#there is a french stand with good real bread!

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Follow You Anywhere 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, obsession, controlling behavoiour, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You're online existence threatens to leak into your real life.

Characters: Captain Syverson

Note: I couldn't help myself.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

"So... this is what it looks like today?" You aim your camera at the sky outside your window, "sorry, the screen is kinda in the way."

You let out a nervous chuckle and flip the camera to yourself. You make a silly face. You were never overly fond of your image on the screen but the vlogs help. Like a little diary, mostly for yourself. You and your seven followers on Insta.

You bat your lashes and fix the clip in your hair, "oh, I got this free. Yeah, I bought a new hair oil and they threw this in the bag." You let your thoughts run wild from your tongue. You found a journal too daunting, the blank lines leaving you just as empty. This is easier. "Anyway, I shouldn't have spent the money to begin with."

You give another splintered laugh. The one you let out when you're anxious, or scared, or happy, or even mad.  You bite your lip and catch yourself in your digitized reflection. You stop and turn your camera to your bedroom.

"Today, I'm gonna clean this mess. Me and you guys together."

You scour the room with the lens. Your laundry is piled on the floor and you have a stack of books you need to put on the shelf. It isn't the worst it's been but it's getting cluttered.

"But first, we'll have breakfast, can't start the stream on an empty stomach," you chirp and nearly drop the phone, "oops, uh..." You fix your grip and check the number in the corner. You have one viewer; on a good day, it's three, most days, it's just you talking to the void.

You go into the kitchen, just down the short hall from your bedroom, opening into your living room. You go to the counter and prop up the phone so the camera is on you again. You tap your fingers and hum.

"What should we have for breakfast?" You ask. You don't feel as crazy talking to yourself even if there's really no one watching. "Oo, French toast. Gotta use up the eggs."

You go to the fridge and pull out the eggs and the milk. You bring them back to the counter, shuffling around for a bowl, a whisk, and the cinnamon.

You mix up your ingredients and dip the bread, one piece at a time. You put on a skillet and fry up the slices, presenting a stack of three to the camera. You smile and dust some icing sugar over the top.

“Probably shouldn't have all this sugar for breakfast,” you shrug at the camera, “alright, quick break…” 

You put the stream onto the ‘back soon’ page and take your plate to the small foldout table against the wall. You're not a fan of eating on camera. You finish and rinse up before snatching your phone up again.

You return to your bedroom and put the phone on a middle shelf and flip the stream back to live. Still that one viewer…

“Anyway, I'm back,” you wave at the lens.

You hesitate, looking around as you stand straight and spin. Cleaning, right. Before you can set to work, the phone dings.

A message?

You go back to your phone and squint at the chat bubble floating up.

‘Looked delicious too.’

“It was,” you agree with a grin, “thanks.”

‘Don't mean the toast.’

The next message has you blinking. Your nape burns. They can't mean… you clear your throat and giggle.

“Well, let's get started,” you back up and clap your hands, “you know, I've been so carried away with work. This place is a pigsty.”

You sit on the floor and sort through the clothes. You toss them into the basket as you sit in silence. You stop yourself and glance at the phone.

“How about some tunes?” 

You walk on your knees to your bedside and turn on your bluetooth speaker. You go to your phone and find a playlist before pulling the stream back to full screen. As you do, you hear a noise you've never heard before.

‘BourbonBear has tipped.’ Huh? Really?

“Oh, thanks, er, BourbonBear,” you giggle around the name, “how nice. Maybe one day I can afford a proper camera for this, huh?”

You smile and go back to the dirty clothes. You quickly ball up a pair of panties and shove them in the basket. You carry on until they're all untangled.

You move on and tidy your desk, bending underneath to gather up a few loose pens. You make your way around the bedroom, putting away books, fixing the blankets on the bed, and straightening the little figurines on the shelf above the bed.

You grab the stick vacuum and suck up the dirt and proclaim your task done. It took a lot longer than you thought. It's after eleven. The one viewer is still there.

“Whew, okay, I'm gonna get myself washed up and go to the park. Maybe I'll post that later,” you give a thumbs up next to your head as you talk to the phone, “thank you.”

You end the stream and let out a sigh. Your videos aren't much and you doubt they're very interesting but it's like venting for you. Almost like having an invisible friend. You think you will take some pictures of the flowers to share.

🧸

You take your usual path through the park. The walks help you unwind your worries. You try to come after work at least a couple days during the week and both days on the weekend. You find the mindlessness of the routine to be calming.

The deeper you get into the wooded length of the path, you slow to admire the birds in the branches and the critters crawling in the brush. You take out your phone and snap a few photos of a blue jay before it wings away shyly. You smile and flip the cam, smiling as you take a goofy selfie. You can add that to your post.

The path winds ahead and you follow it in the din, listening to the river just down the incline to your left and the tweeting from the sky. You lift your face and inhale the woodsy scent. The sudden crack of a twig startles you and you spin to face the noise. There's no one there. Sometimes you forget other people are free to just walk on through.

You chuckle at yourself and continue on. The path leads out to a suburban street where you like to look at the houses. They're much more spacious and pretty than your grimy brick apartment building.

You come out from the shade of the trees and wander along the avenue. There's a mailbox painted to look like the house it stands before and a little nook for second hand children's books to be borrowed through the neighbourhood. Sometimes you picture yourself living in one of those houses though you don't think it could ever truly be.

As you crane your head, you sense a shadow in your peripheral. You're walking a bit slow. You sidle to the side to get out of the way of the other pedestrian. When no one passes, you look back. No one.

You must be imagining things. You shrug and plod along. You're already thinking of what kind of tea you'll have when you get in.

🧸

You sit down with your mug of ginger citrus tea and set to editing your post. You add a light filter to the photos as you shuffle through them on your laptop. The process is slow as the computer is nearly five years old now and chuffing on its 4GB drive. You get to the selfie you snapped, a stop.

You lean in to get a better glimpse of the background. It's fuzzy but there's a figure just over your shoulder. How could that be? You looked and there was no one there. That's so strange.

You stare as a chill courses through you. You're thankful you hadn't put your earphones in. You wouldn't have heard whoever it was and they may have even snuck up on you. Or maybe it's just a trick of the light.

You hit ‘post’ and try to shake off the foreboding. It's nothing. You're being silly. Besides, you're home and safe now. Next time, you'll be more alert.

A message pops up. You stare at the dot over the chat bubble. You tap with your thumb and bring up the DMs.

'Stream tonight?' BourbonBear asks.

You tilt your head. You already did some today. You're tired and want to lie down and enjoy your time off. You type back 'sorry, not tonight. tomorrow <3' and another notification vibrates. A comment on your latest post.

'Pretty sweater', also from BourbonBear. You heart their comment and leave a thanks below.

You flip back to the selfie. You can't really see your sweater in the picture, just the scalloped knitting of the collar. Well, you suppose it does look cute. You put your phone down and leave it on your desk. That's enough Insta for today.

🧸

You time your shopping trip for the least busy hour. It's early and the store is almost empty except for employees stacking bread on shelves or wandering listlessly around the deli. You have your phone in the basket of the cart, aimed at you as you roll it along slowly and check your list.

The stream is just as empty. It's only just started but you don't expect too many people to be up at this hour. You stop and grab a loaf of sourdough, checking the date before showing it to the lens and putting it in the cart. You smile and announce the next item.

"Strawberries... you know I was thinking I might get raspberries instead," you say, catching the eye of one of the yawning employees. You must seem like a weirdo. It's why you typically don't film in public.

As you roll around to the fruit, you notice the count change. One viewer. You choose a basket of raspberries and show those. You see a message float up; morning.

You smile and return the greeting softly and place the berries down carefully beside your phone. You need yogurt to go with the berries.

You work down the list, making some substitutes as you tick off each item. You linger in the ice cream section a bit too long and talk yourself out of a gallon of rocky road. You lean on the handle of the cart and smile down at the lens.

"Going to check out," you say, "see you all later."

All? There's still just the one. You end the stream and take your phone out of the basket.

You wheel around to checkout and line up at the only open till. You put your items up as you greet the cashier with a smile. She seems tired as she gives a dull response.

As you put the yogurt on the belt, you sense someone join the queue behind you. You glance over as a large man stands only feet away. He's tall and burly and staring at you. Maybe he heard you talking to your audience, or he would think, yourself. You continue to unload your groceries.

"Never tried those," he comments as you take out a box of strawberry Pocky.

You pause and hold them up, chuckling nervously, as you do.

"Pretty good," you answer, "I eat way too many."

You notice the man doesn't have a basket or a cart. That realisation needles under your skin. Maybe he's just getting lotto or smokes?

"You like sweet stuff."

"Too much," you squeak even though it doesn't sound like a question.

He just stares, not saying a word. You swallow tightly and pull the last few items out of the cart and get behind it to wheel it through the lane. As you do, he looms closely, adding to the sweat gathering on your lower back.

You roll along and wait for the cashier to ring through the rest of your things. She bags them up neatly in two large paper bags. You pay with your card and thank her as you lift the first into your cart. The man behind you moves forward and grabs the second, startling you.

