#GOD I SWEAR I CAN DRAW. REAL THINGS. FOR REAL AND NOT JOKES | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

alohajix · 2 months ago

Text

𝐍𝐨 𝐆𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤

Description: friends don’t kiss like that… and they definitely don’t spend the night tangled up in each other, learning what it sounds like when years of tension finally snap. But here you are. In his bed. Breathless. Wrecked. His hands shaking on your skin like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted. And you both know—there’s no going back now.

Warnings: smut, pining, begging, creampie mention, friends to lovers, feelings finally surfacing.

Word count: 6,090.

author note: hopefully you’ll love this one; I had a writer’s block trying to finish this one up 🥺

Main Masterlist

Marked by Midnight’s Masterlist

***

It's the same Friday night ritual you've fallen into for years now—predictable in a way that should feel boring by now, but somehow never does. You don't remember when exactly it became your thing, but you know it started sometime after his last relationship went up in flames. Somewhere between his dry, sarcastic text—"bring snacks or don't bother showing up"—and the way he always leaves the door unlocked when he knows it's you coming over. You don't knock anymore. Haven't in ages. You just toe off your shoes by muscle memory, drop your bag on the little hook by the door he hung there for you a year ago, and slip into your usual spot on his couch like it's second nature. It is, really.

Tonight's no different. The air smells like leftover pizza and the two cheap beers you grabbed from his fridge on your way in. You're half-curled under one of his worn-out throw blankets, your legs stretched long across the couch, your bare feet pressing into his thigh like they always do. He doesn't even flinch when you do it anymore. Just rests his warm palm on your shin absentmindedly like it's the most natural thing in the world. It's reckless, really, how easy this all is. How dangerous it feels sometimes when he doesn't pull away.

The TV's playing something you've both seen a thousand times—something neither of you are really paying attention to. The real entertainment, like always, is the stupid conversation unraveling between sips of cheap beer and leftover takeout. He makes a joke about your taste in men, you roll your eyes and throw one right back at him. The back-and-forth feels sharper tonight though, like you're both playing closer to some invisible line neither of you have dared to cross. Not really.

You don't know what makes you say it. Maybe it's the second beer loosening your tongue, or maybe it's the way his laugh curls in your stomach when you throw your head back against the cushion and groan dramatically. You mock the high-pitched whine one of his exes once made you promise not to bring up again. You pitch your voice higher on purpose, pressing the heel of your hand to your forehead in the most ridiculous overacting you can manage.

"Oh, Harry... oh my God... you're so—so loud—" you gasp, drawing the word out, clutching your chest like you're seconds away from fainting.

You expect him to laugh. That's how it always goes. You take the piss, he rolls his eyes, throws something back, and you both move on. But tonight... tonight he doesn't laugh.

Instead, he goes still. His palm on your shin tightens just a little—barely noticeable, really, if you weren't suddenly hyperaware of every inch of his skin touching yours.

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing, and for the first time all night, you swear the air between you crackles like something you shouldn't touch.

"You really wanna keep pushing, sweetheart?"

The words come out low. Thicker. Not playful like they should be.

And your mouth goes dry.

Because that's not the kind of thing he says to you. Not like that.

You blink, heart stuttering, trying to laugh it off, but it comes out wrong—too breathless, too tight. "What? I'm kidding. Relax."

But he doesn't.

He leans back a little, his arm curling casually along the back of the sofa like he's suddenly aware of how close you are, how easy it would be to pull you closer. His jaw flexes as he swipes his tongue across his bottom lip, like he's thinking too hard about something he shouldn't say.

And then he does.

"Maybe you should find out for yourself before you start laughing."

You freeze.

So does he.

The silence that falls between you isn't the usual kind—the one you fill with easy shrugs or dumb jokes. This one feels loaded. Heavy. Like you've both been balancing on this stupid little edge for so long you didn't even realize how close you'd gotten until you both looked down.

He swallows hard, flicking his gaze to your mouth and back up again so fast you almost think you imagined it.

You could laugh. You should laugh. That's how you survive this. You let it roll off your back, you change the subject, you make another joke and pretend you didn't hear it like that.

But you did. God, you did.

And something in your stomach twists.

Your voice comes out quieter than you mean for it to. Barely above a whisper. "What if I did?"

Harry's breath catches. You feel it more than hear it—right there where his palm is still pressed to your leg, fingers curling in slow motion like he's grounding himself. His mouth opens and closes again, like he's trying to figure out if you're fucking with him, if this is just another game.

You're not sure what kind of answer you're expecting—some dumb, cocky retort, maybe, or worse, a nervous laugh to remind you this is all one big misunderstanding. But when he finally speaks, it's nothing like that.

"Then you're gonna have to come over here and show me."

It knocks the air clean out of your lungs.

Because that's not a dare. Not a joke. Not something he can walk back if you say yes.

His hand slides a little higher on your shin, thumb dragging slow and steady like he's making sure you feel it. His gaze doesn't drop this time. Doesn't waver.

