#whilst they’re telling him of their crimes??

[luvmoonie]

when sunak openly admits that he does not see what israel is doing as a genocide you know that this country is completely corrupt

#rishi sunak #prime minister #uk #palestine #israel #end israeli occupation #free palestine #free gaza #genocide #like wtf #whilst they’re telling him of their crimes?? #and he’ll condemn russia?? #and iran?? #wtf #do better #this is outrageous #ww3 here we come i guess

[cherryjuiceblues]

𝐌𝐔𝐓𝐔𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋 | 𝟓.𝟐

➯ HARRY LETS HIS FRUSTRATION GET THE BETTER OF HIM AND SOME TIME AWAY FROM Y/N HAS HIM TURNING UP AT HER DOOR TO FINALLY TELL HER HOW HE FEELS. ✰ dom!harry resolved angst. shouting. sexual content. BDSM influenced punishment. dominant and submissive dynamics. slight anal play. minors dni. 𝑤𝑐 10.7k ッ mutually beneficial masterlist

The house doesn’t smell like curry.

And that’s the first thing he notices when he steps inside after a long day. Harry always makes a point to relish in the view of his home before he enters its threshold; warm and bathed in light—the clear signs of life pouring out of the windows and across the driveway. Y/N cradles his heart in more ways than she shall ever know but simply remembering that she is here, in his home, keeping it safe whilst he’s gone… It does irrevocable things to him.

But today, fretful from the stresses of the night before, perhaps he’ll admit that it does less to soothe his weary head as it does most days. When the only thing getting him through the workday was the promise of a beloved meal, prepared with love, steaming—waiting for him when he got home—and the scent doesn’t immediately hit him in the face… he worries. He worries for his sanity and for Y/N’s wellbeing. He worries for the words he might say on an impatient, empty stomach.

The tension between Harry’s brows radiates throughout his entire skull as he rolls out his shoulders and prepares himself for the conversation he’s going to have to have in approximately ten seconds. He can hear Y/N tottering around in the kitchen—and that almost makes it worse—that she’s in there and yet he can smell… he can smell something sweet. Something—

His feet lead him to the scent, hoping his nose is mistaken, forehead tightening at the sight he is greeted with.

“What’s this?” His cadence is concerning—unclad with his usual charming lilt—swathed in this new, murky tone of impatience. “Where’s m’dinner, sweetheart?”

Y/N twists around from her place at the sink, lips turned downwards unlike her usual welcome of a happy, relieved smile. And her reaction, Harry will later accept, is a valid one considering his complete lack of greeting—when he is usually so full of soft lilts and gentle caresses.

“Oh—hello to you too,” she scoffs, words tumbling out uncharacteristically, “‘m I your housewife, now?” And—regardless of whether Y/N had already been labelled as such by Harry’s own employees, she has a feeling his eyes would’ve darkened all the same. His immediate, deathly silence does more to terrorise her than any garish attempt at horror (although that successfully scares her too).

She’s wondered what it would take for him to have his moment. Harry’s patience has always been such a relief—the most gentle person in Y/N’s life—a trait previously severely lacking and one she now cherishes every day.

And she knows his reaction isn’t unjust. She should have made him dinner, ready to eat as soon as he stepped foot inside—just like she had promised earlier in the day. With a smile on her face. She can’t quite explain why she made a cake instead. She’d had every intention to do as she’d said, was on her way to the kitchen to get started, in fact. But then she’d opened her phone, scrolled through Pinterest for just long enough to become distracted, to forget her initial quest, and to become enamoured by a heart-shaped sponge cake instead.

Y/N understands Harry’s anger. But it’s still upsetting. She feels as though she has committed something worthy of jail time. Her stomach churns, previously dancing butterflies dispersing with a single brandishing glance over her way. They’re replaced by heavy, heavy bricks—weighing her down, immobilising her completely as she watches Harry inspect the kitchen with beady eyes.

“You made a cake?” He asks, already knowing of the answer; the evidence stares him straight in the face—accompanied by the debris—a crime scene of flour and icing sugar, bowls upon bowls filled with remnants of batter. She opens her mouth, abandoned by sound, swiftly closed when Harry continues on his own; unneeding of Y/N to have a conversation.

“Does it taste like fucking Korma, darlin’?” And she doesn’t like it—the way he weaponises the word she associates so closely to her own identity—the one he uses more than her own name. He’s upset. And it’s her fault.

“It—”

“—Don’t. Just—” he sighs, swiping his heavy palm over his forehead, “—be quiet.”

It slaps her across the face—his unwavering displeasure. She feels the heat rising, uncomfortable in her face, the stinging of her eyes uncontrollable. Harry walks around the island, sighing at the sight of his sink. She was going to clean it, she was. But that doesn’t matter now.

Y/N stands awkwardly near the doorway, stuck in place. He’s muttering, hands busying automatically, clattering indelicately—every bang and crash deafening in Y/N’s nervous state. “Cake,” he laughs flatly, “she makes fucking cake.”

She’d made it with good intentions, she swears. Everything she does is for Harry one way or another. But even Y/N can admit her timing had been astronomically off with this one. A tear trembles its way over her waterline, Harry chiding her; talking about her as if she isn’t there at all, wounding in a way that makes her feel small unlike every other time before. She swipes it away quickly but the evidence remains—a sad, salty trail. 

“Leaves her mess—” a spoon is dropped unceremoniously, “everywhere,” throwing utensils into the top rack of the dishwasher with a lack of finesse. “Promises me dinner and then has the… the cheek to play the feminism card. Like it’s some… sort of punishment that I dole out.”

And then he spins around, wielding a whisk in a way that usually should diminish someone’s threat but only emphasises his anger. His eyes harden at the sight of her wet face, and he softens his words none. “You know I don’t think of you as some— some tool, some object for my own desires,” he puts the whisk into the dishwasher, before addressing her again, “but when you promise someone something, you fucking deliver, do you understand me?”

Y/N nods jerkily, more tears brimming. “I’m sorry,” she all but wails. The guilt fills her ears with a thickness—one that throws her off balance.

“Yes, I’m sure you are.” She’s rendered him resigned; her dominant usually so bright and uplifting, now expelling sigh upon sigh at the mere existence of her.

“I don’t want to look at your sad little face, turn around.” Y/N lags, feet glitching over the tiles. “Face the wall—yep,” he nods at her stunned expression, indicating that he is indeed serious, “go on.”

But surely not. “Let me—” her arms reach out in front of her, asking to help. Begging to help—to clean up her own mess and let Harry sit down.

Harry shuts her down, shaking his head tersely, coming forward to turn her himself. “—In the corner…just do something good. Wipe your face—” She lets herself be manhandled, shoulders quivering silently. He nudges her knees with his own, positioning her just right—in the corner like a naughty child. “—Don’t need to see you crying.”

He’s right; he doesn’t. She fucked up, Harry deserves to be the upset one. But instead Y/N’s weeping like some sort of inadvertent guilt trip.

Without her vision, everything he does is that much louder—his mutterings now comparable to full-blown rantings. “Who needs—three fucking bowls? This isn’t masterchef, darling. You don’t need three bowls to make a cake, you don’t.” Every sound makes her body tighten up.

Y/N sniffles, “I’m sorry,” forehead drooping to rest weakly against the wall.

Harry doesn’t seem to hear her sad whimper, grumbling away to himself. But as he turns and starts wiping the island counter, he scolds her again. “Stand up straight, we’re not relaxing,” as she forces her head back up sadly, twisting her neck to apologise once more. He’s moved back to the sink, knocking the tap with his knuckle to start soaking a large, ceramic bowl. “—And quit lookin’ at me over your shoulder.”

She slinks back around, shame heating her cheeks. Her posture wilts like a sorry flower. But she can’t help but worry as he’s soaking the bowls—a remembrance of the frosting she’d made, ready to spread on her heart-shaped creation after it had cooled. She checks back over her shoulder just as he’s standing on the pedal of the bin, lid swinging up.

“No!” she cries, scrambling over to rescue the bowl from Harry’s evil clutches. He sighs, eyes roving over her doleful, wet face, but he lets her hold it.

“Why—are you crying?” He asks with such indignation. “Do you need a reason, hm? Because we can find you one,” he swipes under her eyes carelessly, murmuring something about how he ought to never make her come again. “Ridiculous,” muttering to himself as Y/N stands woefully before him—frame so much smaller than it should be. “Go upstairs. Take your—” he turns her by her shoulders, “—bowl and go upstairs. Be useful and cry elsewhere… whilst I make us dinner.”

Y/N wonders, as she sadly shuffles her feet along the floor and up the stairs, if this is the Harry his previous partners were privy to. If this is how his dominance presented—cold, harsh, and unforgiving. She can’t deny the curiosity; that if the circumstances were different that she wouldn’t be aroused at the expense of her fear. Not that she’s scared of him—she’s not. He’s not that kind of angry. But this is unexpected, and it’s unsettling. She can’t decipher the true intentions behind his words; if they’re fuelled by frustration, hunger, exhaustion… or if they’re disguised by such factors in order to portray his true feelings. Was he… irreversibly upset with her? Was he disgusted by her? Repulsed? Turned off? 

She sits on the edge of his bed—the bowl is cold against her palms, heavy and sorrowful, and surely much saltier than she’d originally intended—tears dripping off her chin and into the frosting below.

She cries because she’s embarrassed, she cries because she’s failed; she’s a disappointment and a right headache. It’s why she just sits there, doing as he’d told her—to cry elsewhere. Whether or not she’s waiting for Harry, Y/N doesn’t know. Her brain sits in thick sludge inside of her skull.

Time evades her in moments like these. Her eyes gloss over, focused on one blurring point, her thoughts form with immense struggle—like someone wading through mud, picking up one foot with force, weighed down by the imprisoning filth, allowed freedom for a fraction of a second before it is submerged once more. 

She sits and she stares at nothing in particular, blinking only to displace the tears that obscure her already fuzzy vision. And when Harry appears in the doorframe, it takes a lagging second or two before recognition, before her face twists slightly and a wet garbling sound dribbles its way out of her downturned mouth.

He sighs, anger replaced with exhaustion now… or simply pushed aside until another time. Harry walks towards her, movements slow; cautious like that of a person desperate to keep a placated baby sweet.

“Don’t cry, come on,” he thumbs a tear from her dewy cheek, “don’t need to cry.” His voice is softer now, Y/N is grateful. Although his caressing cadence is enough to make her emotional on most days. So it does little to cease the rapid beating of her heart or the little diamond droplets in her waterline.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” she sniffles, pushing her face into the pressure of Harry’s thumb despite feeling unworthy of it.

“Okay.” It’s a murmur, removed of emotion, as he’s smoothing his fingers around to the back of her neck, holding firmly—keeping her upright to allow her heavy head some respite—whilst he stands tall at the foot of the bed, gargantuan in size compared to Y/N’s sad form.

“Listen to me,” the digits curl slightly, angling her head up, up. She’s forced to ruminate over the tension in Harry’s brows and the evidence of his hands running through his hair with irritation, strands coiling wildly. But she nods against the strain, trying so hard to be better.

“You have two options.” He doesn’t sound angry anymore. Y/N almost wishes he did. The complete lack of inflection leaves her with nothing to lean on. “You can be a good girl for the rest of the night, just like I know you’re so capable of—” he pauses to let the words settle, and maybe to hear the echo of the slight spite in his accusation. 

Y/N doesn’t think she needs to hear option two, and when Harry does say it, it makes her sad all over again. 

“—or you can go to the spare room.” 

Her lip twitches; she clenches her eyes shut to force the tears back down and shakes her head in silence. 

Harry strokes his thumb against the back of her scalp. “We will talk about this. Tomorrow, we will. But for now, I want easy, okay? Will you be good?”

I am good! Is what she wants to say. She wants to say that she never meant to be bad, she never meant to upset him. She wants to take the last few hours of her life back completely and do it all over again. 

The weight of the bowl in her hands is a reminder. She puts it down on the mattress beside her, curling her knees underneath her bum to push her height up. To reach Harry’s chest and clench her fingers into the material of his shirt, jacket long since removed in the heat of his frustration.

“I’llbegood,” Harry feels the vibration of her words and hears the muffled promise as Y/N smears sad kisses over his cotton covered heart. He lets her—eyes losing the fight against his lids as they fall shut, sighing as he worries about taking this all too far. 

But the wheels are in motion, and the emotions are high. If Y/N can’t follow through on a promise, then Harry must follow through with a punishment. Or a scolding. Or whatever it is that they’re doing right now—which seems to be neither. He just wants to sleep, and hold her warm body, and forget about his day.

He brings his hand up to smooth over the top of her head, closed eyes allowing him one last moment of reprieve. Y/N’s tears soak through his shirt, wetting his skin underneath. No doubt he’ll find dampened patches littered across the material, soon to dry but the memory will never fade. Of having his love kiss through her tears, to beg in her sadness for forgiveness by applying her own homemade bandaids.

Harry needs a distraction.

His gaze lands on the forgotten bowl when he opens his eyes, gently pushing Y/N back onto her bum when he decides what to do.

“You didn’t eat your frosting, baby?”

And now he’s confusing her… because now he sounds almost playful—and Y/N doesn’t know the correct answer to give—the right words in the right order to be rewarded with the right reaction.

“I didn’t—know if you wanted me to, Sir,” she swallows around some of the words, snotty nose all stuffy and suffocating her vocal chords.

“I’d like you to now.” Harry sees his hands on her face as he says it, white frosting painting her like something else they’re familiar with—his fingers spanning the entirety of her features, smearing the mess around like she’s his own personal canvas. 

He leans down, just enough to dip his fingers inside the bowl, coating his digits, and then he stretches back out to his full height with purpose, sinewy forearm veiny as it is pulled towards Y/N’s mouth by an eager hand. 