"Got it," he says as he places it with the other, squeezing by you, crowding you.

"Oh, excuse me, sir," you stammer, "oh," you lean on the cart to roll it to the end of the lane as you make space between you and the stranger. "Thanks, er, uh... thanks."

You turn and grab the handle, jittering. He's really weirding you out. Especially as you realise he's walked right by the cashier. He's following you.

"I can help get ‘em in your car," he offers in a drawl.

"Oh, that's alright, I... bus," you cringe as you realise you've said too much.

"I could drive you. I have a truck."

"No thank you," you walk faster, the cart rattling with your pace.

"Why not?"

"I don't know you, erm, sorry--"

"You don't?" He catches up and shoves his phone in your face, your Insta profile glaring back at you, "I paid for the milk, maybe the berries..."

"What?" You stop, just by the door and turn to him. "I don't--"

"You haven't eaten, have you? I'll take you for French toast. That's your favourite."

"Um," you blink at him as your eyes tinge, "I don't..."

"You got me through a hard campaign, just wanna say thank you," he adjusts his cap and you notice the pin on it. He's a veteran. Oh, 'campaign'. 

“Just got back home," he shifts on his feet, a meek gesture for such a large man, "and... your videos helped me remember it. Helped me hold onto it in the sh-- in the stuff."

"I... wow, okay, that's... I'm glad I could do that."

"I really don't mind giving you a ride. Lots of weirdos on the bus," he insists.

"That's nice but--"

"Please," he softens his tone, "been a while since I sat down and had breakfast without worrying about the sky falling."

You shudder and grip the cart tight. You don't know how to say no. You didn't think about who was watching. You always just assumed they were bots. Then you think of the chaching noise and the amount flashing on the screen.

"BourbonBear?" You ask.

"Yeah," he cracks a crooked smile and smooths his hand over his thick beard. "Everyone calls me Syv.”

#dark!captain syverson #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #follow you anywhere #sandcastle #captain syverson #dark captain syverson #captain syverson x reader

[mysticmunson]

date night: alpha!steve harrington x omega!reader

summary: finally scoring a date, things go smoothly until you present, and only one alpha knows.

word count: 2.8k

authors note: hii so i wrote this like two months ago and tried wrapping it up to have it posted, but i enjoy this au so please request some expansion requests :)

warnings: a/b/o dynamics, smut 18+

The pungent smell of fryer grease sifted through the air of Benny’s, a mountain of food divided into a few plates as you sat with Robin, who was in the midst of discussing her most recent ‘study date’ with Vickie.

“Get this! We’re sitting there, talking about chemistry, and bam!” Robin exaggerates, voice lowering in fear of someone overhearing, “She looked at me and kissed me!”

You gasp, smacking her shoulder with the back of your hand, a french fry between your thumb and index finger. 

The couple had kissed a few times now, but the excitement remained as you knew how badly your friend pined over the redhead. 

“We just need to find you someone now.” She teased, taking a bite of her grilled cheese as a string of orange came from between the bread.

“I’m determined to get laid by the end of this month,” You proclaimed, giving yourself around 30 days, “I want to experience it because when or if I present, I want to be somewhat prepared.”

Presenting was a concern for your age group, freshly out of high school, as everyone awaited to discover if they would become an alpha or omega. There had been a few start to show, including your best friend, Steve. 

His presentation was expected, his father a well-known alpha in town, and the traits of one showed early. He was fiercely protective of those he cared about, known to be more than good in the sheets, and strong. Having grown up with him, you saw it happen in real time, making it even stranger when you realized how attractive he became.

Still, Robin supported you on your journey, but worried for your safety. Over analyzing any recollection you shared of a man flirting with you, deciding he was a murderer or ugly, or both. 

In her bedroom, you stood in a loose blouse, tucked into a jean skirt and a matching jacket. Applying another layer of lipstick, you fretted over your appearance as you waited for the clock to strike 6:30, and for your date to pick you up here. 

“Steve is coming over.” Robin mentioned, sipping on her water bottle, sitting cross-legged on her bed.

“Okay,”  You reply, “We just need him gone by the time Devin comes.”

Steve was a great best friend, but he could be a real pain in the ass. He had been scaring any potential boyfriend away since middle school, deeming them not good enough or them being too intimidated by him as he faked a macho persona.

For the plan to work, he couldn’t know. He would go on a tangent about how you didn’t have to have sex just to do it. That was true, but it was hard to listen to a guy who had numerous sexual partners preach it.

The front door swung open as if on cue as you and Robin went to the living room, Steve kicking off his shoes. He began his rant about work, Family Video making him lose hair from stress and children yanking on his hair.

You paid attention, but kept an extra eye on the clock, noticing the hands nearing 6:30. Cursing Steve’s tangent for not letting him leave sooner, you swallowed your anxieties, peaking to make sure a car wasn’t outside. As inconspicuously as possible, you stood and went to grab your heels from Robin’s room. 

Toeing quietly, you were hoping to go unnoticed, but Steve decided to be aware for one of the first times tonight. “Where are you going? You’re dressed up.”

Shrugging, you leaned against the wooden door, “Just out for the night, a friend is picking me up.”

A terrible liar, you thought of something that wasn’t completely fictional, however, they both could tell. The sight of headlights caught your attention, standing straighter, “Okay, bye!”

Robin rushed to the front door to stick her head out as you walked away, “Wrap it before you tap it!”

Embarrassment crawling up your neck, you flicked her off behind your back, opened the car door, and stepped in.

“What!” Steve gasped, startling Robin as she shut the door and who hadn’t expected him to follow her or hear him. Thankfully, the car had pulled away, leaving a confused man with a bit too much heat in his cheeks at his best friend to get some.

“I’m just kidding, Harrington. Don’t get your panties in a twist.” Robin snarled, shoulder-bumping him as she went back to her couch. 

The date was fine, Devin was a kid you’d gone to school with since diapers. He had boyish features, cheeks a bit chubby with dimples, and was always polite. He had asked you to hang out a few days prior, agreeing on tonight.

Curls in your stomach that you attributed to nerves hadn’t vanished, even as you both mutually realized midway through your walk in the park that things were platonic. 

Heat simmered within you, discarding your jacket and feeling beads of sweat trickle down the back of your neck. It wasn’t hot outside, even as you walked around and chatted. 

“Are you okay? I don’t mean to sound rude, you don’t look well.” Devin questioned, a hand on your shoulder as your legs began to wobble. 

Nausea flooded you before dissipating, wavering emotions as you tried to make sense of what was wrong. 

Through the nerves, you kept thinking of Steve. How he would let his fingers trail against your lower back in hugs, kiss your head when leaving, and put his hand in front of your body when he hit the brakes too hard while driving.

“I don’t know.” You mumbled, feeling tears threaten through. As you made that statement, you felt the surge between your legs, knowing you had presented. 

It couldn’t be happening now. Not with someone you didn’t know well. Not when you hadn’t been able to score a boyfriend first. Not now. 

“I think I need to go home, I’m so sorry-” You began, huffing as streaks of mascara fell down your warm cheeks. 

Assuring you it was okay, Devin drove you home, even stopping to get you a snack to make your stomach feel at ease. While it didn’t help, you appreciated the thoughtful gesture and thanked him as he waited for you to get securely in your apartment.

The space went from chilly to scorching, removing any amount of clothes you could besides a pair of boyshorts. Your mind raced with confusion as your nipples became hard, feeling a chill, but like a fire on ice. 

Anxieties without category hit you, curling in a ball as you cried, sitting on your floor. It felt pathetic, but no stream of thought was strong enough to withstand the hormones.

Time slipped by as you tried regulating your breathing, applying slight pressure on your clothed core. A shrill ring came from your black phone, lifting the handle and pressing it to your ear.

“You were not supposed to answer!” Robin grumbled, already giving the heads up that she’d call to see if you were getting some, that no answer would be her answer. You had forgotten this rule, her tone making you bring in a fresh set of tears.

On the other end, Robin sat in her room with Steve walking in, not staying in the living room as she had asked. Her priorities were averted to the cry on the other side of the phone.

“Wait, what happened? Why are you crying? What happened with Devin?” Robin frantically questioned, Steve glancing over with furrowed brows as Robin had never stated who she was speaking with. 

“Devin? From junior year math class? That was the friend?” Steve grimaced, toying with nicknacks in his friend’s bedroom, earning a finger on the lips to quiet him down.

“I presented,” You whispered, “I’m so scared and uncomfortable and overwhelmed! What alpha do you know, I don’t care who it is anymore.” 

Though you would probably care later, the clouded judgment had you aching for any form of reprieve from the pain. 

“Fuck, I don’t know!” Robin squeaked, not wanting to reveal your status to Steve for fear of your embarrassment, but she contemplated. The gears of her brain turned as she questioned his overprotectiveness, the way he was quick to frustration when discovering you were on a date.

