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runwiththieves-blog · 7 years

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I’M GONNA DO A QUICK LIL INTRODUCTION HERE SISTERS! bc i’m lame and new!!! well i’m not new to the fandom etc but this is a fresh blog and this is the first time i’ve ever posted my writings anywhere for the general public (who happens to be searching for harry styles smut) can read it and I’M GEEKIN TBQH!! anyway, hi hello – i have a name, but im gonna let u guys call me T, even tho my name starts w H. H would get too confusing should this work out the way i’m hoping it will! so i’m T. and i like writing and harry styles and so i thought i, along with everyone i scream about H to in the wee hours of the night, would probably find it beneficial if i had blog where i could do that and ppl who actually want to read about how i want him to spit in my mouth! i’ve been a silent lurker of the tags for awhile now (shoutout to @stylesunchained, @permanentcross, @jawllines, @canistay-haz for the inspo behind me finally making this godforsaken blog) (please be my friend) (i’m very intimidated by all of u). so yeah i hope this works out, and if not then it was fun to share this little bit of a something with all of u! and if it does then i’ll likely post a pt 2 to this! if u like it like/reblog if ur into the kinda thing ig :) also my praise kink is jsut as alive as harrys and my ask box is always open to discuss either one <3

“Pet,” he starts, and you smile, because after a long moment of just standing there and listening to each other breathe, you hear the familiar nickname and know you’ve got him back. “You are the meanest, most stubborn, woman ’ve ever met. Got a bloke full on puttin’ himself out there in front ‘f thousands, 'nd you run away. Same bloke tells ya’ exactly what he means even after that, 'nd ya’ tell me I don’t mean it?” He murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear it. “Tell me how I can prove it to ya’,” he adds before you can get another word in, and he seems to already have a good idea, because his nose is brushing against yours already, but you quickly figure out that it’s going to take you asking for it before he does it, because Harry’s humble, but he has his pride, and you doubt he needs you fucking with it anymore tonight.

“’M going to start screaming if you don’t kiss me in the next three seconds,” you state, and he’s laughing as he presses his lips to yours, his hand cupping your cheek, and it’s gentle and soft and everything you ever imagined kissing Harry for the first time would be like.

And that’s how you die.

Harry’s your best friend and then you realize a lot of things, mostly that you’re an idiot

7k+, smut, overuse of the word ‘because’

It’s when you’re sitting on the couch next to him that you have your ’oh god’ moment where you realize that you’re actually really into him.

Harry hasn’t done anything to provoke this. He’s literally just sitting there, being his angel-like self because he can’t help it, it’s just who he is and you’ve accepted that. He’s beautiful and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. But you can feel it down to your toes when you look over to him and your heart nearly leaps out of your chest because he’s already looking at you, like he knows.

“’S wrong, pet? Not in the mood t'cuddle w'me today?” His voice suddenly breaks the comfortable silence you had fallen into, and you feel yourself flush down to your chest because this is Harry calling you out for being weird with him. You’re pretty sure there’s supposed to be at least a three month pining window before he starts to notice.

He’s Harry, though — not megastar Harry Styles, or the Harry his fans have dreamed up in their fantasy worlds where he takes them on luxury getaways whenever he has downtime (you guess they have no idea that he would rather watch romantic comedies and drink wine on the comfort of his own couch). To you, he’s the Harry who held your hair back while you threw up the first night you met at one of Nick’s parties. He’s the Harry who then proceeded to make his home, whenever he got to hangout with Nick and the rest of his friends, right beside you. He’s the Harry who insists that you sleep in his bed with him whenever you’ve had a bit too much to drink (and when you haven’t), instead of crashing on the couch (there are a gazillion fully furnished bedrooms in his house, you’d never have to crash on the couch, but you always crawl into bed with him instead of pointing that out). He’s the Harry who sort of just wiggled his way into your life and heart four years ago and forced you to be his best mate, whether you liked it or not, because he liked you.

So of course he notices when something is off with you. He always has, so you’re not entirely sure why you thought he wouldn’t notice when you went dead silent and put three miles between the two of you, when you had just been curled up against him like you always were on nights like this (and nights not like this, just kind of whenever the two of you were in the general vicinity of each other).

“Jus’ getting t'be a bit sleepy, I think. Think ’m gonna call it a night soon,” you say, and then you spare a glance to the clock on the wall, and it’s barely half ten, and Harry knew damn well that you almost never fell asleep before midnight, and if you did you’d wake up at three in the morning unable to get back to sleep.

The lie seems to do it’s job, though, because he doesn’t press you for further explanation, despite the fact that he’s looking at you in a way that lets you know he knows you’re bullshitting him and he’s bound to find out whatever it is that’s clearly bothering you. It almost feels like a challenge, but you know that this isn’t a game, and Harry gaining knowledge of your newest revelation would change everything, and probably not for the better.

It’s when you’re putting your answer into action that he presses further, because you’re grabbing for your keys, instead of announcing that you’re going to sleep with a kiss to his cheek, or wherever you can reach, and heading up the stairs to his bedroom. “Y'not staying?” He questions, and he’s got a pointed look about his face, and he really looks genuinely concerned, because you’ve never not stayed after a night like this. “’M supposed to meet m'mum for brunch,” you say, and you know it’s a lame excuse, because you’ve stayed over at Harry’s and went to work the next day with no problem. It also doesn’t help that he knows there’s no way your mum isn’t in town, because she would have texted him and made dinner plans a week in advance. They were close like that and you momentarily hate them for it.

He’s looking you over from where he sits and you don’t know if you’ve ever felt more small or intimidated in your life, and all he’s done is look at you. That’s all he’s done all night, really, and you feel like you’re about to claw your way out of your own skin because of it.

The three month pining window would kill you, probably, so scratch that.

“Has anyone ever told you what an awful liar you are? I mean, I know I haven’t, but that’s because you’ve never lied t'me,” he says, and the words send chills all over you skin, because you’ve been maybe not necessarily caught, but he knows there’s something going on, and you don’t know how to get yourself out of this one.

“I’ll cancel,” you finally tell him, accepting defeat, but not admitting to the lie. The fact that there is nothing to cancel isn’t something either of you bring up, even though you both know it.

“Wanna tell me why you’ve been a mile away fr’m me all night, while we’re at it?” He murmurs, and you just shake your head, setting your keys back down on the coffee table and fitting yourself into Harry’s side. “I just didn’t want t'bother you, s'all. You’ve had people all over you for a month now, w'your album 'nd all. Wanted t'give you your space,” you explain, even though you know he’ll see right through that excuse, too, if he really thinks about it, but it’s not nearly as opaque as the brunch thing.

It’s when he calls her cute and tucks her head under his chin that she knows she’s in the clear, for now at least, and she smiles silently.

—–

You’re in his dressing room helping him get ready for one of his secret shows when it happens again.

It’s nothing different from what you’re usually doing when you get to go to one of his shows, even did it the last couple of years that One Direction toured. You’ve seen all his bits and helped him cover each and every part of them at some point or another, so seeing him without clothes has never had a very strong effect on you (okay, well it did, because you’re human and you’re not blind to the fact that Harry’s gorgeous, but you did a damn good job of hiding it).

And he’s not even naked now, not really — he’s wearing a pair of black boxer briefs, and he’s got his shirt covering his arms, and you’re standing in front of him buttoning (and smirking up at him when he unbuttons one more of the top buttons, even though you know not to even try to start at the top and fix him up proper) from top to bottom, like you always do. It’s become something you just do, no questions asked and for no real reason, because Harry is perfectly capable of buttoning his own shirt. You just like to do it, you suppose, and he’s never had a complaint.

Your fingertips drag across his lower abdomen by accident, before you’ve finished, though, and you swear you feel like your entire body’s on fire, and he hasn’t even touched you.

“I like this shirt,” you tell him as you drag your hands over the fabric covering his tattooed chest to smooth it out. You don’t even know why you said it, it’s like you were trying to distract him from the much more intimate, in your head at least, touch before, even though he probably didn’t even notice or think anything of it if he did.

“’S the ruffles, innit? Makes all the girls wild f'me,” he says, and you know he’s teasing, but his smirk lets you believe for just a moment that he’s flirting with you.

He’s not. It’s something you decide quite easily for the both of you, because it’s easier to shut your brain down that way than let it wonder if, maybe, possibly, he might be feeling everything that you are. You’re a very humble and grounded person, and ironically enough, you pride yourself in being just that. You wouldn’t dare let yourself believe that Harry Styles would ever have any romantic interest in you.

“’S too bad I only care that this one’s wild about it,” he says, kissing your cheek, but it’s so close to your lips, just barely brushing against the corner of your mouth, that you feel dizzy from more than just his statement.

Well. Maybe that changes things little bit.

Because you’re the only one in the room with him, so it’s not like there’s some other girl lurking in the shadows that you didn’t know about. Also, he almost kissed you. Like, really kissed you. Mouth to mouth. Does he know he almost did that? Does he know that you feel like you’re going to pass out the more you think about it? Also, what does that even mean? Why does he only care that you’re 'wild’ about him? There are so many questions and you feel like you’re going to start screaming any second, so you decide a shot of tequila is the best option right now.

–

You’re standing at the side of stage when you realize there’s no coming back from this.