"C'mon, love. What's stoppin' you?"

You've never moved so slowly in your life. Shifting your weight, setting your half-finished beer down on the coffee table like you're moving underwater. Your heart's thundering so hard you're half-convinced he can hear it. You swing one leg over his lap, knees sinking into the sofa on either side of his hips until you're straddling him, palms braced on his chest to steady yourself.

And he's just... looking at you. Like you're the fucking answer to a question he didn't know he was allowed to ask.

"Hi," you whisper, suddenly breathless, nerves crashing over you in one dizzy wave.

The corner of his mouth twitches like he wants to laugh, but he doesn't. His hands find your waist, curling slow and careful, as if he's terrified you'll shift back and realize this is a mistake.

"Hey."

It's the softest thing you've ever heard from him. No edge, no teasing, just quiet and wrecked and right there between you like you've already passed the point of no return.

His thumb drags along your waist, and you swear you feel his hands tremble just a little.

"You gonna kiss me or what?" he whispers, voice cracking on the last word like it's killing him to hold back.

There's a second—just one—where the fear kicks in. Not the bad kind, not really. It's more the holy-shit-what-are-we-doing kind, the one that flickers right behind your ribs like a warning bell that's come a little too late. Because this is Harry. Your Harry. The one who steals your fries without asking and makes you playlists when you're having a bad day. The one who's held your hair back when you've had too much to drink, who's let you crash in his bed more times than you can count without ever once making it weird. He's always been safe. Uncomplicated. Yours in every way that didn't require you to risk everything by leaning in and closing the gap.

But now? Now his breath fans across your cheek, his hands tense on your waist like he's waiting for you to change your mind, and you know there's no coming back from this if you do it. No pressing rewind. No laugh-it-off in the morning.

And still—you lean in.

You don't even really kiss him at first. It's slower than that. Softer. Like you're both testing the weight of the moment, hovering close enough that you could pull back if you had to. You feel his breath catch when your nose brushes his, feel the tiniest tremor run through him when your fingers curl tighter in the worn fabric of his t-shirt. His lashes flutter against your cheekbone when you tilt your head, nudging your mouth toward his. And just when you start to wonder if he's going to make you do all of it—if he's going to sit there and let you chase the whole thing all the way down—he meets you halfway.

It starts careful. Almost clumsy with how long you've both tiptoed around this. His lips part slow, brushing yours once, twice, barely there. You almost pull back to say something stupid like "was that okay?" but then—God—he makes that sound.

Low in his throat, wrecked and quiet and so fucking real it short-circuits every rational thought you have left.

You melt.

The second time you kiss him, it isn't careful at all. You tilt your head, fingers sliding up into his curls like they've always wanted to, pulling him closer, chasing that sound like it's oxygen. He groans again, louder this time, and you feel him sink under you like his whole body's giving out.

"Fuck," he breathes, muffled between kisses, hands flexing tighter on your waist. "Fuck, baby, you're gonna ruin me."

The word baby snaps something loose in your chest, like you've just unlocked a part of him you never knew you were allowed to touch.

Your breath stumbles out in a shaky laugh, your lips brushing his as you gasp, "You really are loud."

He freezes for half a second like he's about to pull back, but you barely give him the chance. You roll your hips over his, testing the friction, chasing the heat, and it punches another groan right out of him—louder, needier this time.

"Yeah?" he pants, teeth scraping your jaw as he pulls you closer, rougher, like he's trying to fuse you to him. "You like that? Huh? Wanna keep mocking me, baby? Gonna let you hear it all fuckin' night if you let me."

You suck in a sharp breath, fingers tightening in his hair.

And God, you should stop. You should slow down, give yourself half a second to think this through, to figure out what the hell this means. But his mouth finds that spot under your ear that makes your whole body jolt, and suddenly you don't care about what tomorrow's going to feel like.

You rock against him again, chasing the pressure, the heat curling low in your belly. He hisses, dragging his hands up under your t-shirt like he's starving to touch you.

"Tell me to stop," he whispers, voice cracking like he already knows you won't. "Tell me right fuckin' now if this isn't what you want."

But you don't. You can't. Not when you're already dizzy with it. Not when you've wanted this longer than you've let yourself admit.

So instead, you lean in again, brushing your mouth against his ear until you feel him shudder under you.

"I don't want you to stop."

His breath hitches, hands curling tighter like he's barely holding himself back.

"You sure?" he rasps, nose brushing along your jaw, voice so wrecked it makes your chest ache. "Tell me you mean it. Tell me this isn't just the fuckin' beer talking, baby, 'cause I swear to God—"

You pull back just enough to look at him. Really look at him.

He looks wrecked already. Like this is costing him. Like this has been sitting on the tip of his tongue for longer than you've even dared to hope.

And you swear something inside you snaps.

"It's not," you breathe, shaking your head as you cup his jaw in your hands. "Swear it's not."