“Don’t worry, I’ll figure something out, Y/N. I promise.” She concluded, hanging up and grabbing her yearbook.

The faces of former students made her ill, but word got around about presentations, and she hoped that seeing their faces would make her recollect.

“What the hell’s going on? Do I need to go fight Devin?” Steve eyed his friend, an unnerving worry in his stomach. 

Biting her lip, she debated internally, “She needs help.”

“What is looking at that going to do?” Steve gawked, used to his friend’s antics, but still astounded when they acted erratically.

“I’m trying to remember who’s an alpha.”

“Why would you need to know who became an alpha-”

As the words left, his mouth ran dry, and he gulped while looking at Robin. She slowly looked up, watching the dark iris’ before her enlargen.

“Steve-” Robin began, the corner of a page between her two fingers.

The stern look on his face was withholding a multitude of emotions, ones she couldn’t quite make out. She made the judgment call that maybe Steve was your best bet.

“She’s at her place.” 

That was all that needed to be said before Steve ran out her front door and into his car. He had driven your route a million times, but never this fast. 

His blood pumped with nerves and excitement. He had spent his ruts alone, a fist full of himself with the occasional tears of frustration as he tried to alleviate his knot. But now you had presented as an omega.

Refraining from palming his crotch, he watched your streetlights come into view, throwing his car into park. The dark hallways were typically concerning, but your door was practically glowing within his mind.

He growled at the smell in the air, catching his attention more the closer he got. Gripping the door handle, it was unlocked, thankful no one else had noticed the compromising position. 

Choking on his own breath, he fumbled with the lock behind him and trekked down the dim hallway. The protectiveness he already felt was consuming, his palms sweating as he made his way closer. 

The door swung open too quickly as the handle slipped from his grasp, seeing you flinch from your curled position on the floor. 

As if you were nothing, he lifted you from your armpits, making you stand in front of him. Eyes blazing, he looked pointedly as he undid his belt.

“Your door.” He stated, voice wavering with stability.

Furrowing your brows, you looked up at him, “What?”

His shirt was shrugged off, tossing it to the ground as your eyes drifted to his broad chest, whimpering at the sight to his delight.

“It was unlocked, don’t you ever fucking do that again.” He gritted pushing his jeans off, cupping your cheek with one hand and leaning forward so the back of your knees touched your bed. 

His nose had skimmed against yours, breath fanning against your cheeks as you drank in every pheromone he perpetrated. Breath quickening, every thought coming to your head was vulgar, eyes softening in need.

“I won’t.” You whimpered, yelping as your back hit the wrinkled sheets, and his chest soon pressed against your bare one. 

“I mean it, don’t ever do that again, you could’ve gotten hurt.” He gripped your chin in his grasp, looking down at you as your clothed centers touched.

The brief touch made you wail, your body suddenly aware of what was to come. Equally as impatient, he grabbed one side of your underwear and ripped it. Repeating the act on the opposing side, the shreds of fabric were now a relic of the you before this moment.

Palming himself, looking down at your frame as a predator and prey, he growled. 

“How bad do you want it?” He egged on, ripping his own boxers off and onto the floor. 

“Please, Steve, please.” You whined, watching as his cock bobbed. Blushing profusely pink, your mouth watered at it and your chest began to burn with greed.

He seemed far too composed, the performance of himself he was forced to obtain through most of his teen years floating to the top. However, his soft spot was you. It always had been and both of your fresh senses were sensing the discomfort in both of you. 

“Alpha, please.”

That was all it took for his body to be pressed to yours and his lips to meet yours for the first time. 

Grunts and gasps came from you both as the underside of his cock rubbed against your folds, too consumed with how he tasted and how you smelled. 

“Keep that door locked, do you understand?” He gritted, fisting himself in his own grasp, his first thrust in synchronizing with your nod.

A pained cry rose from your lungs, tears already streaming down your cheeks, his lips kissing where the beads were.

Desperation reeked from you both as you grabbed at one another, needing any form of solidification that the other was there. 

Steve found comfort in your warmth, trying his best to soothe your discomfort with affection. Kissing on your neck or rubbing your clit, the latter making you shriek from sensitivity. 

“My omega now,” He sighed, balls reaching the curve of your ass as he settled against you, “my girl. Always have been.” 

“Always yours, alpha, always Steve.” You trembled, the veins of his length stimulating every ridge within yourself. His brown hair crowned around his face, only able to see him in your state of need. 

Though you were the one presenting, Steve felt the same wave of emotions he felt during his first rut, but now even more with another person. His person. The one who knew him since he had gaps in his front teeth, since he had graduated, and every minute moment before and after.

“Fuck, I love you.” He blurted out, feeling his own bashfulness creep up his neck. 

To his relief, you began to be more overcome with emotion, agreeing. Each thrust hit your spongy spot inside you, convincing you more and more he was the only one who could make you feel this way.

“I love you too,” You revealed, locking his lips between yours briefly, “M’sorry I didn’t ask for you first, I was nervous.”

Your words were sweeter than honey, but the implication that someone else almost came to your aid burned him deeply. His hands pushed up your thighs, your knees coming up as he fucked you deeper than you could comprehend. 

“Devin asked me out and I just wanted a boyfriend, but I didn’t want him, I swear-” You cried, unknowingly provoking more possessiveness. 

“Honey, please, it’s okay.” He gritted, clenching sheets in his shaking hands, suppressing the urge to flick his hips quicker.

“I wanted you, alpha, please.” You sighed, stroking his cheek and hair, anywhere you could touch, “I’m so happy, I’m sorry, thank you-”

“Don’t worry, I would’ve found you anyway. You’re my girl, my omega.” He assured, gulping down the emotions he felt when you looked into his eyes.

His words appeared to have a larger effect than any physical reimbursement could do for you as your fingers clenched within his hair. 

Your cry as you came made his hormones go into a flurry. He could feel your uneasiness being thrown into release. It was as if your chests opened in tandem, reaching out and moving in sync as he finished inside you.

White noise filled both of your ears as Steve’s body hovered over yours with much of his weight on top of you. Instinctively, you wrapped your arms around his chest, shoving your face against the crook of his neck. 

Pumping himself within you until sensitivity took over, he gasped at how you clenched around him. His stature shook as he knotted, a hand going to your hip to keep in place, chest heaving to regain a steady tempo.

“Thank you.” You whimpered, hugging his chest closer to your front, an embrace he matched. Pressing a kiss on the side of your forehead, he trailed down to your ear with pecks and bites.

Rolling to his back, he pulled you to his chest, rubbing your back after you tried sitting up.

“Just relax, honey.” He cooed, the exhaustion already hitting you both, stilling your hips from causing you both more frustration in the compromising position. 

“I want to make you knot again.” You whine beneath your breath, trying to sit up again, ignoring the pain shooting through your body at his swelling. 

“Easy tiger,” He chuckles, biting his lip to stop his own need, “we’ve got time.”

tagging mutuals :)

@andvys @lilacletter @corrodedcorpses @munsonsreputation @berryfairy444 @poppy-metal @lesservillain @imjuststeddietrashatthispoint

#elora writes #steve harrington #steve harrington x fem #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington smut #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington thoughts #steve harrington x you #steve harrington stranger things #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington moodboard #steve harrington drabble #steve harrington hurt/comfort #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington one shot #steve harrington x reader #stranger things #steve stranger things #alpha!steve harrington #a/o/b #a/b/o dynamics #a/b/o au #a/b/o verse #a/b/o #a/b/o fic

[mariacallous]

Come the warm, ripening days of summer and I imagine that I am closer to a more ancient, basic and healthful style of vegetable and grain eating than in my cold and meaty winters. I am seduced by my garden and neighboring farm stands vivid with color and flavor.

I avoid a lot of hot time in the kitchen. Much is eaten raw or almost: vegetable soups - gazpacho has many names and many recipes - vegetable sauces for rice or pasty and endless salads. I have corn on the cob and other vegetables in every form: grilled, roasted, steamed, stir-fried, puréed and combined in a variety of stews to be eaten hot, cold and at room temperature. Fresh herbs, garlic, onions and imagination sauce the dishes. The first beans from the pod or dried beans, fruit, cheese, bread and wine complete my menus.

There is almost no meat and little chicken or fish - an occasional grilling, a stew more vegetable than meat, a slice of cold meat or charcuterie, a boiled egg, a little tuna from the can.

I eat this way for pleasure as well as in a modern quest for a more healthful diet. Those came before us ate this way to take advantage of what they had - often limited. While we tend to see a cornucopia-vision of the past, rich in more seasonal, more natural foods, it is only partly true.

Winter in most climates was short of fresh vegetables, and the world relied on salting, pickling, drying and cold storage for any vegetables at all. The animal protein we are fending off today was in short, expensive supply.

With the best will in the world and without an evil intention, food writers and the natural inclination of all of us to glamorize the past and the far away have been guilty of distorting our view of the way the world eats. By selecting the best, the most festive food of other places or times, we have come to see them as halcyon visions of plenty, filled with meat and seafood, sugar and cream.