He’s performing 'Woman’ and you don’t think you’ve ever witnessed anything as provocative as this. He’s really into the song, is the thing, and you’re certain he could tell any girl in the building to drop her panties for him, and they would in a heartbeat. You’ll pretend that you aren’t part of that group.

Until he’s looking to the side of the stage, like he’s looking for someone, and once his gaze finds yours and stays there, you realize it’s you that he was looking for.

And oh. Oh.

You are definitely, undeniably part of the Drop-Your-Panties-For-Harry-Styles group. Very much so, indeed.

He’s got the microphone stand between his legs and he’s practically grinding against it as he just stares at you — he’s been doing that a lot lately, and that’s another one of the many realizations you’ve had in the past week with Harry.

You swear you nearly pass out when he sings the line ’you flower, you feast,’ with the biggest smirk you’ve ever seen before he’s looking back towards the crowd.

And then you have to go. You have to leave and go to his dressing room for the rest of the song, at the very least, because you’re so fucking confused. Where did all of this even come from? Why is he suddenly acting as if he just can’t resist you anymore, like he’s been longing for you this whole time. Was he just lonely? Horny and unwilling to put any effort into finding someone to get his fix with? Was it just a joke? Because the ache in your heart and between your legs was no joke.

You consider leaving the entire establishment when you hear the beginning chords of the last song on the setlist, so that you don’t have to face him afterwards, but instead you find your way back to the side of the stage and watch proudly as your best friend absolutely rips this crowd apart with his talent. You want to cry sometimes because you’re so proud of Harry, you really do. You think you probably will when he heads off on his first headlining tour in a few months. Cry because you’re proud, but also because you’ll be without him for the majority of those three months. The thought tugs at something in your chest, probably your heart, and it makes your eyes sting just for a second, until you’ve pushed the tears off for the moment.

For now, you’re watching on with a smile you just can’t help as he belts out the last few lines of 'Sign of the Times,’ and you want to join in, but you’d die if his microphone were to pick up your awful howling, as well. So, you wait for the end, and then you cheer and scream with the rest of the crowd in front of him. You notice that he spares a glance back at you, and you send him a nod back as you continue your cheering, watching as he practically personally thanks each and every fan in the crowd until the stage has gone dark and the lights in the main establishment have come up, and everyone’s pushing and shoving their way out.

You’re grinning because the star of the whole goddamn show is walking over to you before he is anyone else, and you’re beaming as you wrap your arms around his neck. “You were fucking incredible,” you tell him against his neck, and you take the kiss to the top of your head as an acceptable way to say 'thank you.’

–

It’s when the two of you are back in his dressing room that you feel the tension build again, and you swallow the lump in your throat as you replay his question over and over again: “Where did you go after 'Woman?’”

You want to scream, shout, throw things; not because you’re angry, but because when the hell did Harry get so confrontational? Or was it just something he was doing because you were being noticeably weird with him?You don’t like it at all, despite the fact that you’re always telling him he needs to speak up more. You never meant with you.

“Had to use the loo,” is the answer you give him, and he cocks an eyebrow at you not a moment after you’ve spoken.

“You feelin’ okay, then? You were gone for four songs after that, and I talk a lot,” he says, and it’s so matter-of-fact that you know he sees right through you, just like he had the other night when you told him you were going to brunch with your mum.

When you don’t say anything for a minute, he presses on, stepping closer to you. “I don’t understand what you’re tryin’ so hard t'hide from me, babe. First the other night, now this — what’s going on?” He questions, and his stare is intense, and it wouldn’t be if were anyone else, but as always, he’s Harry.

“I’m fine, H, just have a lot on m'mind,” you try, feeling absolutely defeated, because try as you might, it really is impossible to lie to Harry, especially when he’s looking at you the way he is. He knows something is up, because you’ve never hidden anything from him. He knew your deepest, darkest secrets three days into your friendship. He knows more about you than any of your exes ever have, and you think that could be part of what scares you so much about him. You feel like if he ever finds out, the chances of you losing him are far greater, and the idea puts a pain in your chest, because what would you ever do without Harry?

You can’t help but miserably stutter and stumble over your words when he asks you who you’ve been thinking about, rather than what, but what catches you even more off guard is him stepping until he’s nearly got you pinned against the wall of his dressing room, and you’re breathing is heavy as you stare up at this beautiful, sweaty boy who just wants to know why you’ve been treating him so differently.

“You’re all I’ve been thinkin’ about, 'f that’s any sort of encouragement,” he tells you, and you want to speak, you do — you want to say something, fucking anything, but you’re frozen and your heart is about to beat right out of your chest.

“You don’t mean that,” is what you say, for whatever reason, and you feel awful as soon as you see the way Harry’s eyebrows furrow and his lips form into a tight line, but he’s not moving away from you at all. If it were possible, you feel like you’re drowning in him even more so.

“I — of course I fucking mean it,” he argues, his eyes unmoving from yours. “I can’t believe you’d fucking say that. Have you not noticed that I spend every bit of free time I have with you? You’re the first and last person I talk to every morning and every night, and the first person I run to when I have news, 'r just something to say. You’re the first person out of everyone I know that I run to after I come off stage — of-fucking-course you’re all I think about,” he says, and although his words are nice and make you feel all warm inside, he sounds angry, and that scares you, because Harry’s never been actually angry with you.

“Harry, I — I’m sorry,” you say, and your voice is nearly a whisper and you feel like crying, because he was honest with you, and you all but said you didn’t believe him, and honestly, how could you be such an idiot? You’ve got the most beautiful man in the world standing in front of you, telling you you’re all he thinks about, and you tell him he doesn’t mean it — who does that?

“I really — I’m so sorry, Harry. I didn’t mean to upset you, I just — it’s kinda’ hard t'believe, innit? That the person you’ve got feelings for has them for you, too?” And you realize there really is no going back after you’ve said that out loud, but hopefully it could fix what’s just happened here if he knows the only reason you said it is because it’s just a tad bit unbelievable.

“Pet,” he starts, and you smile, because after a long moment of just standing there and listening to each other breathe, you hear the familiar nickname and know you’ve got him back. “You are the meanest, most stubborn, woman ’ve ever met. Got a bloke full on puttin’ himself out there in front 'f thousands, 'nd you run away. Same bloke tells ya’ exactly what he means even after that, 'nd ya’ tell me I don’t mean it?” He murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear it. “Tell me how I can prove it to ya’,” he adds before you can get another word in, and he seems to already have a good idea, because his nose is brushing against yours already, but you quickly figure out that it’s going to take you asking for it before he does it, because Harry’s humble, but he has his pride, and you doubt he needs you fucking with it anymore tonight.

And that’s how you die.

–

At least, you thought you were dead because you’re pretty certain Harry’s pillowy soft lips are what Heaven is made out of, and if you were experiencing those, you had to be dead, right?

Except now, he’s got you in the back of a car, and his hand is sliding up your thigh, beneath your skirt, and it’s then, with his lips on yours, that it happens again.

You realize that he’s probably not going to be able to come back from this, either. You don’t know when it happened, or why it seems that you both had the realization that you’re fucking mad about each other at the exact same time (not that it isn’t convenient, it’s just strange), but you’re here with him and it feels like he’s using his mouth to promise a lot more than just a few heated kisses.

You pray that this isn’t just some dare, or an adrenaline thing, because you’d have to be blind or just not paying attention to not see that Harry gets hard each and every time he performs to a crowd. Like, fully erect, you’d noticed, and of course you had always teased him for his evident praise kink (’even the twitter fans know, Harry, it’s not a secret’).

But from the way he’s pulling away to whisper praises in your own ear, about how badly he wants you and all that he wants to do to you, how long he’s wanted to do these things to you, you’re starting to realize that this is very real and you aren’t being fucked with at all.

Well, you will be, hopefully, but in an entirely different sense of the word.

You’ve somehow found your way onto Harry’s lap now, because apparently the silently pining over each other thing did a bang up job of sexually frustrating both of you, so you jumped at the opportunity. If you died in a car accident on the lap of Harry Styles with his tongue down your throat, so be it.

–

It’s only five minutes later when you realize you’ve pulled into the driveway, but it feels like it’s been hours, and your lipstick has gone to hell already, and your shirt is hanging off your shoulders, and so is Harry’s because as it turns out: you’re just as good at unbuttoning his shirts as you are at buttoning them.

Despite your messy states, you both thank the driver as you exit the vehicle, and the rush to get to his front door would be funny to absolutely anyone else, but you don’t think you’ve ever been so desperate to get into bed with someone. Hell, he could get the door opened, closed, and locked again and take you in the corridor and you wouldn’t care. You don’t need a bed, you need his cock. And then you wonder when your self conscious started talking like a porn star.

“Are you goin’ to laugh a'me 'f I try t'dirty talk you?” He asks, and it’s a ridiculous question, because he has no idea how much you’ve fantasized about being the one he’s whispering filth to. “Absolutely not,” is of course your answer, and it’s breathless and you’ve already let your shirt hit the floor, and you’re dropping your skirt at the bottom of the stairs, leaving you in nothing but your bra and panties, which are totally cotton and not matching and not sexy at all, but Harry doesn’t seem to care, because he’s pushed his shirt off of his shoulders and is picking you up to carry you up the stairs a second later.

