He says his voice calm and thoughtful, as he spoons a little more and guides it to your lips.

“So, when life gets overwhelming, sometimes something as basic as bone broth will help.”

He pauses, watching you swallow, then he smiles softly. “It’s just a start—” he says, his blue eyes holding yours with reassurance. “—While you adjust and figure out …how to take care of yourself the way you deserve,” he says with quiet conviction, his gaze lingering on you in a way that makes your breaths uneven.

His words cut through you like a knife, slicing through the walls you’ve built around yourself. You swallow hard, feeling entirely exposed, completely vulnerable under his gaze. His care is so genuine, so intimate, that everything he offers feels like something more—more than nourishment, more than kindness.

When he lowers the spoon to the bowl again, your resolve shatters and you reach for him, your hands pulling him toward you, pressing your lips to his in a deeply, passionate kiss.

He stills as your lips press against his and you kiss him with every ounce of your gratitude and longing for him.

His hands instinctively reach up for yours, gripping them gently as he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze.

“We shouldn’t—” he whispers, his voice barely audible, his breaths mingling with yours, his lips still close that the space between you feels unbearable.

As his eyes search yours, you see it—the way he wants you, the way every part of him seems drawn to you, like you’re impossible for him to resist.

Unable to hold back, you lean forward and kiss him again, your hands sliding around his neck, pulling him closer, making his resistance nearly impossible.

For a fleeting moment, he’s perfect—his mouth claiming yours with an intensity that feels both tender and desperate, his fingers pressing into your waist as though he never wants to let go.

Then, with a sharp intake of breath, he pulls back.

“We can’t,” he says, his voice a mix of regret and longing as he struggles to steady himself, his gaze flickering with conflict.

“Austin,” you whisper , your voice soft but commanding as you thread your fingers through his soft hair pressing your body firmly against his. “Stop talking”

Before he can respond, you pull him into another kiss, capturing his lips with a boldness that leaves him stunned. You don’t let him hold back, deepening the kiss as your hands tug gently in his hair, pressing your body harder against his.

You feel him, his restraint crumbling under the weight of his desire. His tall, strong, muscular frame is almost overwhelming against yours and as your hips brush against him you feel the undeniable hardness of him press against you making a heat flood your body.

“You want me,” you whisper against his lips, your confidence making his resistance falter.

His resolve weakens further, as you step back shrugging your camisole from your shoulders letting it slide effortlessly down your body, pooling at your feet as you slip out of your shorts with deliberate ease.

His eyes roam over your nakedness, the medical side of him evident as he assesses every part of you, but the intensity in his expression impossible to ignore, he wants you and more than just the image you maintain—he wants the real you.

“You don’t even know how beautiful you are, do you?” he asks, his voice filled with reverence as his hands betray him, caressing up your sides.

“How incredible you are,” he says, almost hushed, as his eyes meet yours, filled with an aching need to make you understand what he sees.

Your hand lifts to rest softly on his chest, “Make me feel it,” you say, your voice barely audible, raw with vulnerability as you look up at him.

“Make me believe it,” you whisper, your fingers trailing up to his collarbone, brushing the side of his neck, your touch as gentle as your voice. “Make me feel what you see in me.”

His jaw tightens, his chest rising and falling as your words hit him like a tidal wave. His eyes close briefly, as if trying to regain control, but it’s futile.

He can’t stop himself and his lips are drawn to yours in an instant, capturing them with a desperation so raw it makes your knees weak.

His kiss is intense, almost pleading, as his body presses firmly against yours. His grip is strong and unyielding as he pulls you closer his hands sliding beneath your thighs and lifting you effortlessly onto the counter.

The intensity of his touch and the hunger in his kiss, leaves no doubt—he’s determined to show you exactly what he sees in you.

In that moment, you feel like the center of his universe special and precious as his lips move against yours, his hands exploring your body.

One slides up to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing gently along your cheek, while the other trails down between your thighs.

His touch is delicate, his fingers tracing soft strokes along your entrance, teasing you, testing you, each featherlight pass sending waves of heat through your body.

Your breath catches as he presses in gently, his long fingers pushing in with soft care, stretching you just enough to make your entire body tense with anticipation.

“Am I giving you what you need?” he asks, his voice low and breathless, his lips grazing your ear as his fingers find a slow, teasing rhythm that makes your slickness increase with every thrust.

“Yes” you whisper shakily as he pulls back slightly to watch.

His gaze is fixated where his hand moves between your thighs, his focus entirely on the way his fingers slide in and out of you effortlessly.

The sight seems to captivate him, his breaths growing heavier as he watches the effect he’s having on you.

“You’re so incredible,” he whispers, his voice tinged with awe and desire as the slick sounds from his skill make you tremble, your body tightening around his fingers as he pushes deeper.

When he finds a certain depth he curls his fingers just right and your back arches sharply, as a soft cry escaping your lips.

His fingers thrust steadily there, the motion precise and unrelenting, and you can feel yourself growing tighter with every stroke. Your breaths come faster, turning into soft pants as your head tilts back, the world around you going fuzzy.

“I want to give you everything you need,” he whispers, and you gasp as his thumb brushes against your clit adding another layer of sensation that makes your hips push instinctively against his hand.

His lips kiss the curve of your neck as his free hand steadies you, gripping your waist firmly, holding you in place as he continues to work you to a climax with his fingers.

You can’t stop yourself as your head falls back, your eyes squeezing shut as your cries of pure ecstasy fill the air. He increases the pace his fingers stretching and filling you as our body responds instinctively, tightening around his fingers, amplifying every thrust drawing desperate moans from your lips

His thumb circles your clit in time with your cries and the tension begins building until your breaths turn frantic.

His lips find yours again, swallowing your moans as he kisses you deeply, his hand never faltering. The quick thrusts of his fingers send you spiraling, the pleasure overtaking you completely until you’re lost in it.

Your cries muffle against his mouth as your body trembles uncontrollably feeling the tension in your body snap like a tightly coiled spring.

The rush of pleasure is overwhelming, your orgasm radiating outward in pulses so intense it feels like your body might come apart. Your thighs clench around his hand, as the sensations courses through you, leaving you breathless and weightless all at once.

Austin’s hand slows immediately, his touch now gentle and soothing, letting you ride out the waves of pleasure.

“Breathe,” he says softly, his lips brushing against your temple before he presses a tender kiss there. “You’re okay….” His tone is calm and steady, grounding you as a shiver runs through you, the weight of emotion making your chest tighten.

His arm wraps securely around your waist, holding you steady as your body quivers against him. His touch is so tender, it feels as though he’s caring for your heart and your body in a way you didn’t realize you needed.

His hand moves up to cradle your face, his thumb gently stroking your cheek as his eyes hold yours with a mixture of awe and affection.