She sits still—statuesque—with her eyes roving up Harry’s rolled sleeve and all the way to the straight line of his mouth. Y/N can’t help but wish she could know exactly what he was thinking as he daubs the pads of his middle and ring finger against the seal of her mouth, displacing the substance from his fingers to her lips, before teasing his way inside to hook her bottom teeth down and unlatch her jaw.

He just… stares for a moment, holding her mouth open and watching as saliva pools beneath her tongue and kisses his fingertips. And then he pats her cheek with his other hand, a soft tap as Y/N’s lashes barely flutter from the weight of his palm. She drools a little when Harry drops her jaw, shame lingering somewhere but not quite reaching the forefront of her mind. It occurs to her to close her mouth, but it seems her dominant isn’t quite finished—bringing a newly dipped hand back up to her face. He’s all but dipped it entirely into the bowl, cold against Y/N’s face when he smudges his handprint over the left side of her face with a quirk of his lips.

“Sweet and salty, huh?” his eyes darken, the pad of his thumb smearing the frosting so indelicately adorning her face. The sugary paste intersects with a drying tear trail streaking down her cheek and Harry can’t help the way his saliva pools under his tongue, blocky front teeth pushing two lines into his bottom lip. 

She looks so pretty.

Y/N watches the way the flesh holds a slight indentation when her dominant closes his mouth once again. The quickstep of her heart dances with exhilaration now—body frozen in anticipation as Harry’s looming stature shrinks her. Her eyes are wide, and the only things she dares to move, flitting around Harry’s face as he manhandles hers.

He squeezes her cheeks together, shaking her head from side to side before dipping his thumb into her open mouth and spreading it across her tongue. Vanilla blossoms on her taste buds, and a quiet hum rumbles at the back of Y/N’s throat.

“S’that nice?” Harry all but coos. “All your hard work? Does it taste good?” He’s teasing, she knows—but that’s never mattered with Harry. Y/N will always answer him sincerely. 

She hums around his thumb, “Mhm,” tongue flicking against his soft pad. If Y/N could eat everything off of Harry’s fingers, she would. Hand fed for life, lips cushioning his long digits as they stroke her tongue and caress the insides of her cheeks.

“Let me see,” Harry murmurs, keeping her head still as he bends down, tongue unfolding from behind his lips as he licks a stripe from the corner of her mouth to her cheekbone. Y/N makes a startled noise around his thumb, goosebumps littering her skin. Warmth and wet from his thick muscle as it lingers unnecessarily; he hums lewdly, over exaggerating the pleasure just to amplify Y/N’s—to watch her squeeze her thighs out of the corner of his eye as he leans back and swallows.

“Beautiful,” he concludes—about her frosting or about her, Y/N doesn’t know. Her eyes are wide and crystal clear, every emotion glittering over the surface of her corneas. And she just sits there, white smudges over her cheek, her lips, staring up at Harry as though he created the world in the palm of his hand—as though she sleeps soundly curled up in the nest of his dimple or the crevice of his navel.

Harry knuckles the rest of the mess off of her skin, suckling the joint into his mouth and gathering it all onto his tongue. She doesn’t expect the grip of his fingers on her jaw and for her automatic response being to present her own tongue, doesn’t realise that she registers the slight purse of his lips as he crowds her space and shamelessly lets the sweetness drip heavily into her mouth.

He doesn’t have to tell her to swallow as her throat bobs, eyes never wavering from Harry’s despite the electricity that jolts up her spine from the casual debauchery. So unwavering, his gaze, as if concentrating on the most important thing to ever happen in his life. Refusing to blink to avoid risking missing a single millisecond.

And then… then he steps back, the moment suddenly gone. Y/N misses the way his eyes droop regretfully.

Silent footfalls pad over to the en-suite, collecting cleanser and lotion, serum and soft wipes. Harry dabs at her face with such precision that Y/N wonders if it’s soothing for him—to take more care than necessary at cleaning her skin. She doesn’t quite understand the intent. Was he not going to continue what Y/N confidently assumes he had in mind?

He doesn’t as he changes out of his suit, he doesn’t as he passes his work shirt to Y/N, he doesn’t as she undresses—which would be the perfect time to do such a thing—he doesn’t as he pulls back the covers and settles in, patting the spot in front of him.

Y/N complies with a similar silence. No words shared but nonverbal communication can be just as effective. The wrap of Harry’s heavy forearm around her waist, pulling her in tight, so tight—almost too tight. That’s soothing enough to her, feeling his hard chest, his hard arms, his hard—

“Mm, Harry,” a whispered moan and a shift of her bum. She can feel him begging to nestle between her. 

“No, baby, no,” he tickles her neck inadvertently, burrowing his nose into the delicate flesh. She yearns to crane her head back against his shoulder.

“Want you to feel good, sir. Just stay warm inside me, please?”

“I don’t deserve it, pet. Sleep now. We’ll eat in an hour.” 

She can’t argue, not when her eyelids are so heavy. But the sleepiness of her brain and the tingling between her legs has her head all foggy, movements not her own as she guides Harry’s hand up to her mouth and coaxes his middle two fingers past her lips. He sighs into her neck, a gentle huff, but doesn’t resist—his other arm simply snakes under her body to wrap back around her waist and infuse her into his front.

Y/N has never slept so easily after an argument before.

When more of your possessions reside in your dominant’s house than your own, it’s probably time to reevaluate the situation. Y/N doesn’t do that as she juggles cans and bottles before dumping them into her suitcase—Harry’s suitcase because hers was old and battered—doesn’t even ponder it, which is something novel for her.

Harry passes a makeup bag silently from beside her. His case sits open on top of his mattress, slowly filling with clothes and toiletries. She’s not going for long, not even three full days, but Y/N has always been more at ease when she overpacks—instead of underpacking and feeling that swirling dread when she realises she’s forgotten something.

They’d travelled to her house to grab some things and then back to Harry’s—where he neatly folds whilst she fretfully panics—too manic to be overly helpful.

“Do you think I’ll need my sunglasses?” She gestures with them, spinning them around her finger before proceeding to juggle midair to stop them falling to the floor.

Harry smiles, humming whilst he picks a loose bit of fluff from the jeans he’s folding, “I’d take them, just in case.”

“Won’t you tell me where we’re going?” She tries to round her eyes but Harry sees right through her. “Please?”

“No, darlin’, sorry.” He’s not sorry.

“I can’t believe you’ve known the whole time— when did he tell you? Why won’t you tell me? This is ridiculous…” she scoffs, “trying to send me somewhere when I have no bloody clue where it is I’m going—!”

“Oh, watch out everybody, she’s gearing up.”

“—Yes, I am! Stay clear of me unless you want a…” she hesitates , “a…”

“A knuckle sandwich?” Harry offers.

“A knuckle sandwich, yeah!” holding two small fists out in front of her with misguided intent. “Watch out, mate,” hopping about him like a crazy person.

He lets her, hoping she’ll tire herself out with all the bouncing around. “Okay, pal. I’m not telling you! I’m not sending you off to war, don’t worry, okay?”

She almost snorts. Don’t worry… what a ridiculous notion. “When pigs fly, Harry,” she grumbles.

They’re in better spirits today, evidently—although the morning had been tense. When Y/N had peeled her eyes open and relished in the feeling of Harry wrapping her up, she’d melted even further into the mattress. But that was before consciousness had really hit her, before her brain woke up and went fuck. 

Harry had gone through the same thing about three seconds later, the jolt of Y/N’s remembrance disturbing his slumber. He’d groaned out, rolling onto his back and slinging a forearm over his eyes. Y/N peeked behind her at his bare chest rising and falling slowly. His grumbling voice had made the hairs on her arms stand up.

“Want a coffee?”

“Oh—I’ll do it, Harry.”

“No you won’t, stay there,” slinging his legs over the side of the bed and stretching his arms above his head.

She still couldn’t help but admire the broadness of his back and the way it rippled despite the suspense in the air. “Could I have a tea, please? Actually, can I just come with you?”

He’d looked back at her, dimple carving its place with a small smile. “Alright, fusspot, come on then.”

“Here you go,” Harry passed her a mug, presenting her with the handled side as if he wasn’t casually holding scalding ceramic in his hand.

It toppled out, really, nearly undecipherable as she rushed, “Thankshandsome.”

Harry brought his mug up to his lips, not quite registering what she’s said, and then he paused, “What did you just say?”

Shit, nothing, nothing. “I said thanks, Harry."

“No you didn’t, did you just call me—?”

“—It sounded weird,” a sad frown pulled at her mouth. “I want to be sweet but it sounded so stupid.”

He shook his head, tongue running along his bottom lip to stop himself cheesing. “Say it again.”

She’s flustered. “I—” Harry raised his eyebrows. “...Thank you, handsome.”

“And again?” tongue poking the inside of his cheek.

Clammy hands dragged over her eyes to try and feel invisible. “Thanks, handsome.”

A broad grin stretched out across his face, and Y/N swore she saw the hint of a blush teasing the surface of his cheeks. “I like it,” he said. “You’re welcome, darlin’.” Y/N’s face burned, a nervous roll of her lip between her teeth before Harry reached out to kiss her cheek.

“I’m sorry about yesterday, baby. Really sorry.”

“Wh—?” She grabbed his hand that had found her face, thumb stroking her chin. “Why? It was my fault, I’m sorry. I promised you. I hate that I broke it.”

“You did promise me, yeah. But I didn’t even say hello to you, sweetheart. What kind of arsehole does that? Made you feel like shit. Can’t deny it, I made you cry.”

“But I just felt bad. Because— Because I promised, and you must’ve been so hungry.”

“It was just a curry, pet. No harm done. You made a very gorgeous cake instead. And yeah, I was hungry but no one died. I don’t hate you because you made a mistake. People make mistakes—I made one hundred mistakes last night.”

“Only a few,” she smiled coyly. 

“I’m sorry. I was hungry, and I was tired, and I did all the wrong things. I upset you and it upset me and… I never w’na speak to you like that again. Will you forgive me?”

“I already had,” her voice wobbled, relief flooding her system. Harry wrapped his arms around her shoulders and buried his nose into her hair without a moment of hesitation. “I’m sorry too.”

He hummed. “You know I don’t expect you to cook and clean for me, don’t you? Don’t expect any of that.” She nodded against his chest, forehead rubbing against his bare skin. “Could roll around on the floor all day or pick pretty flowers, as long as you were happy.”

“Stop, you’re making me cry,” a wet sniffle rumbling into his chest.

“You really think I’m handsome?”

She barked out a laugh, pulling back to look into his smiling eyes. “No! I think you’re wretched!”

Now, they pratt about like two high teenagers—giggling about things that could only be funny in these very specific circumstances. Harry insists on pretending to grind on Y/N like he’s been cast in some sort of early two thousands music video, relishing in each fit of shrieky laughter he wins from her, nibbling into her neck and pulling her body into his.

“Harry! You’re supposed to be helping me pack!”

“I am helping.”

“No you’re not!” she laughs.

“Let’s finish it later,” he mumbles into the side of her face, arms squeezing around her middle promisingly. “I’m supposed to be working, you know?” Harry hasn’t set foot in his home office all day.

“You’re the boss,” she argues validly.

“Yeah, I am…” he agrees, keen to keep their bubble from popping. “Will you let me decorate your cake with you?”

Y/N spins around in his arms, face bright as she exclaims, “Yes! Oh my god, yes!”

Harry laughs. “G’na need to make some more frosting, most likely,” smiling like a menace when Y/N’s eyes widen and he can almost feel the heat rising up her face. She glances over to the bowl that is still sat on top of the dresser where Harry moved it the night before. If not for the fact that half of it was used like foundation, then it is most definitely not fresh anymore from its lack of cover.

“Come on, then,” she bites her lip, finding his hand and intertwining their fingers in a bold move of enthusiasm as she coaxes him out of the bedroom and down the stairs.

A beautifully heart shaped cake sits undisturbed on a vintage glass stand, the patterned dome warping the image underneath it. And despite the trouble that said cake caused, Y/N still bounds over to it all smiley, proud like she’s just received a first class distinction for a dissertation she’s slogged over for months.

 Harry watches her fondly, noting the way her lips form around silent words as she lists off all the things she needs to get out of the cupboards. It’s a privilege to get to see someone so comfortably in their element; to pick up on things they don’t even notice about themselves. 

She ushers him over, presenting a wooden spoon for him to take. “You can stir, muscle man,” the cheeky quip settling on Harry’s skin with a buzz as Y/N slowly pours each ingredient into a bowl. Harry does as he’s told, stirring and beating the mixture until the boss deems it good enough.

She wields the palette knife like it’s an extension of her hand, smoothing the frosting over the cake whilst Harry ‘helps’. Y/N did ask if he wanted to do it, but he couldn’t possibly do a subpar job of her favourite process. So he watches from beside her—not too close (“You make me nervous”) but close enough for moral support (“Not that far away!”)—making an effort to hold his breath in case it were to disturb her.

Cakes were never Harry’s dessert of choice but… but. Y/N’s unwavering glee is enough to make him want to request a change in the law that demands cake be granted to all. “Do you like it?” She grins, looking up at Harry to gauge his reaction. And he hardly has to over exaggerate; it is gorgeous.

“Too good to eat, that’s for sure,” he hums, holding her gaze with a twinkle in his eye.

“Wait! It’s not finished,” her face drops as she remembers, frantically hurrying to the fridge to retrieve a punnet of strawberries.

Harry should’ve known. “Nothing is ever finished without strawberries.” It’s a gentle tease, followed by a huff of laughter, shaking his head gently as she cuts them in half to place around the border of the heart, in between soft peaks of piping. 