“Take me t'bed, please,” you murmur in his ear, kissing along his jaw with your arms and legs wrapped tight around him. Everything about this is so, so, so urgent and is happening so fast, and you wish you could slow it down, even if only for a second, because it’s all so much, but it’s not enough at the same time. And you kind of want it to be perfect and remember every little thing, as cheesy as that really is.

He’s got you on his bed in no time, though, and you’re practically shaking, because that’s when it happens again. That’s when you realize this is really about to happen. You’re about to fuck your best friend, and the thought should be terrifying, if for no other reason than all that you’re risking in doing so, but you’re smiling up at him as you grasp the nape of his neck and pull him down towards you so that he’s fitting between your legs and his lips are back on yours for the first time since you got out of the car. “Want you,” you whisper against his mouth, and you realize when you press up against him that there’s no foreplay even needed, because you’re already soaked through the fabric of your panties, and you can still feel where he’s been hard since he left the stage tonight.

“’S that — do you want that?” You ask, and it’s sudden and probably sounds ridiculous, considering the situation you’re currently in, but you think it’s an important question to ask. “This, I mean. Me,” you clarify, blinking up at him, and you doubt seriously that he thinks your awkward quirkiness is cute at all right now, no matter how many times he’s implied how adorable you are because of it.

“You’re the most ridiculous person I know,” is his answer, and you’re starting to think you’ve heard more insults tonight than compliments, which is weird because you always thought Harry would be the type to tell you that you’re beautiful and kiss every inch of your skin. Turns out, he’s still just as good at picking at you even when he’s got you pinned to his bed and your lips swollen from kissing him so much. “Yes, I want that. This. You,” he says after a moment, and you’re blushing as he repeats your own words back to you in confirmation.

“I want you to fuck me, Harry,” is the next thing out of your mouth, because apparently filters don’t exist anymore, and he shrugs before shaking his head. “Was hoping t'get my mouth on you first, actually,” he tells you, licking over his lips, and you’d swear it was for dramatic effect, but it was also really ridiculously hot, so you can’t even be mad at him for being a walking cliché.

As much as you want to argue with that, because you want him inside of you now (and you also argue with him about whatever it is he wants to do before you eventually give up and do it), he’s looking at you like he might die if he doesn’t have his mouth on your cunt in the next two minutes. How could you deny him, really? It’d be wrong and unjust.

Or: you really want his mouth on you, too, but you’re willing to let Harry seem more desperate to please you than you are desperate for him to eat you out, even though you’re certain that’s not the truth by any small means.

You don’t know when he took his pants off or your underwear, you must have missed it, unfortunately, but you’re watching him as he kisses over your thighs, and you feel sort of like you just got to fast forward to the good part. It’s when he licks over you completely and presses harder on the upstroke against your clit that you know that’s what happened.

You don’t know if you moan or if you scream, because you’ve tuned everything that isn’t Harry’s mouth on you and the little noises he makes against you all the way out, and you feel a little bit like you’re floating as he sucks at your clit, and your hands had flown to his hair the second he’d started that.

“Fuck, Harry, please,” you whine, and you don’t even know what you’re asking for, but you know you need more of anything he’s willing to give you. “Taste so good, baby. ’S it feel as good as y'taste?” He murmurs against you, and his voice vibrating against you may be hotter than anything you could possibly think up for him to do to you — and you’ve thought of a lot. All you can do is nod and give his hair a tug, grinding up against his mouth, and you wonder if he notices that you’re practically riding his face while he fucks his tongue into you, licking in and around your entrance, and you could cry from how good he’s making you feel. But also because it’s Harry who is doing this to you.

It’s the Harry who would rather stay in and cuddle with you than go to a party packed with A-listers. It’s Harry, whose preferred method of clearing out a cake batter bowl before putting it in the dishwasher, is the the two of you licking it clean. Harry, who would do anything and everything for you, and never make you feel like it was anything less than what he wanted to do. It’s Harry, and he’s told you a million times how much he loves you, and even if you roll your eyes at the sentiment from time to time, you know he means it, and you always say it back.

“Harry,” you say, looking down to him and the pleasure is almost overwhelming, so it pains you to make him stop, but you just want to be as close to him as humanly possible. He can devour your cunt afterwards, or later, or something. You’ll fit him into your schedule. “I — Harry, up. Come back up here, please,” and your voice is cracking, so you swallow as you look down at him, and you don’t know why you’re near tears, but you definitely are, can feel them welling in your eyes.

“What is it? Did I do something wrong? Are you okay?” He whispers, holding you by your wrists, his thumbs gliding against the skin soothingly. “Why’re you cryin’, sweetheart? Talk t'me, please,” he murmurs, and he sounds so panicked, and it makes you feel bad because how could he ever think he’s done something wrong? This perfect, wonderful, amazing man hovering over you is clearly unaware of how fantastic he truly is. He’s looking at you with concern in his eyes, and you know he wants to comfort you, especially when you feel the warm tears trickling down your cheeks, because it’s Harry, and he won’t leave your side for hours if he ever catches you crying. Which, you don’t mind so much. But you know he needs his answer now, or he’s going to end up thinking he’s done something wrong, or to hurt you, and it’ll all be over, and you refuse to let that happen.

“No, no, no — ’m fine. Perfect, actually, just — I love you, ’s all,” is what you say, and you give him a watery smile, even when your voice gets a bit quieter and doesn’t sound nearly as rushed there at the end, because you know he knows that, especially now. There’s no way he could ever doubt it, you don’t think. He lets out a throaty laugh as he pushes his hair back where it’s fallen against his forehead, his hands dropping down to yours, holding them tightly as he leans down to kiss you for maybe the hundredth time since you first started about an hour ago, even though it feels like it’s been a lifetime. “I love you, too, you silly girl,” he assures, kissing you once again.

“No, Harry — I mean I really love you,” you murmur, breaking the kiss for a second just to say that, because you need him to know that it’s not just something you’re saying, or even being said in the same sense as you’ve always told each other. He’s looking at you with an amused expression and shaking his head, but in the fond way that doesn’t hurt your feelings. “That’s what I’ve always meant, Y/N,” he confesses, and it hits you like a ton of bricks, because it really feels like everything suddenly makes sense and all is right in the world, a love song is playing in the distance (and it’s not just in your head, so you must have missed when he turned that on, too), all the dumb things that are said in books and movies are happening to you, and you want to appreciate the moment for what it is, but you’re also going to scream if he doesn’t fuck you into his mattress soon. There’s time for talking later.

“Please, please, please fuck me. Now. Please,” and you don’t realize you’re begging for him until you’re begging for him, and it has you blushing down to your chest. “Haven’t even gotten m'dick out yet, 'nd you’re already beggin’ f'me? Love me that much?” He teases, because of course he does, but you look up at him with a new sort of determination your eyes.

You’ve got your hand on the bulge of his briefs not a second later, working over him through the fabric, and it makes your legs spread instinctively when you feel the patch of wet where the head of his cock is pressed against the fabric. It’s then that you decide you’ve had enough, and you’re doing your damnedest to try and push his boxers down. You eventually give up and he laughs and stands to tug them the rest of the way down, and it almost sounds animated, the way you gasp when you see him bare, hard, and leaking for you.

It’s not that you didn’t know Harry was a monster — he’s woken up with enough morning wood pressed against your ass and your thigh for you to be more than completely aware of just what you’re getting yourself into (or what’s getting into you, actually). But knowing it’s all for you and because of you that he’s this hard is a lot to take in.

“Y'still wan’ me?” The question catches you off guard, but you nod almost too enthusiastically for it to be anything other than embarrassing. “Tell me,” is the next thing he says, and your eyebrows knit together in obvious confusion, but your features soften as he lays you back against the bed again and offers more information on what he’s wanting from you exactly. “Tell me how bad you want my cock inside your wet cunt,” he says, and it makes you bite your lip to keep from moaning, just because Harry’s filthy, as it turns out, and your thighs are glistening with how wet you are from it all. “Want it so bad, Harry. Want — wanna’ feel you, please, all of you, every goddamn inch of your cock. Wan’ you t'fuck me until I can’t take anymore,” you whisper, and it seems to have done the trick, because the head of his cock catches on your entrance where he’s sliding between your folds, and you can feel him start to press inside of you.

You really think you could blackout when you feel the whole of him settled snugly inside of you, but it’s not until he starts to move that you have dig your nails into his shoulders and drag them down his back as he fucks back into you. “Fuck me,” you moan, your head tossed back and your hips grinding up against his. It feels so good, is the thing — he’s so big, not just his cock, but everywhere, and he’s got you pinned to the mattress as he drives into you somewhat relentlessly, and he’s stretching you so wonderfully, because he’s thick, too, and it hurts in the best kind of way.

“Wanna’ ride you.” The words leave your lips before you’ve given them permission, but Harry’s smirking at you wickedly, so clearly he’s on board with the idea. You know he is when he’s pulled out of you (and you want to die because of that) and he’s got you on top of himself now and is unhooking your bra. “Feel like I owe your tits a personal apology for not paying attention t'them sooner,” he tells you, and you lean down to kiss his stupid mouth, rocking back over his cock. You tease him like that for a long minute, just grinding against him and feeling him against you, before you’ve decided that you quite miss the feeling of him inside of you.