“You’re so beautiful,” he softly smiles, the sincerity in his words soothing you as he gazes deeply into your eyes, his expression tender and full of affection making you smile in return.

He leans forward, brushing a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth, his lips warm and reassuring as he slowly withdraws his fingers.

You shudder at the loss, but he pulls you closer, wrapping his strong arms around you protectively.

He holds you for some time like a fragile, precious thing, his arms cradling you with a gentleness that makes your feel safe and warm.

You savor the moment, pressing your face against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat as he readjusts his arms around you, pulling you even closer.

“Will you stay?” you ask, your breath shaky, exhaustion creeping into your limbs and making you feel heavier in his embrace.

He hesitates, his jaw tightening slightly as he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze. “I shouldn’t,” he says softly, the conflict clear in his voice.

You reach for his hand, guiding it over your heart, holding it there as if to anchor yourself to him. “Please,” you whisper, near begging—something you’ve never had to do for anyone before.

He swallows hard, his eyes searching yours for a long moment. Finally, he nods, his resolve breaking. “I’ll stay… until you fall asleep.”

The relief and gratitude wash over you, and you smile—a genuine smile, full of warmth and happiness something you haven’t felt in a long time.

He lifts you effortlessly into his strong arms, his hold making you feel both secure and cared for as you guide him to your bedroom.

When he lays you down gently, you feel the cool sheets against your skin, and he adjusts the blanket over you with the same tenderness he’s shown all evening.

As he sits on the edge of the bed, his hand brushes your hair back from your face, his touch lingering for just a moment. “Get some rest,” he whispers, his voice low and steady.

You reach for his hand again, your fingers curling around his. “Stay close,” you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He smiles down at you, his expression warm and reassuring. “I’m not going anywhere until you rest,” he promises, his words like a balm to your weary soul and as your eyes drift shut, his hand remains in yours, grounding you as you finally let sleep take over.

You wake slowly, your senses gradually pulling you out of the heavy haze of sleep. The faint sound of a phone buzzing piercing the quiet of the night, persistently lighting up the room. Blinking groggily, you realize it’s coming from the nightstand beside your bed.

Turning your head, Austin is lying next to you sound asleep. His chest rises and falls steadily, his face relaxed in a way that makes him look almost boyish and a small smile creeps onto your lips, the sight of him still there bringing a warmth to your chest.

The phone buzzes again, its glow illuminating the room for a moment before fading. You watch him stir slightly, his brows furrowing and his lips parting in a soft, sleepy sigh as his hand reaches instinctively for the sound.

His eyes flutter open, and the panic sets in almost immediately as his grogginess clears.

“I—I have to go,” he mutters, his voice raspy and urgent, as though the weight of reality is crashing back onto him.

He sits up quickly, running a hand through his sandy blonde hair, looking through the missed calls flooding his phone.

—But you’re not ready to let him leave—not yet.

“Austin,” you say softly, sitting up the sheets slipping from your body as you reach for him.

Your hand brushes against his arm, and when he turns to you, his eyes are filled with hesitation.

“Stay with me,” you whisper, your voice low and full of need.

You tug gently at his arm, and he hesitates for only a second before setting his phone back down on the nightstand. “I can’t stay much longer,” he says, his tone conflicted.

You smile, a playful edge in your voice as your hands slide to the hem of his shirt. “Then don’t waste our time,” you reply.

He doesn’t even resist as you pull it over his head, revealing his broad, muscular chest and sculpted abs.

Your fingers trail over him, admiring the strength in his body, the warmth of his skin under your touch. He watches you with lustful eyes, his breaths quickening as your hand moves lower, undoing the button of his jeans and unzipping them with care.

You tug his jeans and boxers down together, freeing him completely, and your breath catches at the sight of his substantial cock, hard and ready.

Your fingers trail over his tip and down the length of his shaft, the heat of him and the way it twitches under your touch sends a shiver through him, his breath catching as he watches you.

Before he can say anything, you lean over to your bedside drawer, sifting through until you find a condom that will fit his impressive size. The quiet sound of the wrapper tearing fills the room, as his eyes remain locked on yours.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks, his voice low and heavy with emotion, his breath hitching as your fingers brush against him carefully rolling the condom into place.

You meet his gaze, your hand lingering on him as you whisper, “I’ve never been more sure.”

Whatever resistance he had left disappears entirely as he pulls you into his lap, his lips finding your neck, kissing softly before his need for you takes over.

His hands slide up your sides, cupping your breasts as his lips travel lower, leaving a trail of heat on your skin.

When his mouth finds your nipple, he sucks gently, drawing sharp gasps from you as his other hand squeezes the curve of your breast. The gentleness of his touch sends shivers through you as your fingers tangle in his hair, holding him closer.

“I want you so much,” he whispers against your skin, his voice thick with need, the raw longing in his tone making your heart ache.

“I want you too,” you whisper breathlessly, your voice trembling with both desire and anticipation.

He lifts his head, his blue eyes meeting yours for a lingering moment filled with longing, and without breaking the connection, he gently lays your back against the bed, his hands never leaving your body as he moves over you.

One of your legs bends instinctively, your knee raising to accommodate him as he positions himself, the other leg wrapping around his waist.

His hand cups your jaw soft and reassuring as he presses the tip of his cock against you and with a careful insistent push, he thrusts into you.

His cock stretches you slowly, his movements unhurried as you gasp, your body arching to accommodate his size.

His free hand slides along your thigh, gripping gently as he begins to move, the rhythm steady and controlled as he eases in inch by inch until each thrust fills you completely.

You softly moan for him as his eyes remain steady on yours, his hand caressing your cheek, while other traces the curve of your hip as he thrusts into you gently.

“You’re so perfect,” he whispers, his thumb caressing your jaw. “So beautiful, so incredible.” He says his words tumbling out savoring the way you feel together.

You grip his shoulders tightly as he thrusts into you harder, the tension winding tighter as your hands slide down his back, your nails pressing lightly into his skin.

“You feel— so good to me.” You whisper the words spilling from your lips with raw sincerity, and they spur him on, a groan escaping his throat as his hands tighten their hold on you.

His lips press against your throat, his breath warm and uneven as the pleasure between you builds into something unstoppable.

Your soft moans only push him further, his body responding completely to your every sound.

He softly pants against your neck, lost in bliss, his eyes closed, his breaths warm on your skin. His lips press to your neck, leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses as his groans break and falter, his control slipping as he nears release.

You cling to him, your hands sliding to the back of his neck, holding him tightly against you. “Make me feel —how much you want me,” you whisper, your voice trembling as your own orgasm begins to build.

He clenches his jaw, a deep groan vibrating through him as he fights to hold back. Slowing his thrusts, he shifts to long, deliberate strokes, each one reaching the spot that sends jolts of pleasure through you. The tension coils tightly inside you, your breath hitching with every deep, purposeful thrust.