It’s simple, and it’s sweet, and it’s lovely. Much like Y/N as she habitually holds up a fruit to Harry’s mouth, shrieking and pulling back when he purposefully nips her fingertips. He grins through a chew, fresh, sweet juice shining on his lips.

Then he turns to get some water, presenting Y/N with a perfect opportunity. As he’s filling a glass, letting his mind wander to dinner plans, “Do you fancy spag—” he turns into Y/N’s attack as she strikes. Vanilla buttercream. Vanilla buttercream splattered across his cheek and kissing his eyelashes. 

Y/N gasps, hands coming up to cover her mouth and hide her smile, so bad at pretending to be innocent. Harry says nothing, and then he trails his eyes from the floor to her face… “You little minx,” and he pounces.

The submissive yelps, reaching behind her for the counter—frantic for stabilisation as Harry’s body collides into hers. She’s drowning in giggles, out of breath from the incessance. The bottom of her spine digs into marble, hips swivelling as she desperately tries to reach the bowl. Harry’s laughing, pushing forward to rub his sugary face against hers whilst Y/N wiggles—and when he realises her intent, drops his hands to her hips and tugs her behind brutishly into his front—reaches over her back and elongates a sinewy arm to grasp what she can’t.

A clumsy hand bashes against the ceramic, his free arm wrapping around both of Y/N’s the best he can to incapacitate her as his fingers find frosting. He pulls them back, frenzied in his movements as he carelessly sullies her face, her big puffs of laughter tickling his palm. “Ah!” She squeals, head thrown back against his shoulder to try and escape Harry’s menacing paw. “Ha—ha—Harry! Sto-ho-op!”

“You love it,” he grumbles into her temple, far from irritated but his voice can’t help but dip into that velvety cadence with her body pressed so tight against his. He smushes his palm over her mouth, perfectly riled up when Y/N opens her mouth and slathers her tongue against the sticky skin.

She giggles something unattractive—though it makes Harry’s cock twitch in his sweats. “Fuckin’ love struggling like this, don’t you, doll?” And suddenly the mood shifts, Y/N’s laugh catches in her throat and she garbles out a whine instead, body relaxing in Harry’s hold.

He nudges her forward, encourages the stretch of her body over the countertop and the way her knuckles knock against the ceramic. An unconscious hum rumbles past his lips, tongue poking out to taste the sweetness Y/N left behind.

Deft fingertips tug impatiently at the denim hem of her jeans, forcing the button undone and then the zipper, shifting them down to stretch across her thighs. Y/N pants when she realises that’s all the wiggle room Harry is going to grant her. 

He pauses, “What’s your colour,” uncharacteristically out of breath, hardly poised as a question.

“Green,” Y/N whines in return, trying to wiggle her hips but Harry wraps his fingers through the back of her underwear and pulls. The fabric cuts into the crease of Y/N’s thighs and a shiver wracks through her as the force of it bounces her ass against him—against his bulge. 

His breath hits the shell of her ear as he leans over, taunting and teasing. “Gonna let me fuck you?”

“Yes,” Y/N nods, turning her cheek into the marble to feel the cold spread out across the searing flesh. Her hands form fists, nails digging into her palms—desperate to tug on something but her skin is the only option.

It’s rushed, and it’s frenetic—it’s not the way things usually go and it multiplies Y/N’s excitement tenfold. Her knees wobble without prompt and she’s not sure she’ll be able to hold this position for very long but she doesn’t think she’ll have to. Not when Harry pulls himself out of his sweatpants and slips himself under her panties and through her lips. He’s so hard already, Y/N feels herself wetten from the slightest touch; his weight and his grunt as their bodies meet completely and utterly.

But he’s teasing her, he’s… he’s—

“Harry,” it comes out all whiny and impatient—two things Y/N has never claimed not to be—but with every slant of his hips, every stroke through her arousal and bump of her clit, with her wretched knickers still on, it makes her angry. “Stop—stop teasing me!”

He jerks, unused to such commands toppling from her mouth. “Shh, be good, be quiet,” but complying regardless as he slips her panties down her thighs to stretch just like her jeans. Y/N can’t spread her legs very wide, but that doesn’t stop Harry from pushing at pulling as he pleases—one hand pressing down on her lower back, the other cupping her cunt and smearing her arousal like an artist with a paintbrush. 

Neither of them can stand the idea of foreplay right now; Y/N can feel her sad, empty hole pulsing and clenching around nothing—Harry throbs just the same, slicking her wetness up and around his dick, twisting and tugging at the tip enough to make him leak down his knuckles.

They’re wet enough, shining under the harsh kitchen lights, and yet Harry still pulls at Y/N’s ass, spreading her wide to dribble a thick line of spit onto her puckered hole. She jolts, hips grinding unceremoniously against the counter as she feels his saliva drool down to her glistening cunt and Harry’s thumb chase it. He coos and hisses at the bang, smoothing over her hip with his other hand as he starts to rub circles over her.

“Oh—!” It’s impossible not to writhe under the foreign feeling, exposed and wet, trapped by her own jeans. Her forehead falls down, clashing against the marble but Y/N hardly feels it. All she can feel is the pad of Harry’s thumb and the heat it burns into her body—the seeping between her thighs the longer he plays, and the teasing bumps and brushes of his cock against her rounded flesh.

“Shh, that’s it. Good girl.”

And she withers. She disintegrates right in front of Harry’s eyes.

“Pretty girl with a pretty ass, hm? ‘s that feel good, darlin’?”

“Mm, please I—”

“I know, shh—shh,” thudding himself against her firmly, guiding the tip up and down her slick, pushing in to watch her stretch and swallow before leaning back again. Pushing in—pulling out. His thumb applies the slightest of pressure, not enough to send panic clattering up Y/N’s spine but enough to mollify her very being. The sensation—the teasing—of intrusion without the worry of it. The taboo nature of experiencing such pleasure in such places. 

When Harry pushes in all the way, Y/N nearly collapses, whimpering into the counter. She can feel him in her fucking throat, she’s sure of it. Every ridge, every vein, the nudge of his head, his slit kissing her walls. And Harry spews all that he can without saying the words themselves.

“Love your fucking cunt, love this—fucking gorgeous body.” His voice thins out to a gravelly whisper, “Were you made just for me, sweetheart?” hips slapping against rippling flesh, palm smoothing up her back to weave into tendrils of hair as his thumb remains encircling. Y/N tries to reply; all that procures are pitiful cries of exertion, air punched out of her lungs with every thrust. “Waiting patiently for me to find you.”

It’s such a romantic sentiment that she finds herself welling up—perhaps easily understood by the overstimulation of her entire vessel but it feels deeper than that. It feels intimate irregardless of their current position. A limp hand flops against her lower back, tired elbow joints aching, searching for its partner—searching for its missing puzzle piece. And when Harry’s fingers slot into place… it forms the whole, pretty picture.

“Love, need you to—” a pause as though he’s forgotten the words as he says them. “Need you to relax. Gripping me so tight—not g’na last.”

But Harry’s sentiment calms her none, she clenches around him even tighter—suddenly tunnel visioned for one thing and one thing only. It’s an amalgamation of wet noises attempting to form syllables, “Pleasecome, pleasecome, please—” Inside, she wants it inside. 

“God, baby, you’re so wet,” Harry’s hips stutter, digits squeezing hers even tighter, thumb slipping away to slink around her front and frame two fingers on either side of her cunt, pinching her clit ever so slightly. It makes her shudder, mouth far too numb to feel the drool that strings down onto the counter.

“Mhm, mhm,” pushing back with all the strength she can muster, bum lifting to meet Harry’s pelvis. “Daddy.”

“Okay, darlin’, it’s okay. Need you to come f’me,” framing fingers coming together to form the perfect swipes over her clit—the extra stimulation she needs to just push her over the edge and send her toppling. He feels the way she starts to throb, feels the way the muscles in her legs lock, keeps rubbing to carry her through as her weak whimpers trail into wet sobs.

Y/N practically loses consciousness as her orgasm hits her; squeezes Harry’s hand so tight he hisses for reasons other than his strangled cock. Her knees buckle and her limbs lose competence. Harry moves both hands to her waist, hauling her up and onto her toes as he quickens his pace, lewd slicking and the thud of their bodies the only sounds to ever exist.

And she keeps squeezing, the aftershocks strong enough to pull Harry with her, to force him to slip out frantically before painting stripe after stripe onto her ass, her back. She shakes her head against the hard countertop—never before has she felt such a jarring loss, such a painful transition. Inside, she wanted it inside.

Harry stands behind her, slowly tugging, squeezing out every last drop onto her skin. His legs don’t quite shake like Y/N’s but the exertion, the overwhelming orgasm has his head spinning a bit. But not when he registers his submissive’s wet face, drenched in sweat and tears alike, unable to be peeled from where it lays heavily on the counter. He wisens up entirely, cooing soft, easily digestible words as he cleans her skin with a soft tissue. Swipes in between her legs slowly, careful to avoid unwanted pressure, and straightens her back as thought he might have broken it.

Her eyes are glossy, not fully present but it doesn’t bother him. She looks tired, pupils tracking his face with a lag. But tired means he’s done his job well, tired means all other thoughts fail to penetrate. 

They could do with a shower, a sleep, a good meal… but Harry can’t deny the desire to just sit with her for a moment. To untuck a less than comfortable stool and hold her on his lap, chin nestled against her neck. To kiss mindlessly along the slope of her shoulder and massage his fingers into her scalp, to have her doze off on top of him, completely void of tension.

And when she wakes up, he’ll let her eat cake for lunch.

Harry hopes he doesn’t appear too grumpy on the drive to Niall’s. He’s just… well he is grumpy, because he’s going to miss Y/N. And it dawns on him on that journey, just how much he’s going to fucking miss her.

It shouldn’t be so hard to tell her—not when he feels it so fervently. Maybe it makes Harry selfish for wanting her to say it first but he tells himself that’s why he’s waiting. Not because he’s worried but because he wants Y/N to be brave. 

And it weighs on him, every goodbye being void of those three little words. It weighs on him but it still doesn’t mean he says it any sooner. 

Y/N buzzes beside him, practically vibrating in her seat. She turns her seat warmer on, adjusts the aircon, switches the radio station, turns her seat warmer off, rummages around in Harry’s glove box for nothing in particular.

She’s nervous. She’s excited but she’s nervous—and even a blind man would be able to tell. Harry lovingly wishes he maybe could be blind, or better deaf, as she prattles on; terminally diagnosed with verbal diarrhoea as he ums and ahs to appease her. He stopped listening when she started rattling off facts about pigeons (pigeons, for Christ’s sake), focusing intently on the road alongside his own internal battles.

Harry doesn’t mean to suggest he doesn’t enjoy her borderline insanity—he does—he’s head over heels in love with her insanity. She entertains him thoroughly without even trying to and he thinks he could only list on one hand the times he hasn’t been completely endeared with her. 

But he can forgive himself for zoning about when it comes to pigeon facts, no matter how interesting it may be that the species were entirely domesticated, and then abandoned by humans.

“I need a wee,” she complains, shifting her seat belt so it stops pressing into her bladder.

“‘s alright, only five minutes away.”

“I know,” she whinges, starting to tug at the hem of her sleeve. Harry sees her incessant fiddling out of the corner of his eye, placing his upturned hand on her thigh as a silent ask for her own. Y/N takes the bait, and a calm settles over them. 

When they pull up outside Niall’s place, he’s leaning against the hood of his car, squinting at his phone. At the sound of tires over gravel he looks up and grins, elation taking over his face. And however desperate Y/N might have been to go to the bathroom, and no matter how excited her friend is, she doesn’t dare to rush getting out of the car.

She slings her arms around Harry’s neck, bidding farewell as if she’s going abroad and not just an hour away. But Harry doesn’t laugh, he hugs her back just as tight, inhaling the freshness of her skin—desperate to keep her scent with him until she gets back. He presses kisses into the side of her head, warm palm rubbing her lower back—usually he might be reassuring her with gentle words but right now he can’t find it within himself to do so.

He doesn’t want her to go.

And he’s a grown, adult man—not some lovesick teenager. She’s going for three days. THREE. But Harry still hasn’t said I love you and each departure feels more and more dangerous.

“You’re gonna have such a lovely time,” he pulls back to kiss her cheek and her lashes flutter like little butterfly wings. A knuckle down the bridge of her nose and teasingly flicking underneath to make her giggle. “Text me when you arrive, okay?”

“Yeah,” she hums, less than subtly leaning in, hoping he’ll kiss her like they do in the movies. An incapacitating kind of kiss. And Harry delivers like it’s his profession, devouring hands overwhelming in their cradle of her head, directing her movements as he teases the corner of her mouth with a gentle press of his lips. He wishes he could take more time. He wishes Niall weren’t right outside the fucking window probably simpering at the sight. He wishes he could give her more than just a chaste sponging of their mouths, followed by a flurry of departing pecks. 

He wishes he could just say the fucking words.

A knock sounds from behind Harry’s head—knuckles on glass—and the muffled sound of Niall’s teasing, “Get a move on, you two! We’ve got to leave today,” and Harry meets Y/N’s gaze, rolling his eyes obnoxiously whilst she laughs. Their bubble has been popped, and she’s opening the car door, bounding over to her friend all foolishly as she playfully berates him. Harry’s mouth curls up into a small smile, sliding out of the car and silently getting Y/N’s suitcase whilst amusedly shaking his head.

He even gets a coy, “Thanks, handsome,” a twinkle in Y/N’s eye as she embarrasses herself in front of Niall to make Harry’s heart jump. The two men hug and pat one another on the back, exchanging pleasantries and agreeing that it’s been too long. But it’s unnecessary to hang around, and Niall makes some comment about how he needs to take care of something he’d nearly forgotten, so Harry pulls himself away and tries not to watch Y/N in the rearview mirror as he pulls back out onto the road.