You start to tell him that, but then it hits you that you’ve got the power now, so you take him into your hand after that, lining him up, and you sink down on him slowly, smiling into the kiss you’re giving him, because you can’t even begin to count the number of times you’ve dreamed of this moment exactly. It feels so good to be fucking yourself on Harry’s cock, and you don’t pass up the opportunity to tell him that this time. It makes him groan as he stares up at where you’re properly bouncing on him, and you notice when his eyes drop down to watch where he’s fucking in and out of your pussy, and you swear you feel him twitch inside of you at the sight. “Takin’ me so well,” he praises, and apparently you’ve got a bit of a praise kink, as well, and you throw your head back when you feel him begin to thrust up into you, the head of him nudging against your most sensitive part each time. “Harry, fuck,” you breathe, your fingers curling and nails digging into his chest.

You’re so torn between wanting to kiss him and wanting to hear everything he has to say, that you’ve settled for just kissing his neck and his jaw, leaving a lovebite or two in your wake, listening while he tells you how beautiful you are (you were right, he is into that), how good you feel, how you’re going to make him cum, and God — you hadn’t even allowed the reality of that sink in yet. Through all of this, you had completely forgotten that you had a goal, something you wanted to accomplish, because all you’ve wanted is to be as close as possible to him this whole time.

Now, however, you really want to make him cum, and you want it inside you (you’re very much on birth control and if you were to get pregnant, having a baby with Harry wouldn’t be the end of the world, and he wouldn’t be the first former member of One Direction to become a father). “Want you t'cum inside me, yeah? Fill me up,” you tell him, and you feel it when his grip on your hips tightens and he helps you fuck yourself over him faster. “Not until you cum on my cock,” he replies, and you clench around him at that, fucking down harder each time. “Need y'to touch me,” you whisper, grabbing for his wrist and guiding his hand towards your clit, “here.”

Your moans get louder the second he presses the pads of his fingers to your clit, rocking your hips harder, with more determination to get off. “I wanna cum,” you whine, and you want it so bad, now that you’ve remembered that’s part of all of this, that you could cry. You were a bit spoiled when it comes to getting your with Harry, you could say, because his fingers are quick and just right on your little bundle of nerves, rubbing in tight circles and applying just enough pressure. “Know y'wanna cum, baby. Wan’ y'to. Wanna feel y'squeezin’ me,” he murmurs, his teeth grazing over your ear. “Can y'do that f'me, angel? Come for me,” he continues, but his voice is so low and he sounds just as wrecked as you feel, and you can feel his lips brushing your skin as he speaks.

And then you’re pretty fucking sure you did, in fact, die this time.

Everything goes black, your lips parted in a silent scream, but not because you’re not trying, but everything feels too fucking good and you can’t even make a sound, aside from the pathetic sobs you’re letting out into his shoulders. You can feel your cunt pulsing around him, your clit throbbing beneath his fingers, and you’re sure he’s drenched with you, but it evens out because you feel him releasing inside you not even a minute later.

This time you moan his name, grinding yourself on his cock while he empties himself inside of you, fucking him through his orgasm, despite how tired and sensitive you are, praising him and thanking him with each and every movement, milking him for all he’s worth as you listen intently to the string of curses and your name falling from his lips.

You feel him dripping down your thighs the moment you slide off of his cock, but you only move to straddle the lower part of his torso, making a mess of his abs, and you can’t begin to explain how little care about that when you lean down to kiss him. “Thank you,” you whisper, and you don’t know why you say it, but it feels like something that needs to be said, because you are thankful for everything that’s just happened.

“I love you,” is his response, a smile tugging the corners of his lips up, and you can’t help but kiss him again. “For how long?” You question, and you’re about to explain what you mean, because you just want to know how long he’s known he loved you, like this, but he answers you with “probably forever” before you can elaborate, and it makes your heart skip a beat. He’s decided to answer the question in the ‘how long are you going to love me’ sense, you realize.

You blink down at him, like you’re surprised, but he’s just wearing his signature smirk and you feel a bit lightheaded. He seems so sure of everything he’s told you in the last day or so, and it’s so scary, but it makes you wonder how long he’s felt this way and how he figured out that you finally realized that you felt this way, too. Was he sitting on the couch beside you, staring at you instead of paying attention to The Great British Bake Off, too?

“How’d you figure out that I was just cranky ‘cos I realized ‘m in love w’you?” Is the next question you ask, and he shrugs, staring up at you and letting his fingertips drifts over your skin. “Jus’ know you, baby,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “‘Nd I remembered how red y’had gotten when y’mum told y’that we’d end up t’gether, ‘nd then y’started tryin’ t’push me away, ‘nd I knew you’d realized she was right. Plus, I did the same bit t’you when I realized. Remember when I’d hardly talk t’ya’ when I was in Jamaica? Wasn’t just ‘cos I needed t’focus on m’album,” he explains, and you laugh, because everything really does make sense now.

You’re laying down beside him, curled into his side in what has always been your favorite position when you speak again. “I love you, too,“ you nearly whisper, and you’ve got a smile curling your lips, your hand wrapped around his wrist and your other arm slung over his chest where you’re resting your chin to look up at him. “Probably forever.”

#harry smut #harry styles smut #harry fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #if u like this please tell me i need validation #mw #that's my tag :)

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fishprojects · 7 years

Text

A witch named Lemony

I sometimes write things! Please give it a peek if you have the time! : D

Summary: A distraught mother summons a witch to find her daughter. She didn’t think it would work.

Length: 7k

Margaro Collins was gnawing on a knuckle, watching the television without actually taking anything in. Her leg was bouncing uncontrollably. She glanced at the clock again, but it was only forty seconds since she last looked. There was still too much time left. She reluctantly let her eyes fall on the screen again, it was a spy movie. She’d normally enjoy them.

There was a knock on the door and Margaro threw herself off the sofa. One hand twisted the handle without a second thought and she flung it open. She froze.

“Miss Collins?”

“Yes… and you are…”

“Lemony Southeil, we spoke on the phone?”

Margaro frowned at the girl on her doorstep. She did think the witch sounded surprisingly young on the phone but she thought it could just be a spirited voice. Even if her grandmother guessed Lemony Southeil’s age wrong from when they had first met, she should at least be 90 years old. If anything, she didn’t look much older than the sleep-deprived student intern at work.

“May I come in?” Lemony asked.

Margaro’s eyes flickered over Lemony’s appearance one more time. Barely out of her twenties, she had subtle Asian features as her grandmother had said. A round moon face, a little plump and long black hair. She was dressed in a simple pink peacoat with a blue suede handbag over her shoulder.

Almost reluctantly, Margaro stood aside.

Lemony picked up the wooden steamer trunk next to her and stepped in. As she passed Margaro, there was the faint smell of herbs and flowers.

“Shoes on or off?” Lemony asked, as she studied the house.

“Oh, you can keep them on,” Margaro mumbled. She side-stepped the witch, turning off the television and towards the kitchen. “Can I… get you a drink?”

“Water would be nice, thank you. That hill outside your house was quite the trek I didn’t think I’d make it,” Lemony laughed.

She turned to Margaro still laughing and stopped abruptly.

“Sorry, I know the situation is dire.”

Margaro didn’t say anything and went to the sink with a glass. She had her back turned, but could hear the witch wandering about the sitting area. The trunk was gently let down with a weary creak, and footsteps padded closer to the kitchen doorway.

“Surprisingly, you don’t look anything like Jill,” Lemony said lightly.

Margaro turned and handed over the glass.

“Jill, my grandma?”

“It’s been a while but I’m sure I remember correctly. Jill had dimples - the whole Collins family did.”

Margaro frowned again.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but… you don’t look as if…”

“I don’t look old enough to have met your grandmother as a girl, right,” Lemony said. “Well, being a witch does have its small perks. But you didn’t call me for my youth decotions.” She paused to take a greedy gulp of water. “I could give you something for that bruise, though.”

Margaro’s hand immediately flew up to the purple rose on her arm, half hidden by her rolled up sleeve.

“This isn’t about me, it’s about my Amelia.”

Lemony smiled. It wasn’t a kind smile.

“Could you show me the drawings you mentioned?” Lemony said, she emptied the glass but didn’t had it back. “Of the green man.”

Margaro took the witch to her daughter’s bedroom. Or her temporary bedroom anyway, the house was her sister’s after all. Blue-tacked drawings were neatly arranged on one wall in grid formation. Another drawing, only half finished were sitting on the desk, various crayons scattered across it.

Lemony gently traced a finger on the drawings. A thick green hedge with two stick legs protruding the end was placed next to a stick figure of a smiling girl.

“Green man, she calls him,” Lemony whispered.

“I thought she was making him up at first, but then I got worried it was some pervert preying on her in the woods,” Margaro said, wringing her hands. “She always would run ahead and off the path in those woods. I told her not to but-“ her voice pitched and her eyes and nose stung.

Lemony peeled one of the green man drawings off the wall. “Could I use this? Mind you, Amelia won’t be getting this back.”

Margaro nodded, not trusting her voice to stay clear.

Lemony put the glass on the desk so she could reach inside of her peacoat. She produced a box of matches with an unusually beautiful gold engraving. She popped a match and lit it. Then proceeded to burn the drawing. Lemony closed her eyes.