“You’re perfect to me,” he confesses, his voice rough and strained as he watches your face, his hips beginning to move faster as your soft whimpers fuel him. His rhythm becomes more urgent, his thrusts hitting harder, sharper, until your release crashes over you.

You cry out, your head tilting back as waves of pleasure course through you, your walls clenching tightly around him. The sensation pushes him over the edge, his groans deep and guttural as he buries himself inside you, his cock twitching as he comes.

It feels so good it borders on unbearable, your chest tightening as tears prick the corners of your eyes. He rides your though your orgasm and you cling to him, your fingers gripping his shoulders, needing something solid to ground yourself as your release consumes you.

When the intensity finally begins to fade, you feel raw, exposed, but so utterly content that a soft sob escapes you. The pleasure lingers, warm and soft, as your body melts into his, the aftershocks making you shudder gently in his arms.

He doesn’t stop holding you, his hand soothing as his lips brush against your temple. “You’re okay,” he whispers tenderly, his other hand sliding to your face, his thumb brushing gently over your cheek as he steadies you.

You nod weakly against him, overwhelmed by how deeply he’s unraveled you, feeling a flood of gratitude and emotion that makes tears spill silently down your cheeks. You bury your face against his chest, his compassion grounding you in a way you you’ve never known.

His head rests lightly against yours as his arms hold you securely, his breaths gradually evening out.

Then with carefulness, he slowly slides his large cock out of you, the loss leaving you momentarily speechless.

You shudder, your body adjusting to the emptiness, your emotions swirling as you cling to him for a moment longer.

You tilt your face up to him, your eyes locking with his as a connection passes between you, unspoken and undeniable, that neither one of you dares to name.

Gently, he shifts, rolling the two of you onto your sides, pulling you close and as you lay in his strong arms, his fingers trail against your back, soothing and steady, his warmth comforting you in the quiet intimacy of the moment.

The way he cares for you—completely and unconditionally—fills a space you didn’t realize was empty, touching a part of you that you thought no one ever could—and for the first time in what feels like forever, a sense of peace settles over you as you slowly drift to sleep in the depth of his strong and loving embrace.

🩺END

🔗 Masterlist

🏷️ Always Tag Me List

@purejasmine @burnthheparaphilia @butdaddyilovehim99 @austinbutlerfly @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler-pascal @lindszeppelin @abswifey @aust-een @umika @feralgodmothers @psycheetamore @megangovier @magicovento @obsessedvibee @austiebuttbutt @faegoddessog @jessica987 @slowsweetlove @hardcoredisneynerd @finley-08 @thegabbyh @thefallofthedamned @buckysteveloki-me @bucking-mustangs-with-wings @shegatsby @darlingisntit @lovereadingfanfic @denised916 @shockercoco @minispice-1 @thejoywillburnoutthepain @i5uckersblog @ughdontbeboring @meetmeatyourworst @avidreader73 @xxmandaveexx @mamawiggers1980 @12joeywheelerfangirl @imjustheretoreadsmuthaha @missjadesficsreblog @gravesdiggergirl @nostalgichoya @jjubilee-fluff @stars-remain2 @ausssbutlershortstories @fuckindontknow

#austin butler #austinbutler #austin butler smut #austin butler fanfiction #austin butler x reader #smut #austin butler fic #fanfic #austin butler smut fic #austin butler x #austin butler one shot #austin butler imagine #austin butler reader #austinbutler x #one shot #one shot smut

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imaredshirt · 4 months ago

Text

I'm kinda really into the idea of Fiddleford meeting Stanley before meeting Stanford.

Pretty early on after being chased out of New Jersey, Stanley ends up being chased out of Kentucky and drives the night through Tennessee until his car breaks down somewhere west of Murfreesboro. He gets the car towed to a nearby garage, where a young mechanic takes one look under the hood and says he'll have it ready in a jiffy. All Stan will have to do is pay a few bucks inside, and he can be back on the road in no time.

Sounds great to Stan, except - well, he's broke. He can't pay the guy. He knows this, but the guy doesn't know this, so Stan spends the next few minutes trying to talk up one of the old-ish Stan-vac Vacuums he's got stashed away in his trunk, hoping to give it to the guy in lieu of cash.

Turns out the mechanic is a chatty guy himself, and Stan learns a few things about him: his name's Fiddleford (Stan calls him Fidds right off the bat, and for some funny reason the guy's over the moon about it) he likes building little gadgets and the like in his off time, and he's working at his uncle's garage for a few months to earn some spending money before he heads off to some back-up college in California.

Next thing you know, Stan's got the trunk popped open and Fidds is examining the vacuum, humming and hawing and narrowing his eyes at the shoddy design. The car's fixed up and ready to go at this point, but Fidds is taking the vacuum over to a workbench where he's got a set of tools nearby, and Stan's following him, trying to explain that the vacuum isn't bad exactly, it's just --

"So, the thing doesn't actually suck stuff up," Stan says as Fidds deftly pulls the machinery apart. "I mean, it'll pick up some dust bunnies for a few minutes before giving up, but then it kinda - uh, spits them back out."

"Well," Fidds says, squinting one eye to look into the dust bag. "Aside from the clogged exhaust port on this one, I reckon you just needa fix that shoddy wiring to the motor and adjust the coolin fan. That'll take care of both problems."

"Shoddy wiring?" Stan groans. It wasn't like he was the one who had made the thing. He was only slapping his name over the handle and selling it. "What am I supposed to do about that?"

"It's an easy enough fix ," Fidds says. He rubs his chin and plucks the motor up, looking at it thoughtfully as he twists it to and fro and then adds, "If you want it to perform its most basic functions, that is. But I bet if I tinkered with it enough, I could make it even better."

Suddenly, he's got this almost manic gleam in his eyes, and Stan would be worried if the guy hadn't already piqued his interest. "Yeah? Better how?"

Fidds glances around the corner at his uncle, who's snoring away in a plastic lawn chair, then looks back to Stan. "Better as in it could pick up a dust bunny hiding under a bed on the third floor from the kitchen."

Stan's feeling a little manic himself. “Pal, as far as I’m concerned, you’ve just made this thing marketable to every single sucker from here all the way back to Jersey.”

Fidds doesn’t have the right tools there in the garage, so he says he’ll have the thing ready in two days. Which is fine with Stan, he doesn’t have anywhere to be anyway, so he asks if there are any secluded places where he can park his car for the night - which prompts Fidds to cheerfully offer up a spare bedroom back at his family’s farm. It catches Stan off guard, until Fidds explains the terms - he just needs to do some chores around the farm from sunrise to sunset, and that’ll take care of the room and the car repair, no problem.