It follows him around for the rest of the day, his lack of courage, of flexibility. The fact that a more than capable CEO—a dominant—couldn’t say I love you to his partner. He’s not embarrassed, no it runs deeper than insecurity, but he’s frustrated. And Harry has never been irrational but perhaps Y/N has been rubbing off on him because he finds himself starting to panic.

What if there’s an accident? There’s an accident and Harry never gets to tell her… He has to stop those thoughts before he finds himself calling her up to demand her life status, and then again thirty minutes later, and another thirty minutes. But it’s not so irrational, he can’t help but believe. Accidents happen all the time—and Harry can’t stand going any longer without telling her how bleak his life would be without her.

It doesn’t help to scroll through social media. A fucking philosophy. Not when life starts showing you godforsaken signs. A friend getting married here, a newborn baby there. Everyone coupled up and happy—basking in love without boundaries. Love without hesitation and fear. Harry wants to give that to Y/N. He has that love for Y/N, and he’s positive she has it for him too.

So he exits out of Instagram and starts to look through his own personal social media—his camera roll. Harry has more photos on his phone of Y/N than he does his parents, his sister, his friends. The folder he’s titled simply with her name holds a number of images that might indicate he harbours strong feelings for the girl.

In their short but staggering relationship, thus far, Harry has taken seventy two photographs of Y/N. More if he were to count the ones he deleted after a panicked spam to capture the moment before it passed. He swipes through them slowly—one of Y/N asleep in his bed, naked back pretty in the morning light. One of her sitting across from him at their favourite café, caught off guard in an authentic smile that he can never get out of her when he asks her to pose. He treasures that one. A photo of her laying on lucious grass, arms and legs spread out like she is trying to make some sort of snow angel without the snow. A photo of her wet from the pool, droplets littering her skin as she sunbathes unaware—and then a subsequent photo of when she spotted Harry with his phone directed at her, and scrunched her nose up in disgust. He’d looked at that one for ages.

He wonders what she’s doing now. Knows they arrived not long ago, from her bubbly text message adorned in exclamation marks and emojis. Wishes he could’ve seen her reaction when they pulled up outside the place—a luxury health spa. The perfect place for a neurotic who has an affinity for smelling and feeling nice. She had sent him screenshots; the reaction she’d had over text when Niall admitted to her how he’d booked their visit.

Y/N this room is incredible omg how did you get us in here with such short notice?

Niall right??? don’t need a spa just need this bedroom I BOOKED IT IN HARRY’S NAME LOL no I’m kidding, I’m kidding… okay, I’m not kidding but I phoned him straight afterwards I knew he’d be fine with it  I paid him for my room and stuff don’t worry desperate times called for desperate measures and I knew his name would get us a stay

Y/N NIALL YOU ARE INSANE YOU CAN’T DO THAT how did you have his card details what the hell??? actually don’t tell me i don’t want to be liable by association when you get arrested or whatever

Niall aiding and abetting? is what it’s called, I think ANYWAY YOU WORRY TOO MUCH HARRY IS FINE WITH IT now HURRY UP!!!!! I want to go the in hot tub 😋 in the*

She’d followed the photos up with thank you, harry. wish you were here to enjoy it too x—and it had only made him miss her more.

Y/N and Niall's luxurious long weekend goes by too quickly. And despite her words being true—that she wished Harry could be with them—Niall, unsurprisingly keeps Y/N wonderfully distracted. It’s a relief that she hasn’t become insufferable since dating someone. That she hasn’t turned into one of those people who bring up their partner in every. single. conversation. That she’s not just moping around waiting to go home and ruining Niall’s enjoyment. Y/N actually finds herself to be… content. 

Yes, she misses Harry. She misses sleeping in his bed, in his arms. She misses walking into a room and seeing him just existing. But it doesn’t stop her from lounging in the hot tub with Niall and giggling over gossip. It doesn’t stop her from going to a pilates class and instantly regretting it. It doesn’t stop her from getting a massage so good she nearly falls asleep—although she may admit to pretending the woman administering the massage is in fact her dominant, with suddenly much smaller hands—but that’s neither here nor there.

And when Monday morning rolls around, she’s loose-limbed and fresh-faced—and very much excited about seeing Harry again. What she doesn’t know is that he’s been excited about seeing her again since he dropped her off… and is having the closest thing to a mental breakdown over their lack of communication. 

He wakes up disgruntled; a night of tossing and turning and bags slowly procuring under his eyes. He wakes up and showers. He eats and he glances over his emails. He’ll be ‘working’ from home today, without a doubt. 

It feels as though the only thing that can capture his attention is the clock—each hand ticking slower than the last. Y/N won’t be home until midday at least, but Harry can’t find himself able to concentrate on anything else.

It seems the universe has it out for him, when he switches the television on and Y/N’s favourite rom com blares through the speakers. During her favourite scene, of course. He wants to switch it off—not through distaste but through yearing—through painful reminder. But he can’t; not only because he adores the movie too but because the scene in which Y/N loves so much is just that. The climax of the film, the moment everybody has been waiting for—the love confession.

“For fuck’s sake,” he curses to the empty room. Because it’s typical, isn’t it? That coincidence would strike at this moment in time. That out of all the channels and all the TV shows, the films that could’ve been on at eleven thirty on a Monday morning, it’s this one. He doesn’t really watch it. He’s seen it enough times to know what happens. But it helps him decide something. It helps him ignore any and all previous stances on the matter—fuck making her say it first. 

Harry knows she loves him and he gets in his car to tell her so, leaving the television murmuring quietly—two besotted characters lost in an embrace to the sound of his front door clicking shut.

Niall drops Y/N home at approximately the same time Harry leaves his. Of course, Y/N doesn’t know this, and she would’ve appreciated a warning—maybe the chance to have a cup of tea and unpack her case first. But she’s feeling vibrantly recuperated—thoroughly pampered and sucked into the blissful dreamworld of a weekend at a spa, and it hardly crosses her mind to question why Harry turns up so chaotically.

Why he knocks on her door instead of just coming straight in, why he tugs her into him as though she’s just been rescued, why he pulls back just to ask a less than sensical question. "Why won't you say it to me?"

Perplexed silence. Y/N's fingertips linger on the door handle as she tumbles back from his embrace, her gait once relaxed and happy—now stiff and unsure. Somewhere in the back of her mind she thinks Harry’s just wasted all of his money paying for that long weekend.

"Harry?" It hasn't clicked yet, what he's talking about, but it still sits heavy in her gut—heavy and unanswered.

"Why won't you say it, darling?" He looks desperate... it doesn't compliment him well; it makes Y/N nervous. Harry is a suit without creases, shining shoes, perfect hair kind of man, but right now he vibrates on her doorstep in two day old sweats and hand combed locks. In fact, he can't seem to keep his fingers out of those runnels—creating new ones with each breath Y/N's voice fails to break the silence.

"Say what?" She practically begs it. Say what? Please, please, please. Tell me, let it be okay, let it be simple. "I'll say anything you want, Harry," it doesn't evade her that perhaps she should hear him out first. But it's as she whispers the commitment that she realises it. That she would say anything he wanted to hear… for Harry, Y/N would perform absurdities.

Usually shimmering jade now refuses to glisten in the light, green from a marsh or a bog. Y/N misses the viridescence. Harry releases a breath, lashes swatting heavily against his under eye. "You know, you— I need you to know."

And then… suddenly, she does. Suddenly, she’s kidding herself if she pretends she doesn’t know. It clicks—it clicks and Y/N’s heart stutters. This is cruel of Harry, so cruel. He sent her away to relax and now he’s setting up something fanciful just to make a mockery of her.

“That’s not fair,” she wobbles, in word and posture. Her knees start to feel weak, her chest tightens, the image of Harry before her—still hovering outside—starts to thicken. Y/N takes a step back, and Harry one forward. He shuts the door behind him, free from the chill of the wind, now trapped inside.

“Not fair? What do you mean?”

This—this isn’t how Harry talks, this exasperation, this urgency. He takes care of her, he tells her what she means when she speaks. Y/N doesn’t figure that out on her own. Harry always… he always knows. Why doesn’t he know?

Y/N turns her back on him when the corners of her eyes start to burn. A pathetic breakdown of emotion, she thinks. “You must know I’ve just been waiting… waiting for the day. Been so patient, my love. Please talk to me.”

“I can’t,” her words swallow one another, throat thick and wet. 

Harry rushes round to see her, his eyebrows uncomfortably pulled towards the centre of his face. There’s a migraine brewing behind his eyes. “Yes, you can. You can, darling,” chilled palms hold her head up. Y/N wants to shake them off but the temptation is smothered the mere second it arrives. “What are you so afraid of? S’just me.”

“Can’t—can’t… can’t,” scalding tears tip over her waterline, streaming down and over the knuckles of Harry’s thumbs as they brush over her quivering cheeks. She inhales a shaky, shallow breath. “Need you. Need to keep it—this—safe.”

“Why wouldn’t it be safe, Y/N?”

“I’ll ruin it, I’ll—I’m not—” she closes her eyes, “You can’t possibly—”

“—Love you?”

The mere suggestion of it punches the air from her lungs. Despite the fact he’s not saying it to her, it might as well have the same effect. She shakes her head, dislodging a tear.

“I love you, Y/N.” She shakes her head harder. “I love you so much.”

“No,” it’s a thick, ugly cry. “You can’t, I’m— I’m no good, I’m annoying.”

And Harry… Harry does something borderline offensive. Harry laughs in her face. He laughs loudly and he laughs boldly, carving out a crease in between Y/N’s eyebrows.

“I love you,” he says again. And he feels so, so miraculously light, after fretting over it for so long. After hearing her only excuse be that she doesn’t feel deserving of it… well. Harry doesn’t think that’s so hard to help her with, after all. “I love you.”

“Stop,” she weeps, face begging to hide but Harry’s hands hold it up. He’s just a blur before her.

“Hey, hey,” the pads of his thumbs are soaked but that doesn’t stop him from trying to wipe her face. “Look at me—come on, pretty girl, that’s it.” Y/N can feel her bottom lip wobbling. “Do you remember… a few weeks ago, when you were upset—”

Y/N snorts—she can’t help herself—the self-loathe overrules.

“—Oi. Yes, I know, don’t say it. You were upset and you accidentally dropped that plate, yeah? You remember? And I bought you flowers and you felt bad the next day because you didn’t notice?”

Yes. Yes, she remembers that. She’d felt so bad. So embarrassed when she’d asked him where they’d come from, and he’d admitted he wanted to give them to her yesterday when he got home. Too wrapped up in her own despair to realise—too selfish, and dramatic, and ridiculous—

“Hey—don’t think about it, I’m not— I mean,” he stops and sighs, rakes his hand through the back of her hair. “I buy you flowers with meaning, yeah? Yellow tulips, white gardenias…” Y/N nods slowly, confused but fond of the memory of those yellow tulips indefinitely. “Those flowers I bought a few weeks ago… they were red roses, baby. They symbolise love—they mean I love you. And I was going to tell you if you’d asked but… well, it didn’t happen—And I’m not blaming you, I’m not, but I can’t not say it anymore. And I need you to want to say it back to me darling.”

Y/N starts crying again—she never exactly stopped but the tears had paused momentarily to allow Harry his room to speak. But now? Now they’re under no semblance of control. She paws at his t-shirt, words garbled but he knows what she’s saying, “I love you, Harry. I love you s-so much,” and it’s never sounded more beautiful. It’s a mess, and it’s far from romantic—snot and tears coalescing into one big disaster—but Harry still kisses her.

He kisses her and he smiles, laughing when she laughs through her sobs—saying it over, and over, and over again. “I love you,” he whispers, and she echoes it back through waves of emotion. “You’re it for me, you know that?” And Y/N can’t bear to hear it. She’ll still struggle to believe him, for many months to come, they’re both sure.

“But—” she pulls back, swipes furiously at her face with no impact, “—the roses— they died, Harry. Does that mean your love died with them?” It’s a ridiculous notion; of course Harry laughs. “Shut up!”

“I didn’t say anything!” He’s grinning, and Y/N can’t help but mirror his expression. How could she stop her lips from twitching upwards at such a sight? Harry tugs her to his chest, squeezes her so tight she might just get stuck there, and holds her for as long as it takes for their heartbeats to return to normal.

And when they do, he tucks his lips against the top of her head and asks, “Does this mean you’ll quit your job now?”

Y/N takes a moment to ponder her reply… and then he… he feels her smile into his chest before she leans back and looks up with the prettiest, cheekiest, little grin, “Maybe,” ducking out of his embrace and starting to slowly waddle backwards, “if you can catch me.”

Harry doesn’t even do her the courtesy of a head start.

#harry styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles smut #harry styles one shots #harry styles blurbs #harry styles angst #harry styles fluff #harry styles fanfiction #domrry #writing #mutually beneficial #dom!harry

[morallyinept]

This image got me thinking about A Cup Of Love Dieter... a little drabble, nothing wild, just soft.

Dieter Bravo x F!Reader. Just slightly over 1k words written on a whim this evening...

Enjoy! 🖤

A CUP OF LOVE MASTERLIST | DIETER BRAVO MASTERLIST

He knows that you secretly loathe these events that you’re dragged to, sparkling on his arm like some expensive diamond, when you tell yourself you're nothing but a zirconia really.

He’s not really fond of them either. Too full of panache and charade, but it’s part of the gig.

If he had the choice to stay at home with you, smothered in a sherpa lined blanket whilst bingeing murder crime docs and eating French toast with that little berry compote thing you make, the one that reminds him of his Grandma’s strudel, he’d trade that for all the weighty statues with his name engraved on them any day.