“Let me see with yours eyes,” she whispered.

The fire abruptly roared in a flash of green and ate up the rest of the drawing in two quick bites and disappeared under Lemony’s fist. She stood still, eyes still closed, clenching the remaining ashes.

When she finally looked at Margaro again, she smiled again. The ashes were dusted into the empty glass and dropped in several crayons.

“Your daughter’s green man isn’t a stalker or a pervert,” Lemony said, almost too casually.

“You know who he is? Is Amelia with him right now?” Margaro reached to grasp Lemony by the shoulders. “Where is she?”

Lemony stared. “Please don’t touch me.”

Margaro jerked backwards, holding her hands up defensively.

“I have some pre made spells for this kind of situation, but hopefully I won’t need to use them,” she said, back to her jovial self.

Lemony snatched the glass and marched out of Amelia’s bedroom, heading straight for her trunk.

“Open,” she commanded as she approached.

The locks and clasps clicked and the trunk fell open, the two sides falling flat on the floor, unveiling its contents. Margaro quickly peered over Lemony’s shoulder to look inside. It was rather haphazardly crammed together. Rows of corked bottles were aligned in a slotted shelf, two candles, an iron horse shoe, a laptop, several different coloured nail varnish, a small silver bell, acorns, a silk black cloth, a hand mirror and first aid kit.

Lemony picked up one of the bottles labelled camphor, and sprinkled several finely chopped leaves into the glass. A drawing app was opened on her phone. She scrawled a symbol onto the canvas. The hand holding the glass hovered over it, and she let its contents fall.

Margaro blinked.

If her eyes were being honest, she just saw the leaves, ash and crayons splash onto the screen, creating ripples over the opened app, as if it was actually made of water. The items slowly sunk below the surface and out of sight.

Her grandmother always swore by the existence of the witch named Lemony Dove May Southeil. When Margaro was a girl, her grandmother told her stories about the day they went to Brighton beach and how Margaro’s grand-uncle went missing. The police searched up and down the beach and could not find the boy. Days, weeks and soon months of waiting tortured the family. Then finally, the witch Lemony Southeil was summoned - a polite young lady carrying a large steamer trunk.

“She didn’t like tea or coffee, oh no, only asked for water,” Margaro’s grandmother had said. “She gave me a piece of candy and told me she was going to get my brother back. I don’t think I believed her. She didn’t look anything like a witch. She looked Asian! Imagine that! Probably was Chink or something rather! And so young! But she spoke like an Englishman and promised to find your granduncle.

“She asked for some of his favourite toys and clothes, dropped them in a bucket of water with some herbs and quiet words. She stared at it, we all did. But all we saw was our reflections looking back all confused. She then wanted to go back to the beach. So we drove her there.

“The witch told us to wait for her on the shore and not follow her. She began wading into the water. We were afraid she was gonna pull up his lifeless drowned body in the shallow but she kept going. Soon her head disappeared under and when she didn’t come back up, we all thought she drowned. Your great grandfather swam after her but couldn’t find the witch. We had to call the police again. They were convinced we killed her - and probably your granduncle too.

“Just as they were pulling us into their cars to take us away, we heard yelling. We could see the witch bobbing her head above the water, waving an arm for help. The coastguards swam after her, and all together they dragged out your granduncle. And he was alive. Alive! Without a drop of water in his lungs! He didn’t remember a speck, and the police had many questions for that young witch. But she had no time for it. She waved a hand at them and told them to leave her alone. And they did.

“She then accepted a small sum for payment and our gratitude. Your great-grandfather never touches another lady but he pulled that witch into a hug. She didn’t seem to like it much. But before she left she had us make a promise. Your granduncle was never allowed to go near the sea ever again, not one foot in the water. He can dunk his head inside as many baths or swimming pools as he pleases, but the salt sea was forbidden. Because he’ll be taken away again and she wasn’t sure she’d be able to get him out.

“That got me scared. I began crying like the sap I was. So the witch bent down and put a hand on my head. She told me if I ever really needed her - and it had to be very very serious and if no one else could help, she’ll come to me again. All I had to do was write her a letter with her full name on top and burn it in a fireplace.”

Amelia and Margaro was arguing as they walked home from her school. She then ran off into the woods and Margaro followed. She couldn’t find Amelia again. As much as she hated to, she had to call her husband - her soon-to-be ex-husband and the police. She was half convinced he kidnapped Amelia but he gave her a dirty look. An army of officers lead by her husband marched into the woods looking for Amelia. They never came out. Eleven hours later, the whole area was sectioned off until the rest of the police could figure out what to do next. No one was allowed into the woods anymore.

Margaro was forced back into the house and commanded to wait. She was ready to die. Without Amelia she really though the end of the world was upon her. She was crying uncontrollably when she called her sister who was six hours away doing a show. They made small talk to help Margaro pass the time and not mull over what could have happened to her daughter. They spoke about her grandmother who had passed away six years ago. They spoke about the witch her grandmother always went on about. Her sister still remembered how one was meant to summon her. Of course Margaro didn’t think it would work. But she was desperate. She was willing to carve symbols of Satan into the floorboards and bargain with the devil himself if he had the power to bring Amelia safely home.

Then the phone rang. And the caller said she was Lemony Southeil.

Margaro stared at the witch who was opening up google maps on her phone. It had already set directions to a point on the map.

“I normally wouldn’t involve outsiders, it would only put them in harm’s way, ” Lemony said abruptly. “But this case is a little different.”

She stood up so she could face Margaro properly.

“Your presence might actually help the situation,” she said. “Bearing that in mind, it might get a little dangerous. Well, a little to quite a bit. Or a lot. Most likely a lot.”

“I’m coming with you,” Margaro said. She didn’t care whether or not the witch wanted her to follow, she was going if it meant finding Amelia.

Lemony laughed dryly.

“Of course you do.”

Lemony picked up her handbag and begun walking to the door but in all of Margaro’s drowning anxiety she forgot something.

“The police are watching the house,” Margaro blurted. “They… don’t want me to leave.”

Lemony stopped dead in her tracks, she appeared to be thinking. She grumbled something and fished out a spool of white ribbon from her handbag. She then pulled up the hem of her peacoat to reach for her belt. It was a leather utility belt with small pouches aligned the front. On her waist was a pearl-handled knife hanging in a holster. She used the knife to cut a long length of the ribbon.

She held it out to Margaro.

“Arm, please.”

Margaro obediently raised her arm and the ribbon was tied around her wrist - it in fact had to be wrapped around her arm quite a few times because of its length. She was about to comment it seemed to have been cut too long but decided against it.

“You are not here, nor there, not anywhere,” Lemony murmured. “I want you to really believe it. You are not anywhere to be seen, Miss Collins. No one knows where you are.”

Margaro didn’t know what else to do other than nod.

“Then say it. I am not here, nor there, not anywhere.”

“I am not here, not there, not anywhere.”

The witch took a half step closer to her, her eyes old and serious. “You have to really believe it, you understand?”

Margaro nodded.

“Then you should bundle up, it’s a little chilly outside.”

Margaro was not sure if she still actually believed in the witch’s magic. She was not sure why she was following this stranger she just met, into the woods where a whole team of officers had vanished. With no credentials or proof of what she said she was - other than what could have been a few parlour tricks. But she was prepared to look stupid and go along with the charade as long as it brought her one step closer to Amelia.

She stepped out of the house whispering the magic words to herself. Alleged magic words. But Lemony did give her an ill-fitted encouraging smile when she heard her. They climbed down the steps and opened the front gate. The police were parked opposite her house, she recognised the man in the passenger seat. Then again, she knew nearly everyone in the local police force.

His head was bent low, most likely scrolling through his phone but the squeak of the gate made him look up. Margaro felt ice on her spine but Lemony repeated the phrase in front of her.

“I am not here, nor there, not anywhere,” Margaro said, still staring at the officer.

The man’s gaze lazily dropped down again, his partner in the driver’s seat didn’t even look awake. After ten seconds of no other response from the officers, Margaro breathed loudly through her nose.

She wasn’t sure what just happened.

“Let’s go, Miss Collins,” Lemony urged.

Margaro nodded and followed the witch away from the police car and down the hill, right towards the woods the green man lived.

The sleepy village Margaro had always lived in sat at the edge of Plymouth. It was grey, wet with many steep hills carving the land. Just ten minutes up the road were the open farmlands and horse breeders, sometimes a wooly black cow would casually block the road which Amelia loved. The closest train station was forty minutes by car, dotted mostly with local businesses and not even a cinema. Most children raised in the village would have to leave anyway as the closest university to them would have been Plymouth. The community’s treasure was the close-by National Trust forestry, 240 hectares of pinewood and lavender fields. Alongside the picnic areas, the walks, the bike routes were even bushcraft and survival activities made for all ages.

Margaro never liked the woods. Every time she went the soil was still damp and soft, it would cling to her heels and climb her legs. The trees were like giants looming over them, with the glints of sunlight between the branches looking like eyes. It watched the ants below like predators, waiting for them to near the dark shade at their feet.

But her husband and Amelia loved it. Every week they would hike it and every week Margaro would leave hating it just a little bit more, aching needles in her legs, and mud on her jeans.