So that’s how Stan finds himself in this little room somewhere out in the hills, sitting in a cushiony bed, suitcase at his side and car parked out under some sycamore and hickory trees. Fidds is at the door telling him what time dinner’s at and what time everyone gets up the next day to start with all the chores, and Stan is nodding, suddenly feeling like he could fall asleep where he’s sitting, even with the mechanic’s rapid-fire twang going on and on, which he doesn’t mind - the guy’s voice is nice. The bed is comfortable. The room is warm and dry and it’s about a thousand times better than sleeping in his car for two nights.

He kicks off his boots and he’s still nodding when he falls back, drowsy and relaxed, and falls asleep to Fidds’s voice explaining how the room’s available for a few weeks, as long as Stan’s up to working on a farm.

Stan wakes a few hours later to a plate of dinner sitting on the bedside table and some banjo tunes being plucked out somewhere outside. He looks out the window and sees Fidds sitting under a tree, sticking his tongue out as he adjusts the strings on his banjo before looking up and waving cheerfully at Stan. Stan waves back.

He wouldn’t mind staying here for longer than a couple nights, he guesses. Working on a farm wouldn’t be too bad.

(Throughout the weeks, they learn things about each other - like how Fidds’s family wants him to marry a nice girl, have a few kids, inherit the farm, forget about computers and physics and college - and how Stan’s dad kicked him out for ruining his brother’s future, and how his brother hasn’t talked to him in months and probably won’t for years)

(and once the vacuum is done, they try selling it together, and it goes well - until the vacuums are so strong that one dummy gets their arm sucked up into it right up to their shoulder, and someone says they lose a hamster to one - not that the dummy or the hamster suffer anything worse than minor injuries, but an angry mob chases Stan and Fidds right out of Tennessee and through Arkansas and all the way to Texas, where they find themselves feeling kind of despondent in some seedy little motel, and then Stan turns to Fidds and asks “Hey, you know anything about making the adhesive on the backs of bandages better? Or maybe just less painful?” and Fidds’s eyebrows shoot up and the manic gleam is back, and needless to say, they spend the rest of autumn being chased from one city to the next.)

#idk man i just had a hankering for some more fiddlestan #fiddlestan #fiddleford mcgucket #stanley pines #gf #listen fiddlestan being chased from state to state together #is kinda my jam #wheiever pines twins fidds ends up with #he's also gonna end up being chased by something #whether it be a paranormal monster #or an angry mob

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pedropascallme · 11 months ago

Text

The Weather Ain't Been Bad

Pairing: Damien Haas x f!Reader

Summary: “You had barely made it off the last step, rounding the corner to the kitchen, when you heard a voice call your name. You flinched, hand flying to your chest in a brief moment of panic, not suspecting anybody else to be awake, let alone downstairs, while you were roaming the halls like some kind of restless spirit.”

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI) p in v sex, dom/sub dynamics, fingering, oral (f receiving), spitting, Damien is a biter but we knew that, lots of begging and even more praise, Damien likes getting his hair pulled but we knew that. If I missed anything please let me know!

“You look dumb.”

“I’ll literally—look at me, look at me. Shut up.”

You listened to Shayne and Angela argue in the back seat, their back and forth had started as a game of I-spy and quickly devolved into improvised insults on hour one of the drive after a patch of traffic resulted in a lack of things to spy.

“Literally nothing you say could ever affect me I don’t care about anything you have to say to me.” Shayne deadpanned and you heard Angela let out a shrill sound as she tried to climb out of her seatbelt to punch him in the arm.

“Hey, you know what would actually be really fun?” Damien, driving, looked back at them through the rearview mirror, “If you guys would, uh, shut the hell up?”

You laughed quietly; head propped up on the window as you watched the California landscape go from dusty highway to snowcapped trees. Hours long car ride aside, you were happy to be making the trip. It had never occurred to you that upon Anthony’s return to the company there would be a renaissance of Smosh content that didn’t have to do with the main channel, but when they announced the return of the Winter Games you felt a swell of joy—it was nice to be part of something that went back so many years and still continued to entertain the masses, especially when that something made you feel a cathartic sort of nostalgia.

And now, sitting in the front seat and listening to your friends threaten each other in increasingly ridiculous ways, watching Damien’s hand on the steering wheel, it went beyond simple nostalgia: It was pure ecstasy. The low hum of music on the radio paired nicely with the long road ahead, and you leaned back, closing your eyes for a moment.

You felt a hand on your knee, giving you a short squeeze. You opened your eyes, grabbing Damien’s hand and squeezing him back.

“What?” You playfully pushed his hand back towards his body, and he gripped the steering wheel.

“You’re my GPS, you can’t fall asleep.”

“I could navigate!” Angela leaned forward, elbows on the center console.

“You—you would get us lost in your own house, you psycho.” Amanda piped up for the first time in several minutes, placing a hand gingerly on Angela’s shoulder and laughing.

“Hey!” Angela turned her attention away from the front seat, pushing against Shayne, who had started laughing at her expense once more.

Damien glanced at you from his peripheral, as if to silently lament about your friends in the back seat, and you glanced back, smiling.

You appreciated the moments you got to spend with Damien. It wasn’t like they were rare; since you’d joined the cast, he was always someone you’d found a sort of reliability in, and a shared sense of humor went a long way. He was always a beacon of tranquility amongst the chaos of the office. He could be just as rowdy as everybody else—and often was—but he was always able to weed out when somebody needed a moment to recalibrate, and it felt like he knew what you needed before even you did sometimes. But he seemed to have that effect on most everybody, and you didn’t want to push too hard for something that might not be there, despite how happy you were to feel his hand on your back when he guided you through crowded spaces, or to hear him say your name in that faux-crestfallen way when you cheated in cards.