Just to feel you snuggled into him under his arm as you say you’re not sleepy after episode seven, and he says you are and you insist you’re not, but you doze off anyway, snuffling lightly into his warm pit.

Dieter also knows you only go to these things for him, despite you feeling somewhat aloof and out of place.

He sees it, that glazed look in your eyes as stylists and make-up artists fuss over you and turn you into a version of yourself you don’t recognise all throughout awards season.

He always glimpses you as you stare back into the mirror, peering at yourself with a stumped look and wonders why it is you don’t see how stunning you are to him, whether you’re in sleek Prada tailored for you, or frayed sweatpants with holes in the crotch.

He promised you he’d shield you from this world as best as he could, if that was what you wanted. But you also want to celebrate him, show the world how proud you are, because damn you’re so fucking proud of him and all that he’s achieved.

Even if you can’t quite breathe in the dress when you sit, and the heels are blistering your toes that are squished into them before you’ve even begun walking.

Amid the glittering spectacle of the awards show, you walk the red carpet with him, squeezing his arm or his hand, and he always squeezes back, never letting you fall. Always reassuring you in the car ride there that he won’t let you fall, at least twenty times before you arrive. I promise you, I won’t let you fall, baby.

The cameras are there for him, incessant shutters sounding like machine guns in your ears as you present practised pearly gnashers with an aching jaw.

Dieter kisses your temple, rubs the skin on your lower back, whispers that you look incredible in that tight magenta and it’s making him hard; all things that aren’t for the cameras.

They’re for you.

And you do smile, genuinely, as it all fades away. He has that knack of making them all disappear before your eyes, like a magic trick, when he looks at you like that.

All warm, cocoa brown eyes set in crinkly laughter lines. Tan skin in an open collar, and greying scruff tamed with Chanel lotions.

Curls slick and silken replacing the silver-streaked ball of frazzled fluff you run your fingers through when he rests his head in your lap, or between your legs making you squeal and buck into his face as you twist and pull at the roots whilst he makes you come undone with that pink, slick tongue he bites between his teeth when he smirks and winks at the cameras.

He’s not acting. It’s real. It’s all Dieter and he’s all yours.

As real as the discomfort radiating from your feet. The sky-high heels you wear, though apparently fashionable, are exacting their toll with every agonising step. Each moment seems to exacerbate the ache, as though your shoes are made of steel rather than matching satin to your dress.

Dieter glances at you, a mixture of empathy and awe in his eyes, realising the lengths you go to for the sake of appearances. In that unguarded moment, your vulnerability only deepens his admiration for you, recognizing the strength and determination it takes to endure such discomfort with grace in such a public forum.

But despite your demure appearance, you kick off your shoes under the table the first chance you get, as you watch the ceremony, him by your side. Your fingers knotted inside his, stroking over worn knuckles and silver rings.

It's not his night, he’s not nominated this time, but he has been before, and he will be again.

You watch him put on his new specs so he can see better, and you stroke affectionately under his chin as he blushes and nuzzles his chin into your palm, not caring who sees how you make him weak.

He sticks to water most of the night; only one glass of champagne to toast his friend and mentor who is honoured with an esteemed accolade in the business, but even then he leaves most of the glass after a sip or two, and you smile proudly at his resilience.

How you make him strong.

You know these events are hard for him too. Where he once would relish the bawdy opportunity to get wasted, papped coming out of a party half-undressed and falling into some strangers bed, sweaty and not remembering their name in the morning, he now longs to leave before midnight and crawl into bed with you for a good cuddle and a cup of love.

Dieter watches you mingle in between awards, getting starstruck as you chat with revered actors whom you watched on the silver screen when you were small and ungainly, and he can’t quite contain the grin as he notices you gushing at Hollywood royalty whilst you’re completely barefoot.

Little painted toes peeking out from under your dress, wiggling in their excitement, as you laugh and chat, and the stars in your eyes twinkle like the droplets dangling from your lobes.

Smiling so hard your jaw aches as you make your way back to the table and Dieter’s holding up your shoes to his chest, smirking at you.

You take them from him, not caring you’ve been rumbled, and simply chuck them under the table.

You go without them for the remainder of the evening.

And that right there is one of the reasons why Dieter loves you so much, because despite your worries that you don’t always fit into his world, he knows that you absolutely do.

Because sometimes, just sometimes, you're just as wild and carefree as he is.

🖤

A CUP OF LOVE MASTERLIST

DIETER BRAVO MASTERLIST

#pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo #pedro pascal characters #jett's writing #jett's musings #a cup of love

[raineandsky]

#73

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4) (part 5) (part 6) (part 7) (part 8) (part 9) (part 10) (part 11)

tw: blood

The late shift was never particularly kind to the villain. It’s when villains are the most active—and so the heroes are more so too. The cover of night is meant to make crime easier, but the heroes are out in droves at this time and the cover of night turns out to, actually, not cover shit.

Their front door clanks shut behind them, a relieved sigh slipping from their lips. Their eyes trace down the hall—to their bedroom, hell yes—and catch their kitchen door swinging shut.

The evening’s tiredness is evaporated in a second. The villain’s hand is inside their coat on instinct, the feeling of the well-loved knife hilt in their hand a much-needed comfort as they start down the hall.

They push the door open slowly, wishing that they oiled its hinges last week. They peer inside from the safety of the hallway—there’s… nothing in there. It’s just as they left it this afternoon. Except, no, wait—

There’s a handprint on their windowsill. Shiny, still wet, and crimson red.

Invisibility is a habit by now. They glide through the kitchen quietly, their footsteps practised, their coat blending them into the gloom, to glance down at the blood staining the wood. They look outside, back in, across the kitchen. What the– this bitch has been in their fridge.

They open it, letting the light blind them momentarily. Well, there’s a lot of food they’re going to have to throw out now. Specks of blood taint most of this. They glance back, the yellowing light brightening the room and their face, and they hear a very muffled, presumably very unintentional, “shit”.

The fridge slams shut and sinks the room back into darkness. There’s a red trail trickled over the tile floor, leading straight to their pantry.

The villain adjusts their knife in their grasp, creeping towards the little cupboard. They pause outside, heaving a heavy sigh in preparation before tugging the door out and thrusting their blade into the darkness beyond. 

“This is no place for a petty thief,” they say whilst their eyes adjust. It’s darker in there without the streetlamps outside invading. “I’m giving you a chance to get out before I cut you to shreds.”

Someone squeaks from inside. “P–Please don’t!” they cry, and the villain squints suspiciously. They can just see the figure of the person pressed into the back of their pantry.

They fumble for the light switch, showering the tiny room in dull light. Of all people the villain expected to rob them, well, they weren’t really expecting to see—

“[Hero]?” they demand incredulously, and the hero winces. They squeak again when the villain gets the mind to shove their knife against their throat. “How the hell do you know where I live?”

“I– I don’t!” the hero cries. “I didn’t know you lived here, I swear!”

The villain narrows their eyes disbelievingly. “So, what? You break into people’s houses now? Doesn’t sound very agency-friendly.”

The hero’s eyes nervously slip to the bloodstained fridge behind them. “I– I’m hiding.”

An admission of weakness. They’re hiding.

Sirens shriek outside. Blue and red dance merrily on the ceiling. “From what?”

“From [Superhero].”

From the superhero. The villain doesn’t doubt that they’re hiding. The hero looks terrified—though they do have a knife slowly drawing blood at their throat, they suppose. But from the superhero?

“Why?”

The hero swallows nervously. They won’t meet the villain’s eye. “I did something wrong,” they say quietly. “Really wrong. [Superhero]’s practically out for my blood now. I can’t be trusted.”

The sound that comes out of the hero is either a laugh or a sob. It’s hard to tell. “So you’re hiding from him,” the villain finishes.

The hero nods before they remember the blade resting on their skin. “Yeah.”

“And so you’re hiding… in my pantry.”

“... Yeah.”

“And you helped yourself to some of my fridge.”

The hero has the decency to flush in embarrassment. “I’ll replace it. I was desperate.”

“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t kill you right now,” the villain says lowly, “or throw you back into the street.”

Clearly the hero didn’t think this far. They lick their lips, their wide-eyed gaze finally meeting the suspicious squint of the villain’s. “I can– I could do something for you?”

“You dying would do me a great favour.”

The hero swallows again, and their stare turns nervously outward again. “I– I don’t know. I don’t have any of my weapons, I’m not dangerous.”

“You get in fist fights.”

“I usually lose those.”

The hero laughs, the sound taut with anxiety. The villain leans away from them slightly, letting their blade sit a little lighter on them. “I have an idea,” they say flatly.

“Yeah,” the hero says instantly.

“I need a maid.” The hero’s face falls slightly at the wording, and the villain grins ecstatically. “I have the clothes. You work on my whim, without snooping, and you can sleep on the sofa.”

“Isn’t there anything less humiliating I could do?” they ask quietly. God no, the villain thinks. The humiliation is part of the fun.

“I could let you stay in my basement,” they offer pointedly, and the hero grimaces, “if you’re so attached to the clothes you’re wearing.”

Sirens whoop outside. The villain glances at the blood trails on the floor. “I’m going to clean this up before your friends inevitably bust the door down,” they say. “We can talk business when I get rid of them. Stay in there. If I so much as hear from you, they can have you. Got it?”

The hero nods numbly. “Yeah.”

And with that, the villain flicks the light off and slams the door on them.

Cleaning is easy enough, though they’ll need to mop later—or the hero will. They turn over a few pieces of furniture, drag a few drawers open, and then they casually let themself out the front door with a giant, full backpack.

The police are exactly where they wanted them. They spot the villain halfway out of the garden.

“Thief!” one of them cries. “Stop in the name of the law!”

The villain turns on their heel and bolts for the back of the house.

This part is easy. Lose the police in the city, wait for them to clear out from their house, loop back home. They’ll never suspect that the villain lives there. God, they’d have some problems if they did.

The next part is the fun one. They have a hero to blackmail—and by god, are they going to use that to their advantage.

Next part

#creative writing #writblr #writers on tumblr #writing #writing community #heroes and villains #hero x villain #the villains housekeeper #tw blood #game jam is close to finishing lads!! #i have. not been this stressed since goddamn uni #i came in like hehe!! im a writer!!! #and im leaving panting exhausted covered in blood because ive been forced to code #i barely know how a program works. i thought a conditional was a type of love

[konigsblog]

Ok we know about cat!reader but what about cow!reader? My personal origin story for this is that you somehow got caught up in some flavor of crime because you had no other way to survive and got interrogated by the 141. Originally they thought worst case scenario they could kill you and move on, but once they realize you’re a cow and you could be used for milk and breeding?? They tell you that in exchange for information they’ll give you protection and freedom (not totally a lie) but then they take you to the barracks and basically make you their pet. Awwing and cooing at how cute you are with your tail and little horns and soft fluffy ears. And the reader eating that shit up because they’ve never been loved like that before 💔💔💔 the boys would be sweet enough to wait to fuck you though. They’d wait until you were comfortable to even help milk you. They’re all just so sweet and kind to you, they don’t know what you’ve been through but they know that it’s their job to keep their new pet safe and happy, even if that means fucking their fists for weeks until you’re ready ❤️❤️❤️❤️

🪤

their little calf so desperate for attention and their lengthy and fat cocks:(((;

price holding your horns, fat cock stuffed inside your wet and tight hole, unused hole starting to stretch out to fit fat and girthy dick, throbbing fat length stuffed inside you. :((

soap making your ride him, his hands behind his head and smirking down at you - watching as you grasped at him, desperate for attention and release, bouncing of his fat, leaking cock. tears threatening to fall down your cheeks. each thrust had you moaning and whimpering, his hair being tugged on by your claws. :((

ghost having you suck him off. lazily lowering your head onto his cock, reaching his base and inhaling his musky and sweaty pubes. bopping your head on him, his hands pushing you further whilst he threw his head back, pleasure and escasty taking over his body, cock twitching and filling your mouth with potent semen.

gaz sucking on your nipples, seeing the milk drip down your body. thighs rubbed together when arousal pooled in your lower regions, pulsing and clenching around nothing before he added a digit into you - his lips still wrapped around your hardened nips.

:(( addicted to the taste you provided, your cunny wet and soaked, adding another digit, pumping inside you before he eased his heavy, large cock inside you, stuffing you full of him.

#call of duty modern warfare #cod x reader #cod mw2 #modern warefare ii #cod x y/n #cod headcanons #cod imagine #orla speaks #cod modern warfare #cod mw22 #gaz x reader #gaz garrick #kyle gaz garrick #gaz #gaz mw2 #kyle gaz garrick x reader #johnny soap mactavish #soap cod #soap call of duty #john soap mactavish #cod soap #soap mactavish #cod ghost #ghost call of duty #simon ghost riley #ghost mw2 #ghost cod #ghost headcanon #john price x reader #captain price

[dragonfly0808]

Musa’s Discography Pt. 1

Yes, I spend way too long thinking about stuff like this about my characters leave me alone ajajajjaaa

But srly like 2 people have asked me about this and I’ve spent way too long thinking about what Musa discography would actually be like so… here is her discography with a way too detailed description of why I chose each of the songs, I had way too much fun with this.

First EP. Written in the later half of s2 and before s3 published in the summer between s2 and s3

I had no specific ‘theme’ for this one, just songs I felt fit Musa’s mentality and would be cool for her first project

For the first EP, which consists of:

The Beginning by Madison Beer.

I just really love this intro it’s a gorgeous showcase of vocals and it’s beautiful and perfect.

I Hate the Way by Sofia Carson.

I love this song. Musa would base if mostly off of Riven’s epic screw up in s2 ch27. Also the guitar solo part feels perfect for her.

Whispers by Halsey.