It is not sugarplum fairies, but roasts and fries, sausages and sautés, stews and cassoulets that frolic in our Rabelaisian dreams. Southern picnics are enriched with baked hams and fried chicken. Clambakes clutter the shores of a mythical New England. In that world of the imagination, native Africans are awash in chicken and ground-nut stew, native Americans feast on venison and buffalo, Greeks expand over countless dishes of succulent lamb, the Chinese are exquisite in damask while dining on unimaginably choice viands.

The English eat hearty roasts, silken salmon, and mountains of oysters. The French of the mind are various, either robust peasants glorying in rich stews or jeweled aristocrats whose famous chefs set forth succulent sauces. Our Italians live in a world of perpetual holidays, their risotti topped with pungent white truffles.

While not totally untrue - these foods did exist in each of these countries and were eaten by the natives at least upon occasion - such visions falsify the totality of real experience and may contribute to the glut of fat and cholesterol in our lives. We equate these festive foods with good living and think that ,if we can, we should eat this way all the time.

Our ancestors and many peoples all over the world today eat very differently from this skewed perception. Carbohydrate, or stodge, was what really fed and filled up most people. With bread as the staff of life in Europe, scarcity led to bread riots for centuries. Even in the recent past, when the government-fixed price of bread was raised in France, the announcement was carefully scheduled for August when almost all Frenchmen are on vacation.

Certainly, the staple food of the vast majority of the world is still rice, followed by bread and potatoes along with noodles - pasta among them - soy foods, yams, taro, yucca, corn, beans, pulses such as lentils, myriad grains and other starchy foods with names foreign to me. In the past and in much of the present, animal protein, when available, has been primarily a flavoring.

Beasts were not killed promiscuously. They were the cash crops and the providers of the milk and eggs. If a pig was slaughtered in the fall, that was a major event, and a family would hoard the preserved hams for Christmas and Easter, or sliver small amounts for a taste at many meals. A prosciutto bone or other ham bone was an asset to be used and reused in soups until flavorless. Fresh meats were rare; only the overage animal or the single, religiously festive springling was sacrificed.

To envisage a chicken in every pot was to dream of luxury indeed - the most luxurious of Sunday dinners.

if other meats were salted and smoked like bacon, or pickled like corned beef, air-dried like grisson or jerky, or preserved in fat like confit, it was to keep them over the winter and dispense them parsimoniously as special treats.

So when we read recipes for peasant dishes crammed with meat, we should remember we are reading about rare treats, not daily fare. Even fishing nations could have uncertain catches, rough seas and months when it was impossible to put out upon the water. Even plenty might need to be sold. A home-cooked paella was mainly rice, seasonings, oil and vegetables.

The great go-along-withs have been vegetables and fruits, fresh when in season, pickled or preserved for inclement times. A little fat would have come from the possibilities of each region - olive oil, butter and lard. Food was about survival and pleasure when possible. No one got more than nutritionally sound share of meat and fat over the course of a year. It is these daily recipes that are by and large missing or recorded primarily as accompanying dishes in our cookbooks and kitchens.

It is up to us to re-create out of our plenty the sane eating and pleasures that scarcity and invention, herb patch and garden, bestowed on our forebears.

"The Real Past", from The Opinionated Palate: Passions and Peeves on Eating and Food by Barbara Kafka

[fuckinbrunch]

A classic vietnamese sandwich. I've seen plenty of bastardized versions, even made some myself at past jobs, but never tried them. I had to make a batch of do chua for one of the salads, so I figured I'd line this one up too, so I wouldn't have to make multiple batches.

More chicken livers. Instead of butter, I used most of the leftover shmaltz I made a couple weeks ago. That stuff smells like bottled essence of KFC, but splatters so hard.

Zip those up into a loose chicken liver pate. It tastes as gritty as it looks, and gives flavours of ground up pocket change. Not my thing. Surprisingly, it meshes well in the sandwich though. A good contrast.

Beautiful spam stacks, I did these with my cheapo mandoline, very satisfying to slice. I didn't photograph the can, but I swear it's real Spam. Also pictured: finely sliced bird's eye chili in the background. Seeds mostly removed because I like tasting my food.

The julienne blade for my mandoline gave me so much trouble, my fingertips hurt from reefing on vegetables. That chainmail glove protects well, but the metal of the glove really fucks with your fingers.

I should've photographed it open faced, but this'll do. Tony says the bread makes or breaks banh mi, so I'm sure this is at least partly broken. I don't have access to a vietnamese bakery, nor do I trust my abilities to bake the buns myself. He says cheap French bread will do in a pinch, so I found these sub buns. They were okay.

| Banh Mi |

Taste is a 3 out of 5. Vinegar and salt are king here. Really wish I had the right bread.

Difficulty is a 2.5 out of 5. He even says you can buy pate instead of making it.

Time was about an hour. Make the do chua the day before so it can quick pickle overnight.

I don't like cilantro, so I put less than suggested on mine, and I could stand it. My partner really enjoyed it too. I'll be making these a few more times, until I run out of either buns or Spam.

#anthony bourdain #appetites a cookbook #cooking #recipe #banh mi #Do chua #Liver

[elphabaoftheopera]

🌻

Here is a list of Bath and Body Works 3-wick candles I **currently** posses in my apartment in alphabetical order and my ratings on them. I'm only burning fall scents right now, the rest are in storage.

Could I be leaving these reviews/opinions on the website instead of tumblr? Yeah. Will I? Nah.

Birchwood Trail- 6/10 it's pretty nice and woodsy but not a stand out. I burn it in summer and fall.

Boardwalk- 7/10 smells like caramel corn and that's a blessing. summer scent. I've had it a long time though and don't burn it a lot because it's realllly sweet.

Caramel Cream Soda- 6/10 actually pretty nice, I liked the cream soda scent more than i thought. burned most of it this summer.

Cider Lane (x2)- 10/10 Cider Lane is the gold standard of which I match all other candles. It was discontinued last year but was resurrected this year and I almost cried. I transcend when I burn Cider Lane. Cider Lane is king.

Crushed Candy Cane- 9/10 some people go for Twisted Peppermint but I know, I KNOW that his is the superior holiday peppermint scent. DON'T LET TWISTED PEPPERMINT FOOL YOU (like, it's fine). Crushed Candy Cane is where. it's. at.

Fireside- 7/10 Nice bonfire smell, the only problem is I burn it in fall/winter and there are so many fall/winter scents I choose to burn over it that I just don't use it much

French Baguette- 3/10 lovingly called "bread candle". I've had it for four years and it's only like half way burned. I just bought it because I was surprised it really smelled like bread, but burning it is just...meh. Better in theory. the lessons I've learned from bread candle prevented me from buying the bacon candle yesterday though. thanks bread candle!

Fresh Balsam (x2)- 8/10 Honestly, so good. SO good. Straight up maaaaay even be better than Crushed Candy Cane when it comes to holiday candles. I took away a point because the scent triggers memories of Christmas when I was a kid which makes me SAD.

Fresh Cut Lilacs- 7/10 Nice, fresh spring scent. I love candles that smell like a garden center at a walmart and this one delivers. I like Rainforest Gardenia better, but I burned that one so...

Fresh Spring Morning- 4/10 verrrry meh. Has that non-descript "fresh" scent that kind of gives me a headache. It's not unburnable, but not awesome.

Island Margarita- 7/10 Was a gift which makes it extra special! I've had it for years. I just don't love summer scents all that much. Scent is pretty good. Gave it an extra point because my husband loves it.

Mint Chip Shake- 6/10 Pretty good, I wish it was more minty than chocolatey, ya know? It's a summer candle but I once had a winter candle of the same scent (different packaging and name) so I feel conflicted about when to burn it!

Paris Café- 4/10 Far too strong. I like the smell of coffee but it makes my apartment smell for like 5 days after burning it. Overwhelming, I'll just go to a REAL coffee shop!

Poppy- 5/10 It's fine. I really only bought it because my OC is named Poppy and I love poppies. I burned it a lot over the summer but now I associate it with bad memories of my job. Idk what the future holds for it tbh.

Spiced Gingerbread 6/10- It's nice, but doesn't hold a candle (ha) to the other winter candles, ya know?

Strawberry Pound Cake 5/10- I want to love it sooooo bad. It was a gift and that makes it really special too. But it's a little overwhelming and strawberry isn't always my fave.

Sugared Cherry Crisp (x2) 9.5/10- CHERRY CRISP MY BELOVED. What I don't like in strawberry I LOVE in cherry. This is a rare candle that impresses me for smelling like what it says it smells like but is also a delight to burn. Just. so. good. The only reason it isn't a 10 is because it's not Cider Lane. I have multiples stocked up of this one too.

Sugared Orange and Vanilla- 4/10 I guess I just don't love fruity scents that much. It's fine but I'm just kind of like "idk what else is there to burn"?

Sugared Pecan Pie- 7/10 My chosen candle to burn on Thanksgiving and like November. Smells nice, not as strong as I'd like.