He turned his gaze back to the road, and you found yourself leaning against the window again, passively looking at his reflection in the trees that darted by, and thinking things that you decided should remain unsaid.

~~~

The house was gigantic, and even that was putting it lightly.

In theory, you recognized that you worked for a multi-million-dollar company, but it was more than a little weird to be standing in the doorway of a house big enough to hold at least 20 copies of your own apartment inside of it.

But you understood the want to splurge; it had been years since the last Winter Games, and even longer still since there had been a Games with Anthony. It was exciting, and even before you had gotten to the cabin-style mansion, there had been a buzz in the air; cast and crew alike vibrating in anticipation of a vacation-like period where things would be more akin to camp than to work.

Filming started immediately, and you barely had time to think about what exactly was happening before you were back in front of a camera.

Shoulder to shoulder with the rest of the cast, Ian and Anthony made picks for their respective teams; it was easy to forget that you were in a new space—it was like you’d never left the office, still in good company and laughing until your cheeks hurt. You donned the bright blue shirt that had been handed to you, and wondered how many raunchy, snow-related jokes you’d have to hear over the next week.

“Be honest with me,” you put the shirt on over the one you were already wearing, joining the side of the room with the rest of your teammates, “Are we gonna lose?”

Damien laughed, “With that attitude? Probably.”

Maybe the best part of the trip was the fact that this year marked the first time that everybody got their own room. You’d heard the stories—not that they were all that bad, but it was nice to know that even when surrounded by your friends for two weeks, you’d still be able to duck out for some private time in your own space.

Except that your room was freezing.

You hadn’t noticed it upon your arrival, coat still zipped up and adrenaline on high, but once you had showered and readied yourself for bed, you recognized the deep, unwelcome chill in your bones. The source evaded you; the windows were closed, the ceiling fan was completely still—it was a frustrating end to a long day.

You gave up, putting on a heavier sweatshirt and deciding that locating the source of the frigid air was a problem for tomorrow. There had to be extra blankets somewhere, and you tried to recall whether there had been any on the couches downstairs. Even if there weren’t, getting out of your room and regaining a little feeling in your fingers sounded appealing.

You quietly exited your bedroom.

Tiptoeing down the stairs, you shifted your weight awkwardly from side to side to avoid any sudden creaks from the old wood. The house was silent—save for the wind outside that howled against the windows every few moments—and you didn’t want to disturb the peace.

You had barely made it off the last step, rounding the corner to the kitchen, when you heard a voice call your name. You flinched, hand flying to your chest in a brief moment of panic, not suspecting anybody else to be awake, let alone downstairs, while you were roaming the halls like some kind of restless spirit.

“I’m sorry—did I scare you?” The familiar sound of timely apologies, whispered from across the room. You felt your heart settle. “I’m sorry.”

“Jesus, Damien,” you took measured breaths, “scared me.”

“Sorry,” his voice was low. He stood behind the kitchen island, hair messy, and it was clear he was struggling to sleep as much as you were.

“It’s ok,” you walked towards where he was standing, leaning over the island to grab at his arm reassuringly before letting go; his skin was warm against your palm, and even in the dark of the room you were unable to tear your eyes from him. “I didn’t think anybody else was up.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not by choice,” he sighed, “my room is a sauna.”

“You’ve got your own room, you couldn’t just strip down?” You raised your eyebrows, teasing him, trying not to think about how he might look spread out on his bed with nothing on.

“There are only so many layers I can take off until it’s, like, my skin,” he smiled, and you broke out into a quiet laugh.

“Well, my room is freezing, so,” you collected yourself a little, “I came down looking for more blankets, but if you wanted to switch…”

“Is the window open?” He furrowed his brow, seemingly concerned by your discomfort.

“Not even a crack,” you clarified, “Your room sounds like a dream to me right now.”

You didn’t realize how it sounded until he let out a snort, “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

“You know what I meant.” You rolled your eyes, and he reached over the counter to brush his hand against yours in a gesture of peace.

You stood quietly together, enjoying each other’s company and the calm of the house. You let your hand remain under his on the granite, and he didn’t make any moves to separate from you.

“Thanks for being a good sport about navigating,” Damien ran his other hand over his face, tired after the seemingly endless day. “I know it probably wasn’t your first choice.”

“Yeah, well. You better thank God we’re on the same team, otherwise I’d use 'competitive determination' as an excuse to get back at you for keeping me up." You shot back jovially, “But, you know…it was nice to help you out.” You paused. “I liked it, actually.”

He shot you a small smile, which you returned, and the two of you let silence fall again.

“How about I see if I can find the source of whatever it is that’s making you so cold?” He tilted his head, sincerely offering to help you, and you could never say no to an offer like that.

You could never say no to Damien.

“That would be nice.” You curled your pinky into the palm of his hand before turning to lead him to your room.

You were friends, always had been upon your entrance into the company; he was an undeniably important presence in your life for that very reason—he was there. He was always there when you needed him. He was supportive and kind and stupidly funny, and, yeah, incredibly attractive. But that didn’t mean it had to be something more. Just because you looked forward to the days he came into work with dark stubble that contrasted with the silver of his hair, just because you forgot the rules to certain games sometimes because you were too focused on the way his sleeves fit around his arms, just because you loved the way his eyes trailed over your face when you told him a story and he got just as animated as you did—it didn’t have to be anything more than friendship.

But realistically, despite your insistence to your friends and to yourself that you considered Damien a great, strictly-platonic friend and nothing more, you knew what you really wanted.

You knew you wanted more.

And despite the innocent context under which you were bringing him up to your room, there was a surge of adrenaline that coursed through your chest while he trailed behind you.

“Jesus,” he pushed his shoulders back upon opening the door to your room, goosebumps pricking his skin. “Some weather we’re having.”

“I told you,” you pushed past him, kicking a stray pair of socks into the corner. “You still think you can fix it?”

“They actually call me Damien “Fix-It” Haas,” he cracked his knuckles, “Don’t look into it.”

You smiled, shaking your head, spreading your arms out to signal that he could poke around freely.

It took him approximately ten seconds to locate the thermostat behind a curtain.

“Are you serious?” You kicked yourself for missing what should’ve been so obvious.

“I’m Damien,” he went straight-faced, “And this says sixty-five degrees—how are you not frozen solid?”

“Pure will.” Your head fell back in exasperation, “How did I miss that?”

“You’re tired,” he softened, “It’s been a long day, y’know, and I bet a lot of people are too dumb to look behind curtains—”

You cut him off with a curt but soft shove to his chest, and he grabbed your hands after they made impact, both of you semi-delirious from lack of sleep and falling into a fit of giggles. He removed one of his hands from you, leaning back to change the thermostat.

“It’ll heat up eventually,” he started, “What number do you want it at?”

“Warm.”

“So, that is not a number,” he smiled at you, “I’ll put it in the seventies.”