Amelia saw magic in the woods. She would run ahead ignoring Margaro’s calls to stay in sight and on the path. She knew she shouldn’t worry, the woods were always full of people, and Amelia had walked the route and off it enough that she knew it better than her times tables. She saw fairies in the lavender fields, goblins in the trees and water sprites skating over the lake. And protecting them all was her green man.

According to Amelia, the green man was a small man, smaller than even a human child. He wore moss like a heavy cape and hood. He smelt like the pine, had skin that looked like earth, a voice that sounded like tree bark. He was not very easy to see in his green disguise, and in fact Amelia has only met him a rare few instances. He was very shy after all. But she loved him to pieces.

Margaro recited this to Lemony over the phone. This interested the witch, and even more-so when Margaro mentioned the drawings of him.

“You think this green man has Amelia,” Margaro pleaded. “Please tell me if she’s safe. Is he dangerous?”

They were walking much too slowly for Margaro’s liking. The woods was not far from her sister’s house so by the time a taxi would have been arranged, they would likely be at the woods already. Despite that, Margaro wished she did call.

“Is he the reason why those officers hadn’t come out of the woods?” Margaro was begging now.

She wanted to grab Lemony and shake the answer out of her but couldn’t risk offending her again

“Do you believe in fairies?” Lemony asked.

“Do I believe in…”

Something in Margaro snapped. She stormed in front of Lemony, her shoulders square and jaw tight.

“Where the hell is my daughter?” she hissed.

Lemony averted her gaze. “She believes, doesn’t she?”

“The green man is a fairy, is that it?” Margaro demanded. “She’s been kidnapped by a fairy?”

The witch still refused to meet her hard gaze. “No, not kidnapped. That’s not what his kind does.”

Margaro inhaled sharply. Her shoulders sagged.

“Who is the green man?” she asked.

“You already know who he is, Amelia described him perfectly. Guardian of the trees, she calls him,” Lemony said. She dodged round Margaro so they could keep walking again. “”Either your 8-year-old either memorised a slice of Scottish mythology or found the genuine article.”

Margaro hesitated. “Is she in danger?”

There was a long pause.

“Ghillie Dhu dislike humans so they make themselves hard to see. It’s why they wear clothes woven out of moss and leaves as part of their disguise,” Lemony replied. “They’re well known to have the earth and tree roots eat up human trespassers and let you rot below. But- but-“

Lemony rose a finger to Margaro’s growing look of horror.

“They are kind to children and are equally well known to lead lost young ones out of the woods,” Lemony finished. “He won’t harm your Amelia.”

Margaro silently absorbed the information. Mythology was never a strong point for her to begin with, and she grew out of the church community as a teenager. It was growing more difficult and riskier to go along with the witch’s pantomime. Inviting her to the house was one thing, following her into the woods against the police’s orders was something else entirely. Amelia could be wandering home by herself already and be banging on the door, crying for her mother. And here she was, with a self-proclaimed witch off to find a Scottish fairy in the woods where a maniac could have butchered the police to death.

If anything, it was just the ammunition her husband needed in their custody battle. Blatant insanity and dabbling in witchcraft. If he ever finds a way out of the woods, that is.

“Are you completely sure?” she asked quietly.

“I’ve never actually met one,” Lemony admitted. “Like I said, they don’t like to be seen, especially by adults. But that’s why I wanted her drawing. I wanted to feel the memories she carried in it. And I believe her.”

Those words gutted Margaro.

“If…”

‘If only you did too,’ her husband’s voice was sneering in her ear.

“Ghilli Dhu are deadly creatures to man, and when you explained to me the situation with your… husband, I could guess why it could have had something to do with those disappearing officers,” Lemony said.

“What?”

They arrived at the mouth of the woods. Plenty of giant plaques pointing to the various car parks and entrances, but this was the route the Collins family always took. Margaro shivered and pulled the zipper of her parka closer to her throat.

The pine trees were unwelcoming as ever, all jagged black shapes like teeth bearing a curt welcome. The beginning of British winter blew cold air and dimmed the skies far too quickly. The frigid isolation it bore was only cut by the flapping yellow ribbons of police tape.

Margaro’s phone buzzed. One bar signal but it was her sister. She chewed her lip.

“Are you going to take it?” Lemony asked without looking. Her eyes were up in the trees.

Margaro took a step away from the witch.

“Marble, you okay?” her sister’s voice had a little edge to it. “The show’s over, screw the encores, I’m getting in my car.”

“Don’t speed, Lily,” Margaro said as steadily as she could.

“Did the freak showed again? Have you call my lawyer?”

“No. He… they… there’s just a car watching the house, I guess in case if I was involved with Amelia’s disappearance.”

“Freak can blame you all he wants, it’s more fire for the lawyers. I’m telling you Abbie can handle this. Just hole up and I’ll be home soon, Marble.”

“Don’t speed,” Margaro said again. “I mean it.”

“Yeah, you got enough on your plate without worrying if I’m gonna kill myself on the road. Just remember Abbie can come see you if you want. It might even be safer that way.”

“Thanks, Lily.”

“See you soon, Marble.”

Margaro hung up and dry heaved for a moment. She felt sick. She didn’t know why.

Lemony was still staring up at the trees. She brought out a flashlight from her handbag and clicked it on, but it was not dark enough yet for it. She placed it under her chin so it lit up her face menacingly and she pulled a wide grin at Margaro.

Margaro frowned.

Lemony stopped smiling and pointed the light on the trail.

“Sorry, bad decision,” she said quickly. She then stuck out her free hand. “Undo the ribbon. Tie one end to my wrist, and I’ll do the same for you.”

Margaro raised an eyebrow but did as she was told.

“Tighter,” Lemony prompted. “Double knot it.”

Margaro obediently squeezed the knot to secure it. Lemony then tied the other end of the ribbon to Margaro.

Torch in hand, the witch ducked under the police tape with Margaro following quickly behind her, feeling the tug of the ribbon beckoning her into the magical woods she hated.

They walked side by side on the hikers trail. It was darker under the umbrella of pine leaves stretched over their heads. The torchlight dashed over the berry bushes aligned next to them. Lemony kept staring at them, her eyes darting left and right as if tracking something. Margaro tried to follow her gaze but only saw the outline of greenery off-path.

In Lemony’s free hand was the phone, they had 25 minutes left until they reach their destination.

“That will take us to Amelia?” Margaro asked.

“Most of the way, it depends on the cooperation of the green man,” Lemony said absently, but her attention was still on the shrubbery.

“You think he had anything to do with those missing officers?”

“I have a few ideas.”

“Like being dragged into hell by the fairy.”

“It has crossed my…” Lemony’s voice trailed off. She squinted into the dark. “Bugger all.”

Margaro felt the yank of the ribbon again as Lemony leaped off the trail. She waded through the berry bushes, the torchlight sweeping at her feet.

“What now?” Margaro whined.

Lemony pushed her phone into Margaro’s hands so she could search the ground freely with one hand, whilst the other held the torch over her head. Her fingers skittered across the earth until she found a black wallet. She flipped it open, revealing a metal police badge and photo identification.

She handed it over to Margaro. “Was he part of your daughter’s rescue team?”

Even in the poor lighting, Margaro was quick to put a name to the face. An honest, hardworking constable, with a boyish face, and who respected her husband.

Lemony was still searching the ground.

“What happened to them?” Margaro demanded.

Lemony ignored her, she was mumbling incoherent phrases as her hand probed further away from the trail.

“Lemony!” Margaro hissed sharply.

“Quiet, Honeytongue! He’s still alive!” Lemony yelled back.

Her hand stopped in front of a tree, and she drew a circle into the dirt. The more lines etched into the circle, the more elaborate the shape became. Margaro watched bemused, the ribbon biting at her wrist.

Lemony reached for her belt once more, and this time picked open one of the leather pouches, which contained a small bottle of cloves. She uncorked it and sprinkled it over the sigil.

“He is not yours to take, ancient one. He is not yours!” Lemony whispered so faintly Margaro had to strain her ears, yet the words carried weight in iron. Ice prickled her skin, her bones felt rigid, and all the pine trees seemed to have black eyes watching them closely.

Margaro wanted to go back to the trail, but she didn’t want to interrupt the witch. She couldn’t. No matter how much the trees didn’t want them there. She didn’t notice the cloves melting into the earth, but felt it shudder under her feet.

As if a child whose eaten too much, it moaned and twisted. Even the giant pine trees began to tremble as the vibrations grew stronger. The child’s stomach was full of gas and was ready to belch.

The sound of the first crack made Margaro fall to her knees. She dropped the phone and police badge. Sharp spiderwebs broke beneath her. The trees shifted uncomfortably. Margaro could hear their roots writhing closer to the surface.

Lemony was still in front of the tree, her hands buried in the earth, still whispering her iron words.

“He is not yours!”

The spiderweb cracks around the earth were expanding. Something was coming out.

Suddenly, the sound of an old man - no, a child, the grating of bark, the creak of floorboards - a new voice thundered over the violent rumble, and it demanded silence. The earth heaved with complaint but shrivelled into itself. The broken ground sealed and flattened. The trees stilled. But the eyes continued to watch, and the witch was not happy.

She was back on her feet, eyes furrowed, fists clenched. She glared at the black eyes squarely, refusing to look away.