I can’t quite explain why but this song is so Musa-coded to me. At least my version of her. She builds walls up and tries to not care and fails miserably every time. Also touches slightly on the depression that she def never adressed before going to Alfea and meeting the girls

Run and Hide by Sabrina Carpenter.

I feel like this song fits Musa’s mentality in s1 and part of s2 perfectly especially when it comes to romantic love. ‘Started thinking love’s a loaded gun, nobody wants to fight’ ‘If you can’t hide run, if you can’t run hide’ ‘I don’t wanna run I don’t wanna hide’ it’s just perfect for how she used to think and I really love the idea of her writing this precisely as she starts to let go of that mentality

favorite crime by Olivia Rodrigo.

This would be a more story-telling type song written with Helia cause I feel like putting those two together they would absolutely go full story tellers and poem-like lyrics and this feels like smth they would absolutely write one night they couldn’t sleep cause they love a good sob love story

Ribs by Lorde.

Written about the Winx and the Specialists with a sprinkle of dreading growing up

Second EP. Written during the first half of s3, published right before Winter Break

This one did have a slight ‘theme’ to it since it was mostly written while she was fighting with Riven over secrets on both sides and she was very frustrated with herself and projecting a bit on him.

Hard to Love by Rose.

This feels very Musa-coded to me. She has that instinct of ‘oh shoot I’m loved? Fucking run for the hills!’ But more like… again, she builds walls. So I can see her writing this one night very frustrated with herself like, why am I like this?

Rock Bottom by Hailee Steinfeld.

I love this song and I feel like it suits Rivusa so perfectly in the first half of s3 ‘We’re on the right side of rock bottom and I hope that we keep falling. We’re on the good side of bad karma, cause we keep on coming back for more. We’re on the right side of rock bottom, and to you I just keep crawling. You’re the best kind of bad smth, cause we keep on coming back for more.’ Literally them at this point before they learn to properly communicate. Also ‘what are we fighting for? Seems like we do it just for fun.’ Love this song

Monster in Me by Little Mix.

Another song that suits them when they’re at rock bottom. ‘Touch me, why don’t we kill each other slowly?’ ‘The monster in me loves the monster in you’. Def can see Musa writing this when she’s frustrated with herself and Riv cause she knows why they’re both screwed up but can’t quite figure out how to get past it

when the party’s over by Billie Eilish.

This was when, for a moment Musa considered just calling it quits cause she wonders if maybe they’re both too fucked up to make it work and she wrote this whilst in depression. She also realized that she was hurting him by picking fights and not being honest and wrote this in response to that realization

Midnight Rain by Taylor Swift.

This one was also co-written by Helia, they went for another story-telling not-to-be love story.

False God by Taylor Swift.

Another song that feels oh so Rivusa-coded to me. Like, cmon this is one of those songs that played in the back of my head every single time I had them argue in s3 and feels like the perfect song to end an album all about fighting the one you love

Winx Rewrite Masterlist

Part 2

#winx club #winx rewrite #winx #winx headcannon #winx fanfic #winx headcanons #winx musa #winx riven #winx rivusa #rivusa #riven x musa #musa x riven #winx helia #winx headcannons #veiled wings and shattered panoramas #a withering pretense

[the-chronicles-of-a-bookworm]

Akashi Seijuro x Fem!Reader

Pairing: Akashi Seijuro x Fem!Reader Warnings: my writing, tooth-rotting fluff Word count: 548 a/n: OOC Akashi I think. I am just writing this for myself but I'm just sharing it here for those who are willing to read stupid fics too. U can also request for something if you have anything on ur mind. just check the rules in my blog before requesting something. The ending is also very stupid cause i didn't know what to write. P.S.- I overdid it with the tags. ignore them... if u want to.

You were sitting on Akashi’s lap. One of his arms was wrapped around your waist, holding you tightly whilst the other handheld the book you were reading together, open. As he reached out to turn the page, your quiet voice called out.

“No, don’t turn it yet, I’m not done.”

“Well, how can I ignore your requests, fair maiden?”, your boyfriend said, before putting his hand back in its original place, around your waist.

“So cheesy, Sei. We should read something else other than medieval romance, then.”, you teased.

A warm, deep, velvety chuckle filled the room. Akashi’s hand slithers up your shirt and rests on your stomach.

“You’re right, darling. As much as I love reading, some books influence me. Nevertheless, I’m not taking back what I said before.

You giggled and turned to look at him. He set the book on the side table before turning his attention back to you.

He looks beautiful wearing his reading glasses. It was rectangular and was perched on his nose delicately. Akashi was looking at you from above his glasses. You reached your hand up, and took it off, setting it on the side table, above the book, carefully. Then, brought your face closer to his and lightly brushed your lips on his cheeks.

“You’re so pretty, you know that?”, you asked before proceeding to kiss his nose.

“Shouldn’t I say that to you, my love? You’re beautiful.” Akashi teased, pushing a strand of your hair that escaped its hair tie prison, behind your ear.

“Gorgeous” Kiss on the crown of you head.

“Attractive” Kiss on the top of your head.

“Appealing” Kiss on your forehead.

“Alluring” Kiss on the bridge of your nose.

“Bewitching” Kiss on your nose.

“irresistible” Kiss on one of your cheeks.

“heavenly” Kiss on your other cheek.

“pulchritudinous”

Akashi pressed his lips onto your, your cheeks dusted with red from what he said you were. You could feel Akashi smirking against your lips. He won the teasing game, fair and square. Just as he was pulling away, you pecked his lips slightly before pulling back yourself.

“I don’t know how you know all those words, especially the last one. I thought you were telling me that I’m like fruit punch or something. Or fruit pulp. Or studious. Does studious make sense, though? Maybe fruit juice who studies well. A smart fruit juice. A smart fruit! What’s a smart fruit, though? Maybe apples, cause they’re better than doctors.”

You boyfriend let a laugh he has been trying to hold back for so long. His beautiful laugh broke you out of your own thoughts.

“Huh? What happened, babe?”

“Nothing, darling. You were rambling.”

“Well,”, you said, smiling a little, “If it is annoying, I’ll just go.”

“No, no, love! I meant to say that its adorable.”

You laughed before wrapping your arms around his body and snuggling your face into the crook of Akashi’s neck.

“I love you.”

“I know,”, Akashi said softly, “I love you too.”

No matter what you do or where you go, Akashi Seijuro will be there with you. Like partners in crime, a prince and princess, a king and queen. You will always be the stars for his sky, the words in his story, and the music to his song.

He will be there for you, and you for him.

“Always.”

A soft whisper in your ear.

TAGS-

@vespersposts

#akashi seijuro #akashi seijuro x reader #akashi seijuro knb #knb #kuroko no basket #kuroko no basuke #kuroko's basketball #reader insert #seijuro akashi #seijuro akashi x reader #kuroko no basket x reader #akashi x reader #akashi x you #knb x you #akashi seijuro x you #fic #fluff #akashi fluff #akashi seijuro fluff #knb fluff #kuroko no basket fluff #generation of miracles #akashi seijuro x reader fluff #akashi seijuro x fem!reader #akashi seijuro x you fluff #fluff fic #i dont know anymore tags #so imma gonna stop #stupid writing #requests open

[pouringmyheartoutforpaper]

dove x steve. honestly not as proofread as it should be. i dont feel amazing about this but i needed to get it put out for you guys <3 i might go back and make edits at some point. anyways… next chapter will be smutty exciting ! 💋

“Hey there, beautiful.” Despite his smooth words, his cheeks are tinted pink and his eyes are the size of the moon. You giggle back at him. But the words that come out of your mouth next are soft and surprised, almost shocked.

“Are those for me?” Your gaze flips back up at him, full of wonder.

“Oh, no hun. I brought these for the cat.” He gestures to your feline friend that has made its way around Steve’s ankles. “Of course they’re for you. Who would show up to a date with you and not bring your favorite flower? That’s a crime, baby.”

Heat floods your cheeks and your heart swells. You take them from his outstretched hand and pull them to your chest.

“Thank you Stevie.”

Steve takes in your appearance, admiring the way your dress hangs and how your lipstick brings out the color in your cheeks.

“Course, honey.” And his cheeks burn brighter when you kiss his cheek.

You invite him inside whilst you put the roses into a vase. He's grinning at you the whole time, showing off his teeth that seem to sparkle in the sunlight. You can't help but notice how the warm rays of the sunset shining through the windows make his skin appear to glow, casting a golden hue across the room. You take a deep breath and inhale the sweet aroma of the freshly picked roses. As you place the vase on the kitchen table, you turn to him. His hand reaching for yours.

The sunlight hits your face in the passengers seat of his car. He had opened the door for you and helped you inside. You wondered if he knew how nice that was. You’re laughing with him now, and everything just feels so easy. He’s telling some story about Robin at work yesterday, but you're more focused on the way his eyes are lighting up.

“How are you feeling, dove?”

You grin back at him. “I’m so happy.”

The diner is nice. Steve had definitely made reservations beforehand, and had to be paying a considerable amount based on how nice the staff was.

“Do you like these crunchy breadsticks?” He voices.

A laugh bubbles out if your mouth.

“What? I don’t get it. Like- this is just a fancy pretzel.”

“You’re not wrong… give me it.”

Steve gazes at you the entire night. Your eyes are his favorite part of you. And despite the surroundings you’re in, playing footsies with him under the table feels more like home than ever. Steve Harrington is like human honey. Impossibly sweet, and impossible to get off once you’ve had some. His eyes, his skin, his hair, all honey and hazelnut. Pure human sunshine. Your eyes fall down to his hands more than once throughout the duration of the dinner, making you blush and turn away. He can read you like a book though. If you only knew how he had been memorizing every curve on your body, you wouldn’t feel as flustered. But, he quickly pushes those thoughts aside for later, not wanting to screw up right now.

“You’re so beautiful, Dove.”

Your eyes widen. Heart racing and heat rushing to your cheeks. Which only makes him more smug. And that much more in love.

“Thank you, Steve. I think you’re pretty beautiful too.”

It’s his turn to blush now.

“Let me take you home, sweetheart.”

The car ride back was suspended in honey. Sweet, perfect, and healing. Lovely. Really, lovely.

He helps you out of your seat, grabbing your purse for you and leading you up to your front door with a hand on your back.

“So, how’d I do? Scale of 1-10? Leave a review?”

You laugh, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

“You could’ve done anything and I would have loved it.”

He looks at you and softens, eyes turning into puddles of black adoration.

“I really don't want to freak you out. But I can’t hide how i feel with you. I promise you don't have to say anything back, I don't expect you to. I just want you to know that I fell in love with you the second I saw you. You make me so happy, and you make me feel like myself. And I will do anything I can to keep you in my life.”

He was breathing heavily, and his face was bright red, he looked almost sick with how nervous he was. You gaped at him. And then leaned in.

He relaxes as soon as your lips touch. It’s a soft kiss. A soft, but passionate kiss that says so much. His hands are cupping your cheeks, and you break the kiss by smiling too much to continue.

“I love you Steve Harrington. Please be mine.”

He fights everything in him to not tear up. He’s never felt this loved in his entire life.

“I’m yours. I’m always yours.”

“Good, cause i’ve always been yours. I’m just wondering if this is the part where I ask if I can be your girlfriend. Or maybe everyone evolved past that in middle school.”

“Please, yes, you can.” He grabs you again, kissing you harder this time. Holding onto you so tightly like he wont ever let go.

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve stranger things #stranger things #steve harrington fluff #steve x you #steve x reader #st smut #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x y/n #steve h #steve smut #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington blurb #steve h smut #steve harrington one shot #stevie <3 #stranger things smut #steve harrington smut #dove and steve

[bullet-prooflove]

Lifeline - Brendon Acres x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989

You’re a forger.

An exceptional one.

It’s the reason the FBI leveraged you into working with them in the first place. One slip and you go to prison, that’s the deal.

The agents in Art Crimes, they don’t trust you, they challenge your observations, belittle your insights. They treat you like a secretary, filling in their paperwork, sifting through tips. He hears the distain when they speak to you, like you’re beneath them, worthless.

You’re as polite as you can be, you know that each and every one of them holds your life in their hands. If you snap back, piss one of them off, it’s over and they know it.

Whilst he can’t understand the situation you’re in, he can empathise. He knows what it’s like to have your life controlled by someone else, to have no agency. His entire acting career was based on the dreams of his father, he lived within the confines of that for such a long time before he broke out and tried to forge his own path. He wasn’t living until he joined the FBI.

He sees the restlessness in you, the constant pacing, the tapping of your fingertips on the desk, the monotony, it’s killing you. He knows what happens next, you go back to what you know, the thing that brings you excitement. For him it was drinking, for you it’s forging. He’s found something to fill that gap but you don’t have that luxury.

He can tell you’re close to breaking point. You’ve already started to push the boundaries. When Hendricks scoffs at your suggestion that the painting they’re evaluating isn’t real, you don’t ignore it this time. You spend five minutes aggressively explaining the intricacies of the piece before he tears you a new one in front of the entire floor. The humiliation of it, it’s cruel, even for a man like him. You can’t storm out, tell him to go fuck himself so instead you sit down at your lonely desk in the darkest corner and put your headphones on. You’re a hair’s breadth from hurtling over the edge, he can feel it.

That’s the reason he goes to bat for you with Garza when they take on a museum heist. He thinks the challenge will engage you, ignite that passion again. It’ll get you out of Art Crimes for a couple of days and around some likeminded people. His whole squad is made up of misfits, out of the box thinkers, Garza calls them. A band of broken toys is how they were initially referred to.

It’s a tough sell but with Simone’s help he manages to swing it. He’s not the only one that hates the way you’re being treated, he knows everyone else on this team does too. If you were an agent or a civilian consultant it wouldn’t happen, HR would be involved but you have no power, you’re only there to serve.