“Thank you,” you wriggled free of the grasp he still had on your wrist, “My hero.”

You stood facing each other for a moment, neither of you ready to part for some reason.

“I should go to sleep,” you finally spoke.

“Yeah.” He agreed, voice sounding raspier than it had before. He started to walk towards the door while you leaned back onto the pillows on the bed.

“Damien,” you didn’t know what you were doing, or if you should be doing it, but it felt only logical in the moment, “Stay.”

You watched him freeze in place, turning back to look at you.

“I mean…if your room is uncomfortable to sleep in—what, are you gonna sleep on the couch?” You continued, rambling to find reasoning behind your sudden offer, “You can just stay here tonight.”

“Seriously?” He scanned your features, trying to figure out if you were serious or if this was just a joke that he hadn’t caught onto yet.

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure—?”

“I’m just saying, it’s not fair that you have to spend the night in discomfort. Especially after you fixed the temperature in here.” You felt a red heat rising in your ears, but you soldiered on, still waiting for a yes or no. You watched as he turned to walk towards the door again, and your heart sank a little, before he closed the door in front of him and walked back to you.

“One hell of a sleepover—one bed, no snacks, and you don’t even have a Wii,” He feigned disappointment.

“But I hear when mom goes to sleep, they bring out Kevin’s mom.” You smiled, digging your heels into the comforter, and he laughed at the callback.

He sat on the mattress, leaning back on the pillows with you, and you used it as an excuse to angle yourself towards him, resting your head lightly on his shoulder.

“I can sleep on the floor. If you want…” He whispered, and you felt his fingers trail up your own hand.

“No,” you turned to look at him, still on your back but suddenly very aware of the proximity to which you were lying next to each other, letting him continue to run his hand along your arm. “It’s still cold in here.”

“I can turn the heat up—”

You watched as he traced the curve of your elbow with his finger before letting it fall back to your hand, “Damien, stop being a gentleman. Just share the bed with me.”

“Ok.” He stopped moving, gaze falling on you and swallowing shallowly. You laced your fingers with his. You were certain he could see your heart beating through your ribcage, or at the very least he could see the way your pulse bounced in your wrist. “Yeah, ok.”

You didn’t undress, didn’t even get under the covers, but something felt so intimate; a shift in the air. Maybe it was the new warmth that permeated throughout the room, but it was different, in the best way.

It felt like more.

He didn’t touch you, didn’t even graze your back when you turned over to get comfortable. But you felt his breath on the back of your head, rustling your hair and drifting over the back of your neck.

Your eyes stayed open, unable to let sleep take hold despite the tranquility; the moon bounced off the snow and caused a dim light to trickle through the window, and you were wide awake.

You shifted again, turning back over to face Damien. His eyes were closed, and you watched the subtle movements of his body, chest rising and falling softly with each breath.

“It’s creepy to watch people sleep.” He whispered, and you bit your tongue, unsure of what to say. Busted. He opened one eye and broke into a small smile. “Are you gonna murder me?”

“Haven’t decided yet.” You whispered back, nearly letting the sound of the wind outside drown you out.

“I could take you,” he propped himself up on his arm.

“Is that a challenge or a blanket statement?” You raised an eyebrow, “Because I wasn’t going to murder you, but those are fighting words.”

“What do you think?” He was goading you now, waiting to see if you’d back down from whatever this was, if there was a line you were going to draw.

“I think I could kick your ass.” You sat up on your knees.

“Yeah?” He looked at you, skeptical. You couldn’t think of what to say, couldn’t tell what this was, or what would happen if you crossed the physical boundary into his space.

You threw caution to the wind for the second time within the hour.

You launched yourself towards him, and he let his arm fall to the side, lying on his back as you clambered to straddle him. Grabbing his wrists, you pulled his hands above his head, letting out a small huff of victory.

You couldn’t recall a time where you’d ever been this close to Damien before. There was a pool of heat in your stomach that you tried to write off as a burst of energy—adrenaline hitting in the middle of the night—while you rationalized being in this position with him. With your friend. It was just wrestling; a playful act among companions. You’d seen people do it all the time in the office. Courtney put Spencer in a headlock the other day—you’d seen her do it to Ian the day before that. It was fine. It wasn’t anything other than roughhousing.

It didn’t have to be anything more.

“I told you.” You gloated.

“I was in a vulnerable position. This is hardly what I would call a fair fight.”

“Don’t be a sore loser.”

“I’m being a sore loser?” He smiled, all teeth, and you were about to respond, tell him that you had won, fair and square, and that if he wanted to lose again, you’d grant him the rematch he clearly wanted so desperately.

Instead, he flipped you onto your back, knee between your legs and one hand pinning your wrists above your head just as you had done to him.

“Never let your guard down,” He laughed, and you bit back a smile.

“That’s not fair.”

“That’s what a sore loser would say.” He taunted, and you thought you felt his grip tighten around your wrists.

You looked up at him, unsure where to go from here.

Surely, you’d separate, turn over and away from each other, fall asleep, and then act like nothing was different tomorrow—because nothing was different. Nothing had changed. This was nothing.

But you liked the way he looked like this; his knee caught between the V of your own legs, the muscles in his arm tense from the grip he had on you, his other hand planted on the bed at your side, just close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off of it. You watched him swallow.

“Tell me to let go,” he whispered, his voice gravelly. “Tell me to let go and I will.”

You didn’t move. You didn’t make a sound. All you could do was stare up at him, before you reminded yourself to speak, to say anything, to finally reveal what it was you wanted.

“Kiss me.” You were worried he wouldn’t hear it over the wind, words coming out small and breathy, but you saw the way the muscle in his jaw clicked.

He was on you instantly, colliding with you in a frenzied kiss. He let go of your wrists, and your hands came down to trail over his back, pulling him closer to you by the back of his neck. He bit at your bottom lip, and the sharp sting was counteracted quickly by the way his tongue darted over it, exploring you while you whined underneath him. He licked into your mouth, and you sucked at his tongue before letting his exploration continue, your hands reaching under the back of his shirt in an attempt to get closer, to let him suffocate you with his attention.

He pulled back, lips pink and cheeks blushed, his hand coming to hold your jaw and encourage you to open wider. He spit into your open mouth, before pushing on your jaw, encouraging you to close it. You did, swallowing his offering before opening your mouth again, sticking out your tongue as proof of your deed.

“Fuck,” he growled, hand still on your face when he reconnected his mouth to yours. It was needier now; sloppy and wet, and you could taste him perfectly like this, your spit mingling with his, licking into his mouth to get as much of him as you could.

He trailed down your body, leaving kisses on any skin available to him. The collar of your shirt exposed your clavicle, and he bit into the skin around it, sinking his teeth into you just enough for red marks to appear, before sucking a bruise onto the skin of the bone.

“Camera,” you reminded him haphazardly, “Nothing the camera can see—” You combed your fingers through his hair, pulling hard to ensure he listened to your warning, and he groaned at the pressure, removing his mouth from you.