“Does he really deserve this, slowly suffocating to death wrapped in tree roots?” Lemony shouted upwards. “Tell your trees to return them! You know this is not the way!”

She received no answer.

“What… was that?” Margaro said faintly.

Lemony paced about in a small semicircle, hands to her mouth. So Margaro looked back down at the earth.

“Where’s the constable?”

Margaro’s words finally made Lemony turn to her. A finger was snapped at her.

“We can still save him - maybe the others. Plead to your daughter to stop the green man,” the witch commanded.

Margaro gaped, not immediately processing the order.

“We have the attention of her captor, Miss Collins!” Lemony jabbed her finger up to the trees. “Tell your daughter she can save that constable!”

Then the trees shuddered. Margaro felt no wind on her face but they all seemed to shake their heads, rustling, snapping, laughing.

Margaro always hated the forest but this was different.

The witch picked up her phone and picked a leaf off it. Margaro noticed the destination on the screen was much shorter. Much closer. The witch closed the app and went through an image gallery. She opened a picture of a sigil - far more detailed than all the others she had drawn, and held it upwards.

“Cast away your glamour, ghillie dhu! A witch summons you!!”

The phone was whirring, far too loudly for such a small thing in the witch’s hand. The screen burned with light, and the pine giants shrivelled back as far as it could. The old child with tree bark in his words yelped, perhaps in shock or pain. The woods empathetically shuddered and chaos erupted around them. Strange animal noises Margaro could not identify were whispering vigorously in all directions. And the black eyes moved with them.

Lemony looked at Margaro again, her long black hair spinning cobwebs over her wide eyes.

“Close your eyes,” she said - or did Margaro’s grandmother say it?

The calliope of light broke free from the witch’s phone. It flew with enough force to throw it out of her hand and stagger her. It flooded the sky, the forest, beyond Margaro’s squeezed eyelids and into her mind. All she knew was the explosion of light.

The old child with tree bark words snarled, and Margaro could hear the light burn him.

Then the light dissolved.

Margaro slowly opened her eyes again, white spots in her vision and the early evening darkness falling over the woods. But she could not miss the small figure perched on a tree branch above them, just out of reach of any human hand.

It looked vaguely human, with a face of a child but hard eyes of an old man, unkempt black hair with branches woven into them, and wore a hooded cape made of moss and leaves over its spindly body.

“Green man…” Margaro whispered.

The ghillie dhu bared its teeth. Uneven but sharp.

“Talk to him, Margaro. This is why I brought you here,” the witch said calmly. “He’ll listen to you.”

Margaro’s eyes darted back and forth between the fairy and the witch.

“You’re Amelia’s mother,” the witch urged. “Both you and him want the same thing.”

Margaro wasn’t sure about that.

“Amelia has no time for adults who refuse to listen,” the ghillie dhu spoke properly for the first time. His voice still grated like bark, his pronunciation was awkward, and just wholly made Margaro uncomfortable. “Go back to your paper laws and wooden masks, Margaro Collins.”

The witch knelt down beside Margaro who still hasn’t moved. Her eyes narrowed.

“What are you doing, Miss Collins? Talk to him!” the witch snapped. “Tell him to return your daughter and the officers, this is your personal business, not his!”

Margaro’s shoulders folded in itself. Her head bowed. She couldn’t speak. She had no idea what was happening and wanted to just leave the damned woods.

A hand gingerly touched Margaro’s shoulder - Lemony’s hand.

“Miss Collins, please don’t shut down on me now,” Lemony said gently. “You were strong for Amelia before, you can do it again now.”

She then untied the ribbon on Margaro’s wrist.

“You can do this, you’re stronger than you can even imagine.”

Margaro’s eyes and nose stung again, painfully, but she kept her jaw square. She looked up to face the ghillie dhu properly. The old child in green clothes.

“Please give me my daughter back,” she said quietly, but she knew he’d hear her every word. “I love her more than I could love anything, and I’d do anything for her.” Her breath hitched but her words came out clear. She rose to her feet, cautiously. “Please give her back. Please give me my Amelia back.”

She turned around, as if expecting to see her child also watching her from the trees. Somewhere.

“Amelia, pet, can you hear me? Mummy’s sorry, I didn’t mean to angry with you,” Margaro called out. “I know you love the woods, and of course you would - you were born here, this is your home. We don’t have to move away, we can live here if you want, as long as you’re happy, pet, it’s all that matters. So please, please…” it hitched again and this time she couldn’t hold back the sting of tears. She muffled a sob into a hand and hoped it would go away. She had shown weakness so many times in front of Amelia but now she had to prove to everyone that she had strength.

Margaro wiped her nose with a sleeve and looked back at the ghillie dhu.

“Please give her back, I want so much for her,” she begged. “My girl is my life, green man.”

The ghillie dhu’s face was unreadable. It slid off the tree branch and landed on the floor without a sound. The moss cape fanned out like green wings. The witch stepped aside. It walked towards Margaro, reaching no higher than her waist. It was even smaller than Amelia.

Margaro stiffened and squared her shoulders. She didn’t want to wring her hands and show her anxiety, so her hands stayed at her side, pinching the hem of her parka.

It then slowly, as not to frighten Margaro, stretched a hand and touched her elbow. The one where her bruise was.

“A man who hurts the mother of his child, is no father for Amelia,” he said gravely.

Margaro nodded, agreeing.

“Those who swear to protect man, and turn a blind eye to a hurt woman do not deserve to be called protectors,” he continued.

Margaro furrowed her eyebrows. She couldn’t understand what the ghillie dhu was saying, until her eyes fell to the police badge by their feet. Still open with the face of the constable staring back.

Her jaw dropped briefly.

“N-No, it’s not their fault, they just had too much faith in my husband,” Margaro stammered. “They look out for their own.”

“But they didn’t,” the ghillie dhu said. “They ignored your pleas in favour of the lies their friend fed them. They have all failed in their duty. And no one would ever judge them for it.”

The constable with the boyish face looked suddenly even younger to Margaro.

“It was my fault too,” Margaro mumbled. “Whenever there was doubt, I got scared and would go back to hiding it. It got too easy for me. Hiding was all I knew. And that was terrible for Amelia.” She shook her head. “Please don’t blame those officers, green man. They blindly trusted my husband but they did not mean any harm - especially to Amelia. They all adored her.”

The ghillie dhu’s eyes were cold.

“And Amelia’s father? Would you plead for his life too?” he asked.

Margaro’s throat felt thick. The bruises throbbed.

“Amelia loves her father,” she said, more despondent than she thought she would be.

“Even if he tortures her mother in front of her?”

Margaro closed her eyes. “There are days when he’s a wonderful man, when he’s kind and gentle. He always take Amelia to the woods every week without fail, it was his promise to her. It’s special to both of them.”

“Even if he controls every part of her life?”

“He gives her everything she wants, presents and more. She is daddy’s little princess. He sees so much of himself in her, they’re doing everything together. They love each other more than me.”

“Even if he hits her?”

Margaro breathed through her nose. She looked at the ghillie dhu again.

“I don’t want him to be her father anymore,” she said. “The moment he raised his hand at her, I knew it. It was the first time he had done it, and I want it to stay that way.” Margaro’s eyes blurred. “Amelia deserves better than that.”

The ghillie dhu nodded.

“Would you plead for his life, Margaro Collins?” the ghillie dhu asked once more.

Margaro let her tears leak out, her chin trembled for a moment so she cleared her throat to make sure she could hear herself speak loud and true.

“No, I won’t,” she said.

The ghillie dhu smiled at her, it was crooked but handsome. It held out a hand, and Margaro took it. The fairy walked her back to the hiker’s path, hand in hand, and pointed towards the lavender fields.

There was Amelia Collins, a flower crown in her hair, her book bag clutched to her chest.

Margaro let go of the fairy’s hand and ran into the field. She didn’t know if it was rude or not but her mind was blank the moment she saw her little girl, so pretty and perfect in her little garden.

Amelia began to cry.

“I’m sorry, mummy-“ she began to wail.

Margaro skidded onto her knees and threw herself onto her daughter. She cried loudly for the first time since a while. She kissed Amelia’s snotty cheeks and whispered ‘Mummy’s sorry too’ over and over. She wouldn't dare let go of her and picked her right up, carrying her out of the lavender fields.

When she was back on the hiker’s path, the ghillie dhu nor the witch was anywhere to be seen. But confused, mud-stained officers began emerging from the woods and joined Margaro on the path.

The police let Margaro take Amelia home, who was exhausted and a little hungry. The officers who had been gone for nearly 24 hours were to be questioned at length, as the police service were just about to get confirmation for a SWAT team to comb the woods to find them. Margaro didn’t care.

Her husband was the only one who never made it out of the woods. The local children were already spinning a story about the man who was spirited away, melting him into one of the village’s urban legends. A fairy tale.

There was no sign of the witch either. With the exception of her broken phone. The police took it with them but Margaro expected they wouldn’t find anything useful on it.

Two hours later, Margaro’s sister Lily came screeching into the driveway. Three speeding fines were on their way in mail but at least she was in one piece. The witch’s steamer trunk was no longer at the house. Lily dumped a pile of property magazines on the dining table, mostly of apartments closer to London - where they were planning to escape to. Instead, whilst Amelia slept in front of the television, Margaro asked Lily to sell the house to her. She had promises to keep now, after all.