Garza runs it up the chain of command before taking it to Henderson, the closed office door barely mutes the shouting when Brendon slides the file onto your desk. The music from your headphones is blaring, something angry, loud. He taps his finger upon the manilla envelop to get your attention and you sigh before plucking the headphones out of your ears.

“You ready to do some real work?” He asks you, flicking the file open to reveal The Museum of Contemporary Art.

“For real?” You ask him, leaning back in your seat. “You’re not messing with me?”

It breaks his heart that that’s your first assumption. It’s a testament to your tenure here at the FBI and he hates that your experience has been so tainted. He tilts his head towards Henderson’s office and the both of you pause for a second listening to you boss completely lose his shit.

“Hear that?” He asks you. “That’s the sound of my boss telling your boss, you’re coming on board with Special Investigations for a while.”

The edges of your mouth tip up and Brendon feels something blossom in his chest. It’s the first time he’s ever seen you smile and honestly…

It’s stunning.

“Thank you.” You murmur, your attention already diverting to the file.

He knows he’s made the right decision. Your interest is piqued, he can tell, it’s in the way your eyebrows furrow in concentration as your fingertips flick through the pages.

“When you finish up with the file, come join us in the conference room. I’ll introduce you to the rest of the team.” He promises before heading back the way he came.

You watch him go before ripping out a page from your notepad and crumpling it up into a ball, tossing it into the trashcan alongside your desk.

Brendon doesn’t realise that he’s just handed you a lifeline, that you were seconds away from making what would have been the biggest mistake of your life.

You pick up the manilla envelop and slot it under your arm before you rise to your feet and head towards the conference room.

Finally, someone’s taking you seriously.

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#brendon acres #brendon acres x reader #brendon acres x you #the rookie feds

[restlesssinner]

Things I noticed watching Bullet Train a second time at home so my family could see the movie too (spoilers):

Tangerine tells lemon to wear a vest to protect his chest and lemon says it gives people a false security cause you can still get shot in the neck; lemon gets shot in the chest and lives BUT LATER tangerine gets shot in the neck and dies

The first time I watched it my heart was shredded by Dominic Lewis’ cover of bubbles that plays when lemon finds tangerine’s “corpse” (I’m DL’s #1 Spotify listener, he also worked on OSTs for violent night and spirited this year) but the song also plays when the brothers are counting their kills in its original form and in a rock cover when they slow-no walk to find the thief

Ladybug has bad luck but not only does little prince constantly talk about good luck but her father does too, seeing how he keeps forcing and winning Russian roulette on his enemies

Ladybug has long hair and a beard, looks homeless and is forced to face all the misfortunes of the world so that others can rest in peace, and for once it’s nice to see a Jesus allegory that isn’t shoved in our faces by the movie

The elder and the white death both worked under the same boss, both lost their wives, both have two descendants one of which is affiliated with crime and another which is kidnapped to get to their parent; the prior spent most of the movie in the same scenes

“He shot my brother” “you shot my son” both of these where also caused by little prince manipulating the shooter into thinking they’re the victim

The nurse that kills the child’s assassin is in the background of every shot showing the assassin

Almost no one in the movie is known by their real names but by symbolic nicknames: even agent carver alludes to an assassin with butcher-like instincts

In the bottle flashback you can see lemon and tangerine changing clothes from their countdown scene to the ones they wear on the bullet train

First ladybug pretends to be tangerine’s twin and later lemon taunts him as not being a replacement to his brother

Lemon says Logan Lerman’s character looks like a “Percy” alluding to his famous PJO role

The wolf’s envelope is shown earlier when ladybug searches his coat for a gun and has to exes to represent cartoon dead eyes and two suspects that were at the wedding undercover: ladybug and hornet. The contrast between these two is shown by how one kills the conductor to steal their clothing whilst the other pays bisexual icon Channing Tatum to exchange clothes

I might be dumb but I realized that the Wild West stand off between hornet and ladybug was also her waiting to see if he succumbs to the poison in thirty seconds

Lemon tells an old lady she is fucking excused and ladybug later tells the same lady to eat a bag of dicks

Tangerine is at first suspicious of little prince because he knows all the seats were sold out by the white death but that knowledge dies with him

I still don’t know how the elder psychically knows his son is fine can someone please tell me if they know

I swear this is my favorite movie after EEAAO there’s so much rich detail even it has to remind the audiences by re-showing earlier scenes it literally made me forgive Brad Pitt for straight washing Troy I watched it in cinemas just cause I didn’t feel like waiting for the movie I went to watch without planning it and I hope this artistic masterpiece is never forgotten in the corridors of cinema history if there’s anything more you can think off feel free to add your thoughts

#bullet train #lemon and tangerine #ladybugs #brad Pitt #dominic lewis

[resident-gay-bitch]

Azkaban AU

Ooo this is my newest wip I think :)

As always, it started with the intention of being a depressing one shot but nope, I’m turning it into a multichap :)

Basically, it starts from Sirius’ second year in Azkaban, it’s from his point of view and really kinda shows his suffering whilst in there. It spans over the 12 years, but there are a lot of time jumps because like, twelve years is a long time to be trapped in one room.

There’s only one person he can talk to, who’s trapped on the other side of his cell with bars to divide them. They have stone walls on the other sides so it’s really just them. And that person is Barty.

Barty didn’t talk to him or even look at him for the first year, and Sirius silently started to drive himself insane with the silence. It’s not until Peter sneaks into the prison and pays Sirius on the one year anniversary of James and Lilys death that Barty starts to talk to him.

Mostly, Barty just chatters and Sirius ignores him. But it helps them both to keep their sanity. He tosses Sirius stones every so often too, when he runs out of his own, to keep track of the days spent in there on the walls.

After a while they start talking more deeply. Barty asks why Sirius always cries on the full moons and Sirius asks why Barty never even looked at him for so long. Sirius of course doesn’t say the whole truth, but Barty confesses it’s because Sirius looks too much like Regulus and it hurts to look at him.

They spend a lot of time talking about Regulus, mostly about Regulus, but as the years go by they start confessing more and more secrets. Like that Barty was in love with Regulus, and that Sirius was in love with a werewolf blah blah blah. Because they both think they’re never getting out, they’ll never talk to anyone else, why not say these things?

THIS WAS NOT THE DIRECTION I INTENDED IT TO GO IN BUT ITS GOING THIS WAY: over time the years start to blur and they get so comfortable only knowing eachother that they start confusing stability, familiarity, and companionship for love. They get so attached to eachother that they begin to fall in love. For Barty, Sirius is the Regulus he never got to have. For Sirius, Barty is the one person who didn’t believe Sirius could have turned on the Potters just because he’s a Black. They rely on eachother.

And then Sirius breaks out, because he drives himself mad just thinking about Harry. And it’s strange, not being around Barty every day, it makes him feel kind of nauseous, but he moves past it for Harry’s sake.

Once he’s laying low, back with Remus, is when he really starts to feel like a part of him is missing. He doesn’t understand why. He’s got Harry back in his life, and Remus, the man he’s supposed to love, but he misses Barty. He of course, never tells anyone this. He doesn’t even tell anyone he was Barty’s cellmate.

He ignores it, doesn’t think about it, doesn’t worry about it. He “forgets” Barty. He feels guilty about it. In Azkaban the lines are blurred, there’s no difference between the innocent and the guilty because they’re all suffering the same fate. Morals are not important when your sanity is at stake.

But out in the real world Sirius is reminded of who Barty is, and what he’s done, and who he loyally serves. He hates himself for telling Barty everything he did, he worries about it, he feels guilt for pretending Barty’s crimes didn’t matter. But he misses him, still, and that’s the worst part.

It’s not until they’re fighting, right before the veil, when Bellatrix aims her wand at Sirius with the intention to kill, that Barty of all people kills her first.

And, well, that catches a few people’s eye. Everyone’s eye, actually. Especially when Sirius and Barty just kinda stop and stare at eachother in a really weird way. Like, in the way that Sirius always used to stare at Remus.

I’m actually so excited for this fic honestly because it’s gonna really delve into Sirius’ conscience and morals. He’s gonna be questioning his every move and thought. He’s gonna go utterly insane in there. Everywhere.

Dunno exactly how it’s gonna end yet, I’m gonna go purely on vibes once I write the bulk of it and probably lean towards what the GA is rooting for, but who knows :))

#jay answers #ask game #wip game #sirius black #azkaban #starkiller? #side wolfstar #side unreuited bartylus because it kills me #marauders #fic au

[ladykatdollx]

Some of my Oz headcannons <3

•He just gives me true gentleman vibes😫I know he’s MENTAL but for you he has a soft spot, he’ll open doors for you (he defo checks you out as he walks behind you), calls you “love” “darling” “pretty girl” “sweetheart”, carry you over rough ground if you’re wearing heels. Just things like that🫶

•he’s secretly a true romantic even though he may not show it sometimes, he’ll kiss your neck and breathe heavily, play with your hair and hold your hand. He definitely gets jealous and protective over you and is always prepared to fight somebody if someone approaches you and won’t leave you alone.

•I feel like he’s an animal lover, considering his crime name is literally Penguin…Telltales backstory I’m not actually sure how he got his name, loves birds especially. He’d be the type to laugh at penguins waddling and sliding into the water at a zoo.

•I feel like he’s life in England was great for him and he low-key misses it, as that’s where he was brought up, especially his criminal life and being a boxer, boxing ring proprietor. I feel like he may have had a few flings or maybe a relationship but it just didn’t work out and it may have made him feel shit deep down, then resorting to drinking and other bad influences (such as gambling etc) to get over it, but that’s something he’d probably never admit, he puts on his overly confident, loud and tough boy personality to cover it. Also, when him and Bruce were good friends, Bruce definitely got more attention, especially female attention and it may have had an effect on Oz, thinking that he wasn’t as handsome as Bruce and couldn’t pull girls like Bruce could (even though Oz has natural charm and IS A HANDSOME MAN NOW😫he’d have all of us over him <3)

•he’d defo invite you to watch him at a boxing match, he’ll brush his hair back and flex in front of you to impress you and he’ll do the most to make sure he wins that fight, he couldn’t bare the thought of losing in-front of you.

•I’m not entirely sure how he really feels about the scar across his nose bridge, I feel like sometimes he looks in the mirror to look at it, getting flashbacks to the fight he had that caused it, but he probably laughs it off and thinks it looks cool. But even if he did feel insecure you’ll tell him it’s attractive, which would make him feel better.

•he got prison tattoos in prison FOR SURE AND TELLTALE WE NEED A TOPLESS 3D MODEL OF HIM

•if he’s had some trouble he’d come and find you, you are his peace and comfort, especially if he’s had a brutal fight, I feel like he’d lay down with his head resting on your lap whilst you sort his face out, he’ll groan due to the pain tho.

•I know it’s sort of contrasting to the point I said above this but although he’s highly protective of you, if you were willing to join him in the criminal underworld, he’d feel unsure but deep down he’d love you to be by his side.

•he has a good and silly sense of humour, I love his British humour throughout season 1, especially as me being a British girl. For those who remember episode 5 when Bruce gets back into the computer and Oz used the comic sans font to type “cobblepot enterprises” LMAOO and changing Bruce’s medical history💀💀I can just imagine him messing around and being stupid with you, like maybe physically annoying you too😭

•defo gets drunk on a Friday and Saturday night and is painfully loud but is funny as hell when he’s drunk

•absolutely HATES these young wannabe gangsters that think they’re hard, they irritate him, he thinks they’re dickheads and will say something like “they have no bloody idea of the real world…twats” as he shakes his head

•probably not best to ask him about how him and Bruce’s friendship, he’ll give you a look and you’ll know to stop talking, or he’ll be like “I don’t wanna talk about it, alright?” And he may get annoyed. Although he will eventually open up to you about his parents and how badly he misses his mother especially.

•has a shocking sleep schedule but he’ll happily let you sleep, he’ll keep checking up on you and may sit down on the bed and watch you for a while, when he eventually gets tired he’ll lay down beside you and wrap his arm around you.

•he loves his old fashioned style and thinks modern fashion especially modern men’s fashion is SHITE

•I KNOW ITS BIG I KNOW ITS BIG!!!!

#batman the telltale series #telltale oswald cobblepot #oz cobblepot #telltale penguin #telltaleoz #headcanon

[nadiadlc]

HEADCANONS IF ENTRAPDAK WAS CANON IN S2/3 ONWARD

I really would’ve loved to see them interact more in the earlier seasons, (1 or 2) because hordak at first is just this big ass villain that we don’t see much and he’s just this big looming and then in comes a princess that accidentally got locked in and she’s not one bit scared and walks on by and he’s immediately intrigued to find out this woman’s deal and why he kinda likes it?? long story short, yes, they’re seeing each other and yk what good for them and me!