“Right,” He was breathing hard, thumb rubbing circles on the bruise he had just made, low enough on your chest that your shirt would cover it—a secret between the two of you. He leaned back down, lips wrapping around the pulse point below your ear and peppering gentle kisses on it. You ground your hips onto him, his knee still planted between your thighs, stabilizing his position, and you felt the fabric of your pajamas catch perfectly on your clit, letting out a soft moan.

Damien watched, lips parted, as you bucked your hips against his thigh; some area of his brain wanted to let you continue, let you bring yourself to the edge by using him like this, but that was outweighed by the part of him that wanted so desperately to be the one making you cum; he wanted to make you fall apart, wanted to see how pretty you looked when he was making you feel good.

He moved his leg, effectively straddling you, and you let out a whimper of discontent, disappointed by the sudden loss of friction when you had been so close to what you needed.

“I know, baby,” his voice was cloying, clearly finding your whines enticing in a twisted sort of way; call it sadistic, but he didn’t want you putting in any work—he wanted to be in charge of all your pleasure. “I’ll let you finish, I promise,” he licked a stripe up your neck. “Tell me what you need.”

“Want your mouth,” you were quick to answer.

“Ask nicely.”

“Please, I want your mouth on me Damien—please.”

“You want my mouth?” He nipped at your jawline, “Want me to fuck you with my tongue?”

You nodded, entranced by how devious he looked, pupils blown out, swallowing the moon’s reflection, silver hair messy from being pulled on and falling over his eyes, skin flushed pink; you were absolutely overcome with need watching him at his most primal.

He moved further down your body, situating himself between your legs and tucking his fingers beneath the waistband of your pajamas; you lifted your hips when he began to pull the fabric off of you, slowly, and you tried in vain to push your pants off faster.

“Uh-uh,” he moved his hands to cover yours, “be patient.”

You removed your hands from the flannel waistband, placing them over your chest and trying to crane your neck to watch him. It felt like an eternity before he finally let the fabric pool around your ankles, sliding them off with help from you kicking gently against the air. If ever there was a time to be thankful that you didn’t sleep in underwear, it would be now.

Moving back towards your core, he pulled your legs over his shoulders, still concentrated on making you comfortable even while most of his focus was on your naked cunt.

“Do you always get wet this quickly?” He let you hook your knee behind his head, looking up at you from between your legs.

“Shut up,” you felt suddenly embarrassed, as if it was only now, with his breath fanning your spread legs, that he had become suspicious of your attraction to him.

“That’s a no, then?” He smirked and your embarrassment dissipated when you saw the prideful smile.

Damien’s eyes shifted then from your face to your inner thigh, turning his head to suck marks on it just as he had on your neckline. He bit into the supple flesh, just hard enough to leave an outline of his teeth, before kissing bruises onto the same spots. You let out a contented sigh, and he squeezed your other thigh before turning his head again to repeat the process on that side. Licking stripes up your legs and into the joint of your thigh, he stopped short of where you wanted him, letting out a hum every time you exhaled in frustration at the lack of attention your cunt was getting.

He liked riling you up, seeing your brow furrow and your cheeks redden in frustration at not getting what you had asked for.

He relented when you started whispering pleas of his name, hand buried in his hair and pulling gently at the roots for him to use his mouth on you like he had said he would. You gasped at the contact of his tongue on your clit, the way he flattened the muscle to slide over you before moving it in slow circles over your bud. His fingers dug bruises into your thighs, holding them over his shoulders and pulling you closer to him when he finally started licking circles around your hole.

“Fuck—fuck!” you couldn’t get another word out, too focused on the way he dove into you and lapped up your slick. He was messy but masterful, letting your juices and his spit trail down over the curve of your ass while making your back arch off the mattress, hand still in his hair and unsure of whether you wanted to push him down further or pull him off due to the overwhelming sensation.

The sounds were pornographic, wet and filthy, and when you pulled harder on his hair he let out a low growl that displayed his pleasure while heightening your own.

“You taste so fucking sweet,” he groaned into you, spitting onto your dripping cunt before indulging once more in your taste. You became aware of the way his hips ground into the mattress with every flick of his tongue and every mewl you let out. “Cum for me like this, baby, can you do that? Let me taste it?”

You threw your head back at his words, pressure building in your stomach at the way he clearly got so much enjoyment from making you feel good, paired with the way his teeth grazed your clit, sucking on you until you saw stars and then pulling away to do it again. One of his hands fell from your leg, and he brought it to your cunt, spitting once before pushing two fingers in. You squirmed, moaning, as he curled them towards him and fluttered them over the spongy spot inside of you. He dragged his tongue over your clit one more time, and you were catapulted over the edge, dizzy with lust, pleasure coursing through you like an electric current.

Damien moved back up the bed, hugging you to him while you trembled with the aftershocks of your orgasm, muttering words of praise.

“Did so fucking good,” he kissed the top of your head, “Such a good girl—was that ok? Are you alright?” His thumb ran over your cheek, and he dipped his head down to leave kisses in its wake.

You let out a shaky breath, adjusting your position to throw your leg over his side before wrapping your arms around him to pull him down for a kiss.

“So good.” You muttered, tasting yourself on his lips. You rolled your hips against his lazily, reaching down to trail your hand over his evident bulge. “More.”

“Yeah?” He groaned, taking in the way your hand felt on his clothed cock.

“Please.” You looked up at him through your lashes.

He reconnected his lips to yours, moving slowly and swallowing your sounds.

“You want me like this?” He whispered, hands sweeping over your body, “Gonna let me fuck you into the mattress?”

Your hips bucked on their own accord, and you nodded feverishly. He sat up, pulling you up after him, and reached under the hem of your shirt to help you remove it. He got distracted by the sight of your chest, the swell of your breasts and the way you looked at him expectantly.

“You’re so pretty,” he almost laughed, absolutely delighted by you, as he leaned down to suck a bruise on the valley between your breasts. He nipped at the pillowy skin, teeth skimming your nipple when he took it into his mouth, barely putting pressure on it until your hand flew to his hair in a gesture to make him continue, to give you more. You whimpered, sitting on your knees with his face pressed against your chest.

He stood up, removing his shirt quickly before untying the cord of his pants.

“There’s really nothing sexier than a man in pajama bottoms,” he made a face as he fumbled with the knot of the string, finally undoing it with a sharp tug.

“I’d have to agree.” You shot him a smug look and he shook his head, smiling. He situated himself back on the mattress, pushing you onto your back and kissing your neck. You let out a quiet yelp when you landed on the pillows, laughing softly. You still felt dizzy, the entire situation leaving you completely shocked but admittedly thrilled, and when you saw him looking down at you, you felt words leave your mouth before you could filter them.

“I’ve wanted this for a really long time.”

Damien smiled again, kissing your forehead before dipping down to trail kisses over your jaw. “Me too.”

“So, uh,” You let your hand wander down his body, stopping at the base of his cock and teasing your fingers around it, “You gonna fuck me into the mattress now?”