Four days later, a short letter came with a PO Box address, requesting a cheque of £45.15 to cover a train fare. It was signed by Lemony Southeil. Margaro signed a cheque of £50 and included a thank-you card and a picture Amelia had drawn for her. She stuck a first class stamp on the letter and posted it the next day.

The police had come regularly asking questions about her missing husband. They left looking more suspicious each time. But Lily’s lawyer soon chased them away as her husband disappeared with his very comrades at arms, and Margaro was being watched at Lily’s house - by police, neighbours and two news stations.

“I miss daddy,” Amelia said, on her way back from school.

Margaro let her guide her through the long way back home - through the woods.

“I know, pet.”

“Will he ever come back?”

“I don’t know.”

Amelia swung her book bag back and forth.

“Will the witch ever come back?” Amelia asked.

Margaro stopped her daughter for a moment, knelt down and took her hands. She faced her daughter properly and gave her a serious look.

“Here is something special you need to remember, Amelia,” Margaro said. “If you ever need her, and it has to be very very serious, and if no one else can help, the witch will come to you. All you have to do is write her a letter with her full name on top and burn it in a fireplace.”

Amelia nodded slowly, nose wrinkling in concentration.

“But we don’t have a fireplace,” she said.

Margaro giggled and whispered in her daughter’s ear. “ I actually used the stove.”

Amelia laughed with her, and took her hand. They came at a forked road but Amelia knew which way was home. She probably could walk the woods blindfolded.

“I don’t remember the witch’s name properly,” Amelia said. “Do you think she’d mind?”

Margaro smiled. “The witch’s name is Lemony Dove May Southeil. And as long as you put your heart into it, I’m sure she won’t mind at all.”

#authors on tumblr #original fiction #supernatural #witches #stories #I wrote stuff #would def love to write more about Lemony and expand on the magic universe whoop

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entityrose-blog · 7 years

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This needs to be talked about.

So I was playing Google Feud, which is a pretty fun game. But anyone who’s played the game for more than a few days knows that the answers on this game come from the actual searches on Google.

I put down ‘gay’ because (I’m not going to lie, okay?) I was feeling really just happy and I was in that state you get in after dying laughing, and if I’m being honest, I don’t have a just reason for putting it down other than a joke. But when I saw the answer I can assure you that it didn’t feel like a joke anymore.

Being bisexual myself, I know that I’ve wondered if it was okay and whatnot. But for ‘gay’ to be the top result out of the hundreds of words that could have come after ‘is it wrong to be’ is something that needs to be discussed. Even ‘asexual’ is in the 5k spot, and it shows more people are concerned about their sexuality than…. argh I don’t know what.

It’s most definitely okay to be any type of sexuality, any type of gender, or have any types of preferences as long as you don’t disrespectfully force them on other people. It’s okay to be the gayest gay person ever and fantasize about sucking someone off or maybe putting that kink you have to use or be transgender as well. The point is, yes, it is important to accept your sexuality/gender/kinks/everything as part of yourself, and heck, embrace it.

Changing topics, directly underneath ‘gay’, it says ‘white’. Hold the eff up for a second and let me try to say this without coming off as racist.

It is definitely okay to be white! It’s okay to be black, red, blue, purple, green, orange, pink, neon, or a fricking rainbow. (Although don’t bleach your skin like Michael Jackson did, that cannot be healthy for you.) You cannot change your skin color either, so that’s another thing. And while some people will always be racist, you cannot change who you are. I have even gone through a time when I questioned if it was socially acceptable to be white. My dad worked in the military and that caused us to live in Japan for seven years. I attended Japanese school (where I basically had to learn, speak, write, and read Japanese when I was three years old) and let me make this very clear. I was the only white kid that had EVER gone to that school. I barely had any friends, and the ones I did didn’t really like me that much compared to their Japanese friends (it wasn’t a matter of smarts either, I was the top of the class in almost every subject, including Japanese. This was also when I was 5-9 years old, approximately.). It was pure racism. I was bullied (physically and mentally; I was beat up on a daily basis (and keep in mind these are FIVE-NINE YEAR-OLD CHILDREN)) for three years starting when I was five, and much of the fourth before my family moved back to the United States, and I actually made the best friends of my life (Who aren’t white, by the way. Well, some of them.) The moral of this story? Even I have struggled of my skin color and have been discriminated against, and I’m still here and can say to myself and all of you that it is perfectly fine to be white.

The third one, ‘strong’, is going to be something that doesn’t need much elaboration.

Be the strongest you can be. Whether it is mentally, physically, emotionally, or spiritually, be the best you can. And if you do feel the need to break down and cry, that’s okay. Let it happen. Crying doesn’t show that a person is weak- it shows that the person has been strong for too long.

We can skip the 7k category- that depends on if you want to be or not and your family’s beliefs.

The 6k category- a loner. This is something else I’m going to take from my experiences, and I honestly can say it varies from person to person, and the different personalities that those people have. I have a naturally clingy/attention-seeking personality, but I am very much so made and existing to be a loner. This results in a(n often unhealthy) combination of me wanting attention but also not wanting to stray too close to people in fear of getting too attached. It sometimes hurts me a little bit, but I can’t help it. It’s in my natural instinct to be alone- I proved this by doing an experiment by telling my friends to cut ties with me for a week, and that week went by so easily without them it was unbelievable. When that week was over, I discovered that I could barely stand my friends and much preferred the solitude that I was in the previous week. I drifted away from them for two days after that before my craving for attention/clinginess brought me back to them. I haven’t done that experiment again in fear of losing them, but I have been becoming increasingly more clingy to certain people (sorry Solstice ᕙ(⇀‸↼‶)ᕗ). But the point it, yes, it is completely okay to be a loner. As long as it does not affect you negatively in any way, like it did with me and my friend’s relationships.

Next, the 4k category. Greed is one of the seven deadly sins (not the anime, unfortunately) and a quick thesaurus.com search told me it is essentially the same as selfishness (I kinda knew that already but I wanted to make sure).

If I’m being honest, I think we are all selfish in our own ways. I’m selfish- I crave attention and I desperately hold on to whatever pride I have left after an argument. I’m horrible, in a sense. I won’t be satisfied without the last word, I won’t apologize even when I know I’m in the wrong, and I will somehow twist the story of what happened to try and make me in the right anyways. I’ll say really mean stuff that I wouldn’t want to if I wasn’t trying to hold onto it, and even though I’ll regret it, I won’t do a dang thing about it.

I am only using myself as an example, and I’m putting myself on display, in a sense. It’s the cold, hard, truth, and in order to protect myself, I can be a complete bitch. All because I am selfish.

3k. This is a very sensitive subject to many people I know, and one of my friends struggled with this last year (miss you, Paris) even though he is a fricking string bean. This also represents most body image problems, too, and they suck. And if I’m being honest, I have no idea to convey this in simple words just because the magnitude of this issue. I almost got into some major trouble because of this issue, too. I woke up one day after someone in a dream had called me fat, then stripped down, took a look at myself in the mirror, and proceeded to evaluate every single part of myself that was inadequate. I had thoughts of diets running through my head, ways I could slim myself down, make myself look more appealing. Maybe take some weight off the stomach, add some to the chest. Then I checked online for the normal weight of teens my age, weighed myself, and found I’m actually normal, and with that little awakening, started to realize that I was thinking about absolute crap, and proceeded to throw the list of dieting styles I should try in the trash can. I am a very mentally strong person, and I was able to snap myself out of it before any serious harm came to me. Others are not the same.

If you are unsatisfied with your body, I encourage you to make a list of the things you find unsatisfactory and then start working on a healthy way to resolve those issues. If you can’t change something healthily, then don’t do it. If you want to lose weight, either cut down on food intake (not by a lot, do it gradually) or start playing a sport. Never go for those diets that say you’ll lose more than two pounds per month. It isn’t healthy to drop fifteen pounds per month- two is the maximum to go. And if you want it quickly, well then I’m sorry- there’s nothing I can do to speed the time up.

If you want to put on some weight, don’t binge-eat. That will just create more problems for you in the future, instead of just gaining weight. Add to your food intake slowly, and make sure you aren’t gaining more than two pounds per month. Remember, patience is key.

I can’t think of more body image issues right now, but if you want to change something about yourself, 1. make sure it is logical. 2. make sure you can do it in a healthy way. & 3. have patience.

Number 2k. Angry with god- that’s one that I may be at a loss for. I’ll try to turn this more to religion in general, but not force it on anyone at the same time.

You are perfectly allowed to be angry at god, for whatever reason! Life does get unfair sometimes, and if you can't blame it on anyone you know, sometimes maybe you want a greater being to blame it on? That's okay! Maybe you don't even believe in God at all, however, which is still okay. Any religion is allowed, whether it's Christian, Muslim, Aethiest, or others (I don't think I spelled that right, I'm so sorry.) Anyone is accepted.

And finally- single. I have only a few words for you.

Love yourself so nobody has to.

Maybe spread this around with people you know? Reblog and stuff? I want my message to reach as many people as it can.

If anyone wants to talk about anything, just shoot me a message.

Thanks for reading,

Rose.

#google feud #weightloss #weight gain #lose weight #love #nationality #religion #gay #lgbtq

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