Suntan- 7/10 Favorite summer scent for sure! I've had it for years. Don't burn it much because I just don't burn my summer candles much, but it smells like sunscreen which is nice. Was an 8/10 a point because the scent reminds me of my mom and I have mom issues.

Sweet Cinnamon Pumpkin (x2)- 8/10 A fall classic, always get multiples for the fall. But like, it's *the* fall classic, ya know? Love it but it's a predictable fave. I kind of take it for granted because I know it'll never be discontinued. Burning it right now as we speak.

Tea and Lemon 20/10- Listen up about Tea and Lemon. It was the first candle scent to inspire me to buy these fucking overpriced corporate candles that I love soooo much. THEY DISCONTINUED IT YEARS AGO AND HAVEN'T BROUGHT IT BACK. I had two and now I have one and it's half burned and I will never light a flame to it again because then it'll be gone. I just smell it sometimes when I miss it, because it's my favorite of all time. It's billed as "Tea and Lemon" or "London Tea and Lemon" and in low moments I've considered spending $40+ to get another one from eBay, but even that doesn't seem like an option anymore. NO other lemon candle compares and I refuse to buy those. They smell like pledge. Not this one though. I love it so much and it fills me with sorrow.

Tis The Season (x2)- 8/10 Classic winter candle. Smells like apples and I love apples. Deducted a point because BOTH of them I have burn weird because of the weird wicks.

Vanilla and Santal- 6/10 Smells kind of bonfire-y. Nice when I don't want something sweet. Kinda forgettable.

Warm Apple Pie- 7/10 Nice fall choice. I've bought it twice but don't feel the need to like, stock up on it. Sometimes a little too sweet, but still nice.

Wicked Apple- 10/10 Fun fact! Wicked Apple is just Cider Lane. I'm convinced. It's what Cider Lane was packaged as last year. 10/10 because I knoooow it's you, Cider Lane! You can't hide!

Wildberry Tea Spritzer- 5.5/10 I bought it because I wanted another "tea" candle...but it doesn't even smell like tea. It's just fruity. I'm just trying to fill the Tea and Lemon hole in my heart and this ain't it, hon. It's nice in it's own right though, just makes me bitter.

I like candles a normal amount.

send me a 🌻 and ill just tell you whatever the fuck i want

#ask #queen-paladin #bath and body works #candles #this doesn't even scratch the surface of all the candles ive had #ive got thoughts #long post

[aphrodisiaac]

Manifestations🪷

This month I will cultivate a few things for myself to nurture my spirit and sense of self. These goals will be achieved to the best of my ability, and my life will flourish. I attract only the best of people, experiences, opportunities, and resources. Let us begin the attraction and manifestation of all things we wish to obtain and become. ~

💕 I lost 10-15 pounds. I did this in a healthy, forgiving way. I do this for my health and my own self love, and for nobody else. I love my body, and how strong and capable it is.

💕 I registered my car, and learned to drive stick shift regularly. Im able to take myself to and from work, and I love the new independence I have. I can go around the town as I please, and I can indulge whatever interests or opportunities come my way.

💕 I love putting myself out there and hanging out with new people, and I connect with my coworkers very well. We all get along, and we have lots of fun during our shifts.

💕 I love the way I look, and I know I’ve come a long way in accepting who I am. I have very interesting features, and I glow everywhere I go. People turn their heads to look at me, and I receive help and love easily. I am visually and spiritually like an angel. I am ephemeral, elegant, mysterious, and aloof. I give off an aura of otherworldly wisdom and beauty.

💕 I am focusing hard on school and my success. I love to get good grades and build my academic portfolio. I also love to learn things, and I feel more worldly with every new subject I study. I spend lots of time on projects, and truly connect with the material.

💕 I love going out and enjoying the world around me. Whether it’s going for a hike, visiting the library, or socializing at a club, I love to get out and meet new people/see the world. I trust that beautiful people and opportunities will meet with my energy.

💕 I am able to stand up for myself and what I desire. I am able to readily and confidently speak my mind, even if what I say may not be pleasing to the other person. Honesty is the best policy, and I show my true and authentic self to everyone I meet. Every vulnerability is a step to forgiving myself- and loving myself fully because of that forgiveness.

💕 I love and trust my boyfriend, and I am convinced that he loves me dearly. He goes out of his way constantly for me, and never hesitates to show his unwavering affection. I believe in his love, just as much as I believe in my love for him. 🥰

💕 I am a jack of all trades, and I enjoy giving my attention to multiple hobbies and skills at a time. I enjoy pole dancing for exercise, as well as yoga. Both endeavors have helped me with my flexibility. I love to sew, and recently I finished my first original embroidery. I am learning French, and am fairly intermediate. I draw, and make videos on a regular basis. I even love culinary arts, and I practice baking and cooking very often. I just made my first French boule bread loaf last month. I don’t limit myself to one hobby or passion, because I am limitless in my capacities.

💖 I am capable of healing, improving, and progressing with my life. My trauma does not define me, and has never defined me. I am a beautiful person, who contains multitudes. I have done bad things as everyone else has, and good things as well. I am neither a good nor bad person, but a person who simply tries to do what they think is best every day. I cant be perfect, but I can forgive myself for my mistakes. I can keep going, and keep trying everyday to be the best version of myself. I have done everything I could, and I trust myself to do the right thing.

I hope you take an opportunity today to affirm yourself, or write manifestations for yourself. To write a clear goal and intention can sometimes be all it takes to make a positive change. Everyone is capable of growth, but manifestation can lead to the outlook necessary to make real change. Take good care, and receive all that you deserve.

~ yours, one of the many daughters of Aphrodite 🪷

#aphrodite devotee #aphrodite #spells #witchcraft #manifestation #manifesting #affirmations #positive #self love #trauma #growth #ptsd #Wicca #hellenic paganism #positivity

[skadi-gemini]