He grabbed your hand, and in a parallel to the situation that got you here, pinned it above your head.

“Is that what you want?” His pupils swallowed his irises, giving him the appearance of someone completely lost in desire. It made you greedy for more.

“Yeah.” You breathed.

“Tell me.”

“I want you to fuck me.”

“No. The whole thing. Say it.”

“I want…” You felt dirty saying it out loud, and that was half the appeal, “I want you to fuck me into the mattress.”

“That’s right. You gonna beg for it?”

You liked him like this, so cocky and domineering. It made you feel breathless, head swimming with what was to come. Dominance looked good on him.

“Please, Damien,” you swallowed, squirming slightly in anticipation.

“C’mon, you can do better than that.” He practically scoffed, “Beg.”

“Fuck me, please,” you felt yourself growing frustrated, and you could feel your heart beating in your cunt. “I was so good—I’ve been so good, please, I’ll take what you give me I promise just—please, please fuck me.”

The hand that wasn’t wrapped around your wrist fisted his cock, and you tilted your head to watch him stroke himself while he lined up with your entrance. You whined, hoping that maybe it would make him move faster.

“What did I say about being patient?” He chided, and your head fell back onto the pillows.

“Please, Damien.” You couldn’t have hidden your eagerness if you tried.

“One more time.” You felt the tip of his cock between your folds, collecting your slick and nudging your entrance.

“Please—yes!” You gasped when he pushed his hips forward, eyes rolling back slightly at the way he filled you completely in one stroke.

“Good girl.” He grabbed your other hand, now pinning both your wrists down over your head, giving him a full view of your body underneath him. “You feel good? Worth the wait?”

You nodded your head, mouth open and eyes wide, mesmerized by the stretch and the feeling of him seated deep inside of you.

“Tell me—use your words,” His own patience was wearing thin, and you could tell he was waiting for the opportunity to fuck you the way he wanted to.

“Feels so good, Damien,” you nodded again, “Move—fuck me, please.”

He exhaled, content with your answer and subsequent request. He drew his hips back far enough to nearly pull out of you, before slamming back against you and bottoming out completely. You let out a moan, and his free hand covered your mouth.

“Gotta be quiet, baby” he whispered.

You nodded underneath his hand, remembering all the other people in the house, and he pulled it away from your mouth before pushing two fingers through your lips.

“That’ll keep you busy, right?” He smiled and you moaned softly around his fingers, tongue circling them behind your lips.

Damien copied his initial sharp thrust, pushing into you with enough force to move you up the bed repeatedly, watching the way your breasts bounced with the movement. Letting go of your hands briefly, he brought one of your legs up to his shoulders, deepening the position, and you whimpered around the fingers in your mouth.

“God, you’re fucking perfect. Sound so pretty, baby” he groaned, grinding his hips against you to get a feel for how deep he was inside of you, “So pretty letting me fuck you like this.”

He took his fingers from your mouth, toying with your nipples and using the residual spit to lubricate his movements. His other hand left your wrists, focused now on holding himself above you while he drove in and out of you.

You squirmed under him, overstimulated and needy, and your newly freed hands grabbed at whatever they could hold onto; one gripping his arm, nails leaving crescents in his skin, while the other fisted the sheets, and Damien took note of the way your face contorted when his thrusts became rougher.

“You like that?” His voice was as kind as it usually was, but with an edge to it now, driving into you hard. “That feel good, baby?”

Your moans were increasingly high-pitched, and all you could offer was a jumble of reassuring whines. You pulled him down by the back of his neck, lips meeting for a feverish, passionate kiss. He bit your bottom lip, keeping it between his teeth and tugging at it, before letting his tongue push forward into your mouth.

You moaned into him, his cock pushing against your most sensitive spot. You arched your back, silently begging for more, and he followed your unspoken instructions, fingers finding your clit between your bodies and kneading tight circles over it.

You let out a ragged cry of his name, cunt squeezing around him as you came; he pulled you into him, arm wrapping under your body, to kiss you fervidly, groaning at how you felt clenching so tightly around him.

“That’s right, baby, cum for me,” he fucked you through your high; long, deep strokes at a much slower pace bringing you back down to earth, “Good fucking girl.”

“Oh my god,” you mumbled, drowsy and overstimulated, happy to be enveloped by him.

“Where do you want me, baby?” His thrusts picking back up slightly, eager for his own release.

“Anywhere you want,” you kissed up the side of his neck, whining at the feel of his cock as he dragged his hips back before sinking back into you, “Wanna make you cum, please.” You rubbed your cheek against his, the friction from his short stubble soothing you.

“You want me to cum for you?” Even now, he kept teasing, “My good girl wants me to cum for her? So fucking greedy.”

You whined, wordlessly, trying to move your hips to match his thrusts, intent on pleasing him the way he had you.

“Spit,” he offered you his hand, and you licked his palm before spitting into it.

He squeezed you tight, using the arm still underneath you to lift you up slightly and get a few last thrusts in as deep as he could manage. Upon pulling out, he fucked his fist with the hand you had prepared for him, spilling over your cunt. You whimpered at the feeling, and the thought of his cum mingling with your own between your legs.

Breathing heavy and uneven, Damien took a moment to collect himself. He leaned over the side of the bed, finding his discarded shirt and grabbing it; he wiped between your legs, careful to go slow and gentle over your more sensitive spots. He threw the shirt back over the side of the bed when he deemed you properly cleaned up.

“Thank you,” you spoke up, nuzzling into his side.

He hummed, kissing your head and moving stray hairs from your face. “Was that…it wasn’t too much, was it?”

“Damien,” you looked up at him incredulously, “It was perfect.”

“Not too rough?”

“The perfect amount of rough.”

He wrapped an arm around your shoulders, rubbing his thumb over your skin. “Did you mean what you said?”

“That I wanted to make you cum?”

“Well—mm. Kinda gathered that that was the truth. No, I mean, when you said you’ve wanted this…for a while.”

“Of course I meant it.” You fidgeted with the fingers he had draped around your shoulder. “Did you mean it when you—”

“Yeah.” He cut you off.

“You didn’t know what I was going to ask.”

“What were you going to ask?” He quipped.

“Now I’m not telling you.” You rolled your eyes, playfully turning away from him. Damien used the hand he had on your shoulder as leverage to pull you back against him, and you landed against his chest.

“Did I mean it when I said I wanted this, too?” He finished your question for you, “Yeah. I meant it. One hundred percent, I did.” He pressed his cheek against the crown of your head, “Was worried that wanting more was a, I dunno, like a…thought it would make you uncomfortable. So, I just—not that I don’t like being your friend—but I tried to behave myself. Y’know? Even though...” His gaze flicked over your face, "I always wanted more."

“Is this where you tell me that you orchestrated this whole thing by turning down the heat in here?” You joked, tired and satisfied and so utterly content that he, too, wanted more than the friendship you had cultivated with one another—thrilled that you had been on the same page all along; the initial paranoia over the implications of being attracted to the other, and now basking in the relief that your affection was mutual.

“I’m flattered that you think I have that kind of forethought. But no,” he laughed. “Just got lucky.”

“In so many respects.” You giggled, listening to his heartbeat against your cheek.

“Thanks for letting me stay.” He held you tighter, as if a loose grip would cause you to slip away from him.

“Thanks for staying.”

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