A EPISODE WHERE THE REBELLION KEEPS TRYING TO GET INTO THE FRIGHT ZONE AFTER SEEING THE HORDE GETTING BIG THINGS AND THINK THEY'RE PLANNING SOMETHING BIG BUT NO IT’S ACTUALLY JUST HORDAK IS JUST PREPARING A DATE FOR HIM AND ENTRAPTA AND HE KEEPS TELLING THEM TO PLEASE LEAVE HIM ALONE FOR ONE NIGHT 

EPISODE WHERE THE TWO GO ON AN ALONE MISSION AND EVERYONE IS CONFUSED WHY HE'S THERE WITH  HER FOR ‘NO REASON’ BUT HE JUST WANTS TO PROTECT HER

BASED ON THAT ART OF LIKE HORDAK AT PRINCESS PROM- I THINK IT WOULD B HILARIOUS IF HE DID GO AND FREAK THE SHIT OUT OF EVERYONE but he is literally just sitting there wanting to spend time with entrapta so she’s not alone and cause he loves her

catra just having to deal with them being literally attached to each other while she’s not trying to tear out all her hair from frustration like she’ll be waiting to be sent out on a mission but hordak is busy worrying over keeping his lab partner safe

super pal trio having girl time or a sleepover and entrapta gushing about him to catra and scorpia (much to catra's dismay)

her ‘hiding’ in his cape

HER WEARING HIS CAPE (even if it pools around her)

( i think i have seen this before, and yk what i need everyone to know that i frickin' love it-) but her causally chilling in the throne while hordak is the one standing next to her

hordak trying to make announcement to the horde and entrapta just in the background or interrupting randomly and his demeanor changing as soon as she’s near them 

a episode about rumors (they progressively get weirder and funnier through it ) about them and what they do together and trying to keep it secret in the worst and obvious way possible but little do they know imp records them and plays it back to them after hours and they just listen to it and laugh while they wind down

her climbing about the throne whilst he's trying to be serious like a lil gremlin

(inspired by some amazing fics!) episode where entrapta gets impromptu taken on a mission by the rebellion that tries to get her back on their side but she isn't complying because she has 'relations' back there but they aren't putting two and two together the whole time meanwhile hordak is losing all his fucking shit trying to find her and get her back

episodes where the super pal trios are out on missions on their own and just having entrapta getting spammed by hordak

and now during the 'imperfections are beautiful' scene and afterwards with the crystal she actually tells him what it means and it is the first time she has said it to him and it is

hordak loving her calling her his queen and lady of the horde and addressing like that teasingly and affectionately <3

the first time soldiers/cadets call her the title it does not even phase her in the slightest

gag idea for this au: the rebellion is either 110% oblivious with them being together and every time someone or they (entrapta or hordak) try to tell them they just interrupt them and it is just so silly

or they just know by looking at them (there's no in between)

hordak gifting her weapons of mass destruction and war crime and shit and her seeing it being the most romantic thing (because it is!)

and even more angsty hordak during season 4, leaning even more into wanting to show off to ur ex that you are doing great since the break up cliche

and flip side with entrapta being angsty and just wanting to forget about their ex cliche

ergo a even more emotional reunions/meetings in season 5, yes i am just doing this for imaginary fan-service (come get ur juice!)

ignore my blatant screaming in the first three hcs, i just got those ideas randomly and scrambled to write them down

#she ra entrapta #she ra hordak #entrapdak #she ra entrapdak

[raineandsky]

#51

tw: blood, violence

The villain makes their getaway whilst reporters and adoring fans alike swarm the hero. They’d all waited until the villain had bolted before descending on him, uncaring to the fact that the hero was trying to pursue them. It’s in moments like these that they’re somewhat grateful for the paparazzi—at least between the less satisfying photos they manage to get of the hero beating them into the ground.

The villain dips into an alleyway when they’re sure they’re out of sight, finally letting out a pained sigh. There’s specks of blood flicked onto their clothes, but they can’t tell whether it’s theirs or the hero’s. They lean against a wall to gingerly check under their shirt, grimacing at the gash across their abdomen. It doesn’t look great.

They rip some of their poor jacket to shreds, wrapping the fabric around their middle as tight as they can manage. Their lair is on the other side of town. If they can get back and find their med kit, then they can—

“[Villain]?”

The villain drops their shirt instantly, scowling at whoever has the gall to find them in a moment of vulnerability. A young woman blocks the light at the end of the alley, her hair pulled into a professional ponytail and a pair of round glasses perched on her nose. She smiles lightly as if she hasn’t a problem in the world, though the tightness at which she’s gripping her clipboard would suggest otherwise. She’s more or less the image of perfection.

Much nicer looking than the villain right now, at least.

“Can I fucking help you?” the villain snaps, and she flinches so subtly they’re not sure they saw it.

“I was hoping I could get a chat with you,” she opens hopefully, glancing down at her clipboard. “Ask a couple of questions.”

“No.” The villain pushes away from the wall, concealing their grimace as best they can.

“[Hero] hurt you.”

Clearly it wasn’t as well-hidden as the villain was hoping. They narrow their eyes at her. “Yeah, no shit. He always does.”

They turn to make their great, slightly staggering, escape, and the civilian trots along behind them like she’s invited. “It’s unfair.”

“Life’s unfair. You’ll learn that when you reach college.”

“I’m… twenty-six. Anyways, [Villain], that chat?” She taps her clipboard with her pen hopefully.

“I already said no.”

The civilian sighs tiredly. “Look, I know you’re not usually the one giving interviews and things, but I wanna hear your side of the story. How you ended up here, how poorly the heroes handle crime, how their violence only causes more harm than good. Don’t you wanna help people understand you?”

“Mystery is my thing, thanks. You calling me by my villain name is intimate enough.”

“You got a real name?”

Shouldn’t have brought that up. “No.”

“Let me help you.” The civilian darts in front of them, blocking their grand exit from the alleyway. “I want people to like you, [Villain]. I know you don’t want people to think you’re evil forever.”

There’s a growing sticky spot under their shirt that needs to be fixed fast. They’d push her out the way if they had the strength. “It’s sweet you’re so curious about the evil scary side, but it’s not happening. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go home before I die.”

Her gaze dips to where their hand is sitting against them, and her eyes widen in horror at the sight of the crimson pooling on their clothes. “Oh, my god!” she announces. “God, sit down, right now.”

The villain tries to wave her off and get past, but she stubbornly pushes them back. “Sit,” she demands, and the villain has no choice but to surrender.

They slump down against the wall, and the civilian pulls a roll of bandages out from her bag as she squats down with them. They frown suspiciously at her preparedness. “I had a feeling [Hero] would beat you up again,” she explains once she notices their glare. “I thought I could do you a favour if you did me one.”

“Oh my god,” the villain groans dramatically.  “You’re blackmailing me?”

“That’s a mean way to put it.” She tears the bandage from the roll before dipping into her bag again. “What made you a villain, anyway?”

They can’t believe this. They can’t believe she has the gall to ask, and they can’t believe they’re about to answer.

“It started when I was a kid, really,” the villain begins slowly, and they hate that every word that’s about to come out of their mouth is true.

#creative writing #writblr #writers on tumblr #writing #writing community #heroes and villains #tw blood #tw violence #GUYS. I DID SOMETHING INSANE #i made a phone call #can you BELIEVE #anxiety has nothing on me #i only tripped over my words. seven times. maybe more

[blissfullyapillow]

Rejoice! For yours truly has arrived! >:D

I request for another matchup, because I can’t get enough of them <3 Also because last night, I dreamt about Lyney…? So I’m craving for a angsty story with a happy ending 😅

Anyways, I realize that you chose the men based on my “will-absolutely-marry-them” list (AKA the list of Genshin and HSR males I have a huge crush on), and I’d like to say that you’re not obligated to use ONLY the ones on the list. I’ll be happy with whatever ones you think suit me best 💕

Of course, you have the freedom to do whatever you like, so if you still want to choose them only by the list, that’s up to you!

Sincerely,

~Somewhat-a-tsundere-Anon~ 🫠

Notes: ONE OF MY FAVORITE CUSTOMERS!! Lol welcome back Somewhat-a-tsundere-Anon!! I’ll be honest it’s been a coincidence that you’ve been match with your favs! Yes I did take it into consideration but when picking who I’d match you with I really only chose based on personality only and not whether you may or may not be head over heels with them if that makes sense haha. I’m glad it’s turned out that way though! :> I hope you enjoy this one as much the others <3

Masterlist

⛓ 𓆩 ♡ 𓆪. 🗡 

I match you with: Wriothesley

Credits: ryuciii on pinterest

⛓ 𓆩 ♡ 𓆪. 🗡 

He’s your outwardly intimidating boyfriend who's secretly the biggest softie in the world (although it’s kinda obvious to everyone except him). 

He’d find you absolutely adorable, almost worth coddling in a way; for instance, your dislike for spiders, snakes, and wasps never fails to warm his heart in a weird way. Honestly, he likes it when you come to him to kill something for you.

A BIG softie. He’s big on flirting too, never wasting an opportunity to tease with something sweet and/or suggestive. If there’s an alarm going off in the Fortress of Meropide and it’s something minor he knows the others can handle, he’ll literally stay with you and cover your ears for you to block out the noise. 

Otherwise, he’ll waste no time pressing a kiss to your cheek before he’s running out to take care of business; all so the alarm will be turned off sooner and you can rest easy. 

He is your BIGGEST hype man when you’re being overly confident. Even if you’re in the wrong, he will back you up and defend you with no hesitation.

Avid supporter of any shenanigans you find yourself in, willing to go along with them and cause a bit of mischief. On a rare day he may scold you and hold you in his office lest you cause others trouble, but more often than not he’s accompanying you.

A huge fan of physical touch, but will only indulge in what you’re comfortable with. If you let him, he’ll happily sit at his desk with you in his lap as he works the hours away whilst you do your own thing. 

He may purposefully phrase something in a confusing manner, chuckling when you’re wandering around clearly confused. You STILL don’t know the layout of the Fortress of Meriopide and Wriothesley finds it very endearing. 

He will not hesitate to beat someone up or even kill someone for you. Depending on your morals and how bad the offense was the perpetrator may be suspiciously missing from the fortress the following day; spoiler alert: no one cares that they’re gone.

Wriothesley will do grand gestures for you during special holidays since he knows you can be a bit of a romantic. Even if you object he’ll still find a way to shower you with love and praise on that special day; don’t be mistaken, he does that everyday, but on special days he’ll amp his efforts tenfold. 

Que memories of cheesy valentine’s day with a huge bouquet of roses Wriothesley prepared himself, with heartfelt letters and fancy dinners. If you really don’t like that, he is happy to spend a more casual day with you but he will definitely have something up his rolled up sleeves for later. 

If you tease him by yanking or playing with his tie, he will be putty in your hands. You can tell him to commit a crime and he’d do it for you. “I’m already in the Fortress of Meropide anyway. What are they going to do? Kick me out?” You had to scold him for that comment. 

There was a time where he was nervous you’d leave him, when you learned of his past, but when you not only reassured him, but held him close to you after he confined in you…; let’s just in that moment he knew you were the only one for him. 

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ ˚୨୧ ⋆ ｡

“Sweetheart, why are you so far away?” Wriothesley is pouting because you’re on the other side of the room, hyperfocused on the task at hand. You ignore him as you put your best effort forth to finish before he walks over to you; you know the moment he has you in his arms you’ll be unable to focus.

Wriothesley picks up on it, of course he does, but he blatantly ignores it as he makes his way over to you. You’re working fast now, determined to get this done. You miraculously finish your task right as Wriothesley plops himself behind you, drawing your back firmly against his chest.

You swear he purrs as he buries his head into your shoulder, nuzzling you. You can only sigh in faux exasperation as you finally allow yourself to relax, melting into his touch.

“I missed you.” Wriothesley murmurs. “I was in the same room with you the whole day.” You laugh as you dismiss his sentiment, but he only grunts, ignoring you. 

“You big baby.” “Only yours.” His words cause your face to warm and a soft giggle to escape you, and the sound brings a smile to his face.

“Can we spend the rest of the day like this?” His question doesn’t even seem like a question to you; he already knows the answer. When you lean into him further, placing your hands on top of his, he knows his assumption was correct. 

Dedicated to,

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★ somewhat a tsundere anon ⁺˚⋆｡

#pillow'slovelyanon's<3 #somewhat a tsundere anon

[youronlybean]

Today on AUs I’m Too Lazy To Write Myself:

PRIVATE RECORDING 1 COWBOY AU LETS GOOO

Chilled - local Sheriff 

Courtilly - local Deputy (this is based on their matching cowboy skins from their last FCT stream)

Ze - local single father in crushing debt (he steals and stuff to provide for his kid, and unlike canon Lore™ he’s a good dad)

Cheesy - local child of said father (i live for little Cheese AUs)

Speedy - local outlaw gang leader (the gang being The Crew. Obviously)

Sidearms - local right-hand guy for Speedy 

Kara - local singer at local saloon/local crime syndicate head honcho (shh twist villain don’t tell… whoops.) (and she’s still Cheesy’s mother)

Jeremy - leader of less local outlaw gang (FAHC? Maybe, but also he could literally just be a solo outlaw cause he’s so slay)

Tay - pissed off civilian with a gun/local vigilante

Junk - local saloon owner (also pissed off)

I don’t know if I’ll ever write this (or if someone else will??) so here’s the plot:

Ze owes Many Debts to Kara and The Crew (they work for Kara, technically) so he has to steal to provide for his son (Cheems)

Cheesy finds out about this and runs away because Stealing is BAD and he doesn’t know any better 

Sheriff Chilled finds him and he takes Cheesy in because “it's his duty” and “it’s only temporary”

Meanwhile Ze is running around like the mother from that brandon rogers video like “HAS ANYONE SEEN MY SON???” whilst also avoiding the crime syndicate that he still owes money to

They eventually find him and they’re gonna kill him bc he doesn’t have the money but then Tay swoops in and saves his ass YAY

Chilled is busy trying to teach Cheesy how to shoot a gun and Court is busy trying to stop him so Jeremy moves in on the Crew’s territory

Gang war breaks out, Chilled and Court have to fuck shit up and save the day, Tay helps out and Ze maybe gets reunited with his son? 

#private recording 1 #chilledchaos #zeroyalviking #cheesybluenips #courtilly #taydertot #kara corvus #kyrsp33dy #sidearms4reason #jeremy dooley #dooleynotedgaming #junkyard129 #I am dead set on junk being the saloon owner but I don’t have roles for any other background characters yet