Potential trigger warnings: Talk of mental health. No thoughts of dying, just venting some frustrations. If you’re not in a good headspace, I understand. Take care of yourselves. ❤️

~~~~~~~~~~

The thing about mental illness is that the negative words that people repeatedly tell you about yourself start to warp into fact. It’s all you hear on the daily. That becomes part of you. It shapes you. I am so frustrated when people say to just simply ignore it when that is physically impossible.

It’s like your standing in an empty room but the voices of the people who verbally hurt you are screaming at the top of their lungs.

“You’re not Autistic.”

“You don’t have ADHD.”

“Your dEpReSsIoN is just you being lazy.”

“You’re not a real adult. You act like a child, so I’ll call you a child.”

“You’re selfish and only care about yourself.”

“When I was your age…”

“Why are you faking that?”

“Stop being a negative Nancy.”

“Don’t be a Debbie Downer all the time.”

“You’re so opinionated that you’re toxic because you’re set in your ways.”

“All you do is procrastinate.”

“You’re a spoiled brat.”

I’m reminded of soup when it comes to mental health, lately. It was the soup. The soup I was so proud of. The soup that I excitedly bought ingredients for and made from scratch, putting time and care into that soup. That soup can be improved next time, but it was my pride and joy.

A simple thing such as soup! Oh, the way I tear up just thinking about that soup and how proud of myself I was that it came out delicious. I made this soup as a copycat to a soup that Panera Bread carried in 2015. This soup had been a comfort to me, a warm hug during moments where I heard nothing but those voices. The soup was discontinued but not forgotten. My comfort soup. My brothy hug of kale, lentils, quinoa, and tasty tomatoey broth with a quarter slice of a French Baguette for dipping.

The soup.

I managed to make this soup…but better and actually homemade, unlike Panera’s. I woke up earlier than usual to make my soup. I put effort into my soup. My soup came out wonderful, but with a few needed modifications next time. I felt good about this soup. Proud of this soup. Proud that I made something healthy and delicious for my family to eat while I was at work.

But I was told, per usual about things that excite me, that the soup was nasty. I was told that no one asked for it. I was told that “once again you made something no one will eat”.

“Why do you always do this?”; “You’re so selfish.”

Caught in the winds of my excitement, my sails were stilled in the wake of being shamed, once again, for something that I thought would be appreciated. That my effort and love language through food would be accepted. As always, it was the soup. That damn soup.

That soup no one asked for.

That soup that I was to feel ashamed for and feel that I shouldn’t be so selfish and self centered; it was the soup all along.

Do you understand where I’m going with this? What my soup means? Do you see that it’s always been the soup? The soup is the problem. I am the soup. I am the problem.

Why does it have to be like that? And why can’t it be better?

That damn delicious soup.

Never be ashamed of your soup.

#mental illness #mental health #my family is so toxic #eat the fucking soup and give them the finger #I’d love to give the recipe if anyone wants it 🥺 #homemade soup #made from scratch #healthy meals equal healthy mentality #blood family sucks #chosen family is where it’s at #it’s about the soup

[monmuses]

[ 🐺 ] does your muse have trouble relying on others? why or why not?

[ 👶 ] is your muse good with kids, or do they prefer to avoid them?

[ 🤪 ] what is your muse’s sense of humour like? are they known for being joking, or serious?

[ 🧀 ] is there something your muse can’t live down, no matter how hard they try? what is it? if not, is there something your muse has said or done that embarrasses them?

[ 🦋 ] does your muse have any unconventional interests? what are they?

[ 🔇 ] is your muse a pushover, or do they tend to stand up for themselves?

[ 🧜‍♂️ ] is there anyone that isn’t part of your muse’s blood family that they consider family? what is their relationship with that person or those people like? / For Scout, Spy and Sniper

headcanon memes inspired by things i like, part 2.

⤿   inspired by my ocs

>Scout generally can work with other people, but runs off to do his own shenanigans because that's just how he is. He's not a "lone wolf" type, but he just has his own methods to get stuff done faster in his own way. He'll work with his team, yes, but at the fastest he can go.

>I have ZERO clue. This man is incredibly immature still and would not be a good father in a logical kind of way. He'd rather be more playful than literal since he never had a decent father figure in his life (thanks Spy).

>He's known to be an incredible jokester. He's one to play pranks all the time and to fight his way to hold his spot on the team. He knows a few jokes here and there but most of the time, they tend to out him as a bit of a jerk when he does try to be funny.

>The Bread Monster breakout whilst trying to get a date with Ms. Pauling. That alone, he feels partially responsible for (and she probably mentions it anytime they're together and she wants to joke with him.

>Scout is actually a pretty damn good artist. He's got more of a comicbook style of drawing and like doodling various poses and sccenarios shown in the Expiration Date mini-movie.

>He is not a pushover. Well, tries not to. He gets teased a lot, sure, but he ALWAYS holds his ground no matter what. Even if he gets kicked and pushed for it, he does not back down when he's shoved a certain way.

>Between him and the team, he definitely has Sniper as a sort of older brother that he considers. With them two, it's a lot of bickering between them since Sniper is just as arrogant sometimes when he's at his worst.

>He can work with other people, but in a professional matter. He has little interest when it comes to actually befriending those around him as he likes to keep his own life very, very private. I'm sure he has at least one work friend (probably Engineer or Heavy). However, to get on his good side is... very difficult. He's incredibly strict, and for good reason.

>I think to a certain degree, Spy is good with kids. However, when it came to Scout and his brothers, he had to leave due to work purposes. He couldn't stick around and could not come back because of it, leaving them in the dust with a single mother.

>With Spy, his sense of humor is rather sarcastic and morbid; straight to the punch and won't hesitate to degrade others for his humor (he's French).

>There are very few things that do embarrass Spy, but he never deliberately talks about them to other people. He keeps those private to himself, so on the rare occasion you do end up finding something he's embarrassed about? He makes sure you won't mention it. And he won't say what that is. Even I don't know.

>I like to believe that Spy dabbles in a bit of photography in his spare time. From the porn photos he had of him and Scout's mom that were stolen, he has one real good photo he keeps of them to himself. To him, photos are very precious in a way to save the times he remembers dearly.

>Spy is not a pushover in the slightest. He knows how to use weaknesses against those who test him, so honestly? Don't mess with him and he won't mess with you.

>Definitely Engineer to a certain degree. He's the most level-headed person he's befriended on the team, and he's comfortable relaxing around him. Between them, it's merely a friendship to where Spy is not on the defense that much.

>Absolutely not. This man is a lone wolf on purpose and does not like being around other people. You'll find him by himself at any meals or group events with the team, either on the sidelines or literally in the next room over. He does not work well with other people and he's very quiet and blunt about it.

>Probably? He could raise a kid on his own just with his set of skills since he works by himself most of the time. However, he'd have a more rural way of doing so. His patience is limited but with kids? He could absolutely do it.

>Sniper's is also similar to Spy's but more so in a direct insulting sense of humor. That's how he finds humor in his work, often laughing at the mistakes of others getting in his line of sight.

>Not exactly, no. There's not many things that Sniper is embarrassed about, honestly? He's not one to feel embarrassment or humiliation in some way.

>Sniper has an insane amount of craftsmanship; he makes his own weapons and modifies them with his hunting, but can also modify his camper if need be. His level of survival adds to that too, and he has that skill of being able to sustain himself for a long period of time.

>Sniper isn't. In fact, he'll pick a fight if he's being shoved around by somebody who doesn't know him. Sure, he and Scout bicker a lot, but that comes from the fact that they know each other. Anyone else? Immediate death.

>Weirdly enough, between most folks, he gets along with Spy pretty well. He's very quiet about things and straightforward, but likes striking a conversation with him when he feels like it.

#pvachypessa #✨{𝔯𝔢𝔮𝔲𝔢𝔰𝔱 𝔯𝔢𝔠𝔢𝔦𝔳𝔢𝔡; (𝔞𝔰𝔨 𝔞𝔫𝔰𝔴𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔡) #✨{𝔭𝔞𝔭𝔢𝔯 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔭𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔦𝔩; (𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔠𝔞𝔫𝔬𝔫) #✨{𝔦’𝔪 𝔤𝔬𝔫𝔫𝔞 𝔟𝔢𝔞𝔱 𝔬𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔰𝔨𝔲𝔩𝔩 ‘𝔱𝔦𝔩 𝔦 𝔥𝔦𝔱 𝔱𝔬𝔫𝔰𝔦𝔩𝔰!; (𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔱) #✨{𝔦’𝔩𝔩 𝔰𝔢𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔦𝔫 𝔥𝔢𝔩𝔩… 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔰𝔬𝔪𝔢 𝔯𝔬𝔤𝔲𝔢!; (𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔭𝔶) #✨{𝔶𝔬𝔲’𝔩𝔩 𝔟𝔢 𝔫𝔢𝔢𝔡𝔦𝔫’ 𝔞𝔫𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔲𝔰𝔢 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔫𝔢𝔠𝔨!; (𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔫𝔦𝔭𝔢𝔯)

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Duff 18/End

Warnings: groping, insecurity, food and body issues, manipulation, and the usual. Proceed with caution.

Feedback is always welcome. Love you and thanks for the wonderful responses so far. ♥♥♥♥

Image credit (I want to give dues where due but don’t want the creator to keep getting tagged in my posts as I have been approached by some before that they don’t want me in their notifs)

You wake up in still silence. The chirping of birds wafts in with the scent of grass. You must’ve left your window open. The city doesn’t usually smell this fresh.

You roll over and stretch, an odd weight clinging to your ankle. Your alarm hasn’t even gone off yet. You could probably get a few more minutes in before–

You bend your leg. The pressure on your ankle becomes more obvious. You rub your eyes and let your vision clear. You stare at the ceiling, the wooden slats only vaguely familiar. You’re not in your apartment.

Slowly, the memory seeps in. Oh, shit.

You turn your head and look around the room. The cottage, once quaint and homey, is now a cell. Were anyone else to walk in, they would see it as cozy and welcoming. To you it is a trap.

The bedframe groans as you sit up. You pull back the blanket to examine the cuff around your ankle. The chain clinks against the wooden leg of the bed and you sigh. Fuck. This is fucked. This can’t be happening. It’s not real!

You’re sleeping. This is a nightmare. This isn’t true. It can’t be.

You smell maple and hear stirring in the next room. You face the door as he enters. Oh god, wake up, please. He smiles, unbothered by the twisted scene of you with a chain at your ankle. That’s how you know it must be a dream.

“Good morning,” Curtis greets fondly.

He sets down the plate on the small armchair in the corner. He takes his time in setting up a metal TV tray with flowers painted on it before you. He places the stack of french toast in front of you, syrup dripping around the crust.

You stare at the powdered sugar and don’t move. You close your eyes. Wake up, wake up, wake up.

“Bunny, are you okay?”

No.

Not okay.

This is all very not okay.

“Bunny?”

Your eyes snap open, “this isn’t real. It can’t be…”

“Aw, baby,” he coos and bends his knees, meeting your eye line as he squats, “I can hardly believe it either. We can be together, just you and me. No work, no creepy bosses…” he sneers past you, “just us.”

Your lips part as you pinch your leg. Once, twice, three times. Each harder than the last. You are very much lucid. This is real.

“Now,” he stands and takes the knife and fork. “You should eat. I made these special for you. With my secret ingredient,” he speaks chipperly as he cuts into the stack, “I know you’ll love them.”

Your eyes glisten and you watch his hands. You’re stunned silent. You tingle all over. You feel like you could combust. He can’t be serious. He can’t think this is okay. How can he pretend this is normal?

He pokes a forkful towards you and you shut your mouth. He prods at your lips but you refuse to open. He sighs and growls, “bunny…”

You part your lips and let him place the small piece of toast into your mouth. You chew the sweet sponge bread, just once and hold it in your mouth.

“Good, isn’t it?” He asks.

Your eyes flick up to his face as he rescinds the fork. You scrunch your lips and shove the tray over as you stand. You spit your mouthful in his face and run around the bed to the window. You lean on the window and stick your head out.

“HELP! Somebody! PLEASE! HELP! Help me!” You cry out into the sprawling forest.

You hear him behind you. He hooks his arm around your middle and wrenches your inside. You narrowly keep from cracking your head on the frame. He hauls you back as you writhe.

“Let me go! Curtis, please– you’re crazy! You can’t do this. You can’t keep me here!”

“I’m not crazy,” he snarls as you struggle against him, “I love you!”

“No, no, you don’t. You barely know me!” You whine as you claw at his wrists, “I– I don’t love you back. Please, please, I’m scared. Let me go–”

He spins you and tosses you at the bed. You hit it, the impact causing you to bite your tongue. You roll over as he approaches, cupping your mouth as you kick out, trying to keep him away. He catches the chain and stills your ankle. You throw out your other foot and he slaps it down.

“You do,” he grits out, “I know you do–”

“Please, please,” you reach above you, trying to drag yourself away from him.

“No!” He climbs up between your legs, “you do! You love me, baby. I know you do,” he bends over you, bringing his hand to your throat as he pets your cheek with the other, “You do, bunny, you do. I know you’re scared. I know. No one’s ever treated you right, but I will.”

You sniffle as you continue to feel along the other edge of the bed. The pressure of his hand on your neck terrifies you. You touch his knuckles gently as your tears bead song the brims of your eyes and roll out.

“You’re scaring me. You’re… hurting me,” you whine.

“No, no, I wouldn’t,” he eases up, stroking your chin instead, “I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t hurt you.”

“Curtis,” you lay paralysed, adrenaline coursing and flooding your heart, “Curtis, please, this isn’t love. It– You– You kidnapped me–”

“What? No. I saved you.”

“Saved me? Curtis, no, no, this isn’t–”

“Shhhh,” he hushes you and covers your mouth with his hand, “I know I was your first, baby, and it’s new and confusing. This is how it’s supposed to be. It’s meant to be…” He brushes his lips against his hand, “you and me. Forever.”

#curtis everett x reader #dark curtis everett #curtis everett #dark!curtis everett #snowpiercer #series #au #drabble #the DUFF

[rotzaprachim]

ok someone literally force me to finish this but ted lasso au with zoya as roy literally the most important thing 

trigger warning for...  grooming and  abuse and everything implied about zoya’s past in the books

[And there’d been the awful part of zoya that sat in the narrow strips of time she sat feeling sorry for herself and blaming the world for her own inertia when Kirigan came calling and told her she was meant for the greatest of things.] And Zoya had been seventeen, and embarrassed to have to ring home every time she needed to have her aunt give the all clear to do fucking anything, and embarrased to have to call in days for holidays her manager had never heard of, and embarrassed to go the pub after practice sessions with only her school ID. She’d been embarrassed until she’d scored the winning goal her first real game and she’d sat, exhausted and elated with an ice pack ace-wrapped to her shins, with the usual soda water and half-glass of maraschino cherries the bartender always gave her as consolation prize to her youth, now slick, smug, joyful nod that she was younger than any of them and could do twice the job of the more senior players on the team. 

“My little shining star,” Kirigan had said, pulling her up to stand on the stool at the head of the table so the players could clap and cheer for her under his icy gaze. Zoya smiled inwardly under the team member’s smirks, happy they so clearly hated her. “The best player in this league. Watch how she slams down the way for the rest of you.” And Zoya had been so proud she’d been chosen for something, and done well. 

Her first year, Zoya won and won and won. She graced the cover of the Guardian and the Independent and got to be number nine on Seventeen Magazine’s Eighteen under Eighteen, wearing the kind of poofy tulle dress Zoya would never have been caught wearing at the dances she’d skipped off of at school. She won some more. She got offers on offers and Kirigan gave them to her from a stack on his shiny wood desk and she’d known she could never, ever leave the team that made them. She won games. Kirigan took her to events that didn’t ask for her ID anymore and gave her as many tall, skinny glasses of fizzy-sweet champagne as she could drink [without being sick in restrooms where you dried your hands on thick fabric towels.] Kirigan took her to restaurants that printed their menus in French and handed out bread with little metal tongues. When the meal was finished, he paid, smiling, and with a knowing glance at her still-pubescent, train-seven-hours-a-day screaming hunger, walked her right around the block to places cut into the red-brick crevasses of the city where they destroyed platters of pirogi and mutton curry and vegetable biryani, the same grease on both their fingers. Kirigan took her to parties and pronounced her the rising star to save all of football, worldwide, and for the first time the things he said about Zoya felt heavy, but it was a good sort of weight, the kind she’d been young enough to believe her shoulders were wide enough to carry. Kirigan personally handed her the rising tide of presents Zoya thought were gifts, artisanal coffee and avant garde silver journey from designers who’d give anything for her to wear their product in public, and when the little velvet boxes came straight from Kirigan’s hands, Zoya could pretend they were gifts from him. Kirigan picked her up in his shiny black limousine and took her to an event at the top of a skyscraper in the center of the city where on a white leather couch sat a man Kirigan bowed to and called the king of sports. On his right arm was a redhead who Kirigan kissed the hand of and Zoya hated her beyond anyone she’d ever hated. On the elevator down Kirigan told Zoya what she was. 

“Not like you,” he said. “My little shining star.” 

When the team played away games, they slept four to a room in Premier Inns and ate breakfast bars from Aldi flatpacks. Zoya didn’t mind. She liked, in a way, being the kiddo let indulgently into the adult worlds the other players were in a spectral array dealing with: down payments on posh flats, mother-in-laws, alimony checks. Sex, sex, and more sex. When they played Cardiff halfway through the season, Zoya got a signed letter from Kirigan suggesting it might be inappropriate for her to continue her sleeping arrangements while she was still a minor. She stayed in the Marriot, in her own room, and sat on the surprisingly cold bed sheets holding her phone to call home and feeling somehow like she shouldn’t. Like her aunt would be angry with her, for her good fortune, for the endless rivers of milk and honey flowing so steadily from Zoya’s hard work. So she didn’t call home that time, just like she didn’t wear her awkward home-knit jumpers and sale-bin clothing, just like she cut her home visits to the High Holidays and stayed up playing the rest of the year. Her aunt told her she must be busy, that she loved her always, that she understood. 

Zoya slammed shut her phone. She ordered ludicrously expensive tomato soup on Kirigan’s tab, to see if she could. She wandered the city at night on her own, looping up from the harbour to the football stadium that had a mast stuck to the side of it, pretending to be a boat. There was a crowd in a pub around there, singing in a language that she could not understand but knew was about the football playing on the television and because it was about football it was her language, and she could. They stood with their arms around each other, singing, and Zoya walked down to the river and felt all the things she felt terrible for feeling, when her life was this good. 

She knew, then. The trouble was that Zoya knew. The whole fucking time, she knew. She was not a person for whom good things ever lasted. 

The next morning Zoya did not eat the flat-packed breakfast bars. She had the croissants and sliced pineapple and little glass jars of yogurt with foil lids that room service sent up. She showered and tied up her hair in a perfect swishy ponytail and when she came downstairs packed and ready Kirigan was waiting for her. He had reception call them a car, and on the way to the stadium Zoya’s stomache felt oddly swishy. 

She won. She almost laughed, afterwards. The idea that do anything else was ridiculous. It was what she had been made to do. 

----

He didn’t fuck her till she was twenty five and on a six-year loss streak. That one didn’t come out until the court hearings, and after she said it, Zoya felt a dirtiness unlike anything she’d ever felt before, rising up out of the cut marble floor and coating every inch of her impeccable Armani suit.

#i need a tag for super rough drafts #like i need to prove they exist to myself more than i need anyone to read them #the ted lasso au #i just NEED the story about zoya petering out from teenage wunderkind who she was never meant to be into thirty something leader #like i need it so bad. also zoya x genya as roy keeley. genya as keeley it is SO important

[awrldalone]

10th June 2022, 9.47pm

I am eating a shattered fortune cookie on the floor of my bathroom. My sister has just returned from a sushi dinner with my father and the slip of paper tells me that my pace is very strong. The sweet plasticky taste of the cookie lingers in my mouth.

I have a lot to say tonight. A lot to tell. A lot of memories I need to write down as they’re still fresh. It’s only been a week yet the corners of the pictures are fading. Water damage, I guess.

Last Thursday, I was happy for a few hours. After waking up, my gut full of love and anticipation, I started washing fruits, packing for a picnic; I shaved, meticulously analyzing my body and comparing it to the twisted idea that I have of it from the last time I shaved fully. It was a month prior, it was also before seeing M. 

I always feel bigger than what I used to be; my reflection always feels more carnal, every time I look at it I gain substance, both in a bad way and in a good way. My ass definitely looked rounder, softer, and I thought that I hoped he would notice, and that I hoped he would like it. 

All clean, I left the house. My bag was heavy, the bottle of rosato - I thought it was rosé, his favorite, but once he saw the pink sparkly wine he laughed like he only does, and he said it was not rosé, at least not the real kind; I liked this sunset-colored prosecco better, though - was cold and the cover of my copy of The Virgin Suicides was starting to get wet. I bought him flowers. I was scared all the stores would be closed because of Republic Day, and they were, but a man in a cap was selling fresh flowers underneath a tree. 

I got colorful ones, small little buds, tiny petals. I prefer the flowers that look wild; ideally I would have gotten him daisies, his favorite, but they do not sell them this time of year. 

The bus came late. I was at the airport early. Checking the arrivals timetable frenetically, incessantly, I waited. Next to me another boy, with a prettier bouquet of flowers, was standing patiently. Fortunately, his girlfriend arrived before M. I listened to the conversations of a bleach-blonde lady in her fifties who was waiting for a group of American tourists and a man with thin dark-brown hair holding a sign written in Chinese. They said nothing. They complained. I did not register their words. His red shirt was the first thing I saw, in the corner of my left eye.

And I hugged him. He held me tight, I wanted to be held tighter, I wanted him to never leave, I wished his arms never untied from my waist. Once we pulled apart, like a ripe peach, he smiled. I like his teeth, pearly and joyous. I offered him the flowers. It was the first time someone had ever done it, and I knew it and I wanted to be the first to do it. After all, he came all the way here for me. 

He seemed taller, and I realized it was because I was not wearing my platform shoes. The bus arrived twenty minutes later, while we sat on a wooden bench, and his head rested on my shoulder. His curls tickled my neck, he slightly smelled of salt, sweat, laundry detergent. We held hands. I held his he held mine we held hands. Even when we sat next to each other, he laid his hand on top of mine, he laid his forearm on top of mine, saying he wanted to feel more of me. I had waited, I had dreamt for a whole month for that moment. To feel his heat, his mellow skin.

The park was sunny, and we found a tree to sit under. I unpacked my back, displaying the picnic I had prepared. The French have a verb for having a picnic. Pique-niquer. It sounds funny when I say it out loud. 

He does not like Italian bread. He likes pistachios, I love pistachios, he loved the wine, I liked the hummus. We cuddled on the grass, despite the fact I had brought my bedsheets there. His heartbeat was strong, real, and everything lead me to his mouth. It is much easier to describe what fingertips feel rather than the thoughts racing through my head. The longing for more, and for nothing more than what I had. The fear of losing everything, the fear of his shirt slipping through my fingers, or the grass disappearing from beneath us. The need to let that moment be crystallized in eternity. Like an insect in amber resin. 

He asked if he could treat me to a drink in Venice, with enacted gallantry, funny over-formal manners, and I said yes. I cleaned up everything, he threw away the trash – a boy stopped us, and my heart sank. Because what if he saw us? What if he was about to punch us, him, me, call us faggots, tell us not to do that shit on the street? I clenched my jaw. He spoke Spanish, then Italian, then English, and all he wanted to ask was whether M. was single, because his friend, a girl hidden behind a tree, was interested.

My stomach felt heavy. He said that he was not interested. We laughed about it later, because did that guy not see us cuddling?

And then I tripped on my own feet. We were walking on a bridge, the one that connects the park to the tram station to get to Venice, and I asked him. I wanted to do it at the airport, but I had not had the guts to do it. It felt like the perfect moment, right there: he had his flowers in his hand, the sun shone on him, painting him warm colors and making my words look sparkly. I asked him to be my boyfriend.

He said no. I held my breath, the blood pumping in my temples, my eyes immediately running away from him because he suddenly was shining too bright for my sight. My lips were glued together. 

He explained himself. He said it was because of distance, because of the future, because it was uncertain what would be of us next year. He said he would have asked me in a few days, after receiving the results from the French universities we applied to, because he was not sure he could deal with us being so distant, and seeing each other so rarely. I said I understood, and even thought I did not, because in that moment I would have risked it, I would have wanted him to be my boyfriend despite everything, despite the rational response, I stayed quiet and let the subject drop. I did not want to ruin our time together.

The results for our applications came out that day. On the tram, he checked his account, and he got accepted or waitlisted in a lot of his choices. I could not check, since I had forgotten my password, which was saved on my laptop. 

By the time we got to the hostel he was spending the night in, it was already eleven p.m. He was so sleepy, his eyes were cute and sweet. He kissed me before going to his room, and he left the bouquet with me, keeping only a few flowers, which I still have. They dried like pink tissue paper. I threw the rest in a bin; not in a mean manner, not in the heartbroken anger that should have filled my heart, but rather in the pure practicality of having to go back home.

I checked my results, still fully dressed, my shoes dirty on the floor. I applied to only one university. And I got rejected. So that means I am going to the Netherlands next year. I started at the white screen until my eyes ached, waiting for the tears to come. 

My bed was cold and lonely that night.

-c.

#diary

[zombies-aliens]

I had a very weird encounter with this gay dude in his like 40s or something. I'm assuming he's gay because of his mannerisms it was very feminine. Happened at around 6:07 lasted for about a good 5 minutes or longer can't honestly tell the duration of it. But I was working and the guy came up me, he asked me if he could get a basket, and holy fuck thinking back this is how this weird fuck was trying to get me alone, he had a bread with him like one of those french breads that are long, and he asked me if I could get a basket for him so I told him yeah I can help you, as I was walking with him he fucking started asking me weird questions real quick. This guy asked for my name, which is not the weird part, asked for my last name, which now realizing I told him makes me uncomfortable, and then that's when he asked me personal questions like when I lost my virginity, and my dumbass self was answering thinking this is gonna be a short conversation.. dude I swear I'm a dumbass. He was talking about sex he was using the word fucking instead of sex which isn't scary to me in itself but I was uncomfortable because it was at work and he's asking me these weird ass questions about my virginity, how many times I've had sex, what I do if I'm horny... wtf..

And I changed the subject and asked if he still needed a basket and he said yeah so I told him I'll get him one, im trying to leave the conversation and get to my work, and this weirdo follows me out the store with his bread and I told him to wait because he can't walk out with his bread and his dumbass put it in the recycle bin, takes it out, then puts it on the side on some random shit. I'm weird out at this point bc idk why the tf he needs to be out with me but I know why now. He wanted to seduce me or some shit idfk. But he gave me pedophile vibes because I know I look young, and I know people see me as young, just the other day a lady told me I look 17. So whatever this guy was planning wasn't good I mean no fucking shit tho but. This guy was idk man he grosses me out, I think he's a rapist or something.

Once this sicko asked me how big I am.. I went tf inside the store. We were standing by the carts where we have them outside by the doors, with a camera that I'm sure saw the whole thing but idk if it has audio recording, and well once he asked me how big I am, I went inside I told him I have to get back to work, I heard him say noo, and I turned my back and walked away inside this mofo is following me inside but there's security guy next to me and I stood next to him, and I stayed with him until he went away, the security guy didn't know what was going on but stood there and I'm glad he did, and I'm glad he was there. This fuck switched up and asks about a regular basket just trying to repeat the same scenario. Asking me stupid questions, and eventually he went away. I told the security guy what happened he understands little English so we used Google translator, and I told him what happened by the carts outside. He told me to tell him to fuck off next time, and honestly I felt like a bitch man. Because I was so scared. I'm not saying he meant to make me feel that way, I know the security guy we say hi and dap each other up, he's a friendly good guy. I took my lunch right after and idk what to do I have to speak my mind and talk about this like what the fuck just happened 😐. I'm fine though, I mean I'm shaken up by it but man I got away at least. But still man. I was scared and he probably knew. Maybe that's why he was so persistent. I was showing weakness. I'm sorry I'm just trying to process all of this. I can't believe I was talking to a guy who was probably trying to fucking r word me.

[nixonnixon36]

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[abbott88vad]

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At this 12 months's Basel International Fair and Watch, the Jianyue Life Edition smartwatch collection was in the spotlight and attracted countless media and viewer pals. After months of rigorous research and development, the watches lastly arrived with a complete setup of the complete collection. The design of the dial combines nostalgia with trendy design, easy lines and a great look, inheriting the retro style of the printed series. There are additionally black, brown, blue, mild gray and ivory white straps, which give a different temper. That brings us to the end of our actual vs pretend Yves Saint Laurent Loulou bag legit examine information. We will proceed to replace this article as better and newer comparisons are put out. In 1994, a big calendar mark appeared together with the Saxonia series. In the actual vs fake Yves Saint Laurent Loulou bag photographs above, we've identified the fact that on the fake YSL’s carbines, the “SAINT LAURENT” textual content appears to be printed deeper than the legit “SAINT LAURENT” textual content. In the real vs fake Yves Saint Laurent Loulou bag picture above, you'll find a way to see how the depth of the stitches is smaller than the depth of the legit stitches . The authentic magnetic closure is smooth, reflective, and fairly massive whereas the fake one is matte, much smaller and the screw in the midst of the closure is questionable too. The circle in the middle needs to be bigger and smooth simply as shown in the left picture. best ysl replica handbags The lettering on the pretend lock is tiny when the letters are supposed to be bolder, thicker, and larger just as shown in the left image. PurseValleyfactory.ru has taken direct cost of the operations and has no further connection with pursevalley.cn or any other website whatsoever.

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