He curses under his breath, dragging his hands down to your thighs like he's grounding himself, like he's trying to keep himself from breaking.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he whispers, pressing his forehead to yours, eyes screwed shut like it physically hurts to keep his hands from sliding under your shorts. "Need you to tell me what you want, baby. Please."

And it's there, on the tip of your tongue.

The thing you swore you'd never risk saying.

But it's too late now, isn't it? You've already crossed the line.

So you whisper it like a secret, like it's been sitting there in your chest for years.

"I want you."

It happens fast after that. Like the air finally snaps between you and there's no holding it back. One second you're still hovering, trembling with it, your hands on his jaw like you're terrified he's going to pull away—and the next, you feel him exhale the most broken sound you've ever heard from him, his grip tightening on your thighs like he's lost the battle with himself.

"Come here," he groans, breath hitching, voice barely holding together, and before you can even blink, he's dragging you closer—sitting up straighter, chest pressed to yours, his mouth finding yours again like he's starving.

This time, it's different. Hotter. Desperate. There's no hesitation now, no teasing, no careful second-guessing. It's messy, frantic, like you've both finally stopped pretending this wasn't inevitable. His hands are everywhere—sliding up under your shirt, fingers dragging across your skin like he's trying to memorize every inch of you. You gasp into his mouth, shivering when his palms flatten against your back, pulling you flush to him, your thighs tightening around his waist instinctively like you can't stand even an inch of space between you.

You swear you feel him shudder under you, like you've knocked the breath clean out of him.

"Fuck, baby," he pants, dragging his mouth across your jaw, leaving open-mouthed kisses on your neck that make your whole body jolt. "Feel that? Feel what you fuckin' do to me?"

You do feel it—hard and hot between your legs, pressing up through your thin shorts—and the realization knocks every ounce of breath from your lungs. You roll your hips without thinking, grinding down with more pressure this time, and you feel him stiffen, hear the sharp curse tear from his throat.

His head falls back, curls brushing the back of the sofa, and you watch the muscles in his throat work as he swallows hard, jaw so tight you can see the effort it's taking him not to lose control right there.

"Jesus Christ, you're killin' me," he groans, one hand sliding up to fist in your hair, tugging just enough to make your breath hitch. "Tell me what you want, baby. Say it. Please."

You don't even hesitate. You can't. You're already shaking with it. Already soaked in it. Your voice comes out as more of a gasp than a whisper, breathless and messy against his jaw.

"Want you to touch me. Want you so bad it hurts."

The groan he lets out sounds like it physically knocks the breath out of him.

Before you can process it, he's moving. One strong arm sweeps under your thighs, the other curls tight around your back, and you let out a squeak of surprise when he stands, lifting you off the couch like you weigh nothing.

"Harry!" you gasp, clinging to him, laughing breathlessly as he stumbles toward the hallway.

"Shut up," he breathes against your neck, mouth dragging hot along your skin, "Not lettin' you go. Not now. Not ever."

You swear you feel your heart split in two right there.

By the time your back hits his mattress, you're trembling with it—skin buzzing, breath catching, heart pounding so hard it almost hurts.

He doesn't move for a second, just hovers over you, curls falling into his eyes, his chest heaving like he's trying to memorize every inch of you before he ruins it.

"Tell me again," he rasps, voice cracking. "Please. Need to hear you say it's not just the beer talkin', baby."

You sit up on your elbows, heart swelling so painfully full it feels like it might burst, and reach for the hem of your shirt.

"It's not," you whisper as you pull it over your head and toss it somewhere over the side of the bed. You're trembling a little now, but you don't stop. You meet his eyes—wide, glassy, hungry—and you nod, slow and certain. "It's me. I swear."

His eyes drop to your bare skin, and he drags his hand through his curls like he can't fucking believe this is happening.

"Jesus," he breathes, crawling over you again on his forearms like he's scared to crush you. "You're perfect. So fuckin' perfect."

You barely recognize the sound you make when he kisses you again—somewhere between a gasp and a whimper, like your body is short-circuiting under his hands. You've kissed him before—drunken pecks on the cheek, playful lips pressed to his jaw when he made you laugh too hard—but never like this. Never with the weight of every line you've tiptoed around collapsing all at once between your bodies.

His hands are greedy now, trembling just slightly as they trail along your sides, slipping under the curve of your ribs like he's afraid to rush, like he wants to memorize every inch of skin he's never dared to touch. He dips his head, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses down your throat, sucking softly at the base of your neck, and you swear your back arches off the bed all on its own.

"So fuckin' soft," he murmurs under his breath, voice low and rough and right against your skin like it's a prayer you weren't meant to hear. His hands slide higher, fingertips brushing the underside of your bra, hesitating just barely like he's giving you that last out.

You nod before he even asks.

"Please," you whisper, breath catching, "I want you to touch me."

He groans like you've wrecked him completely, leaning up just enough to tug the fabric over your head and toss it aside with your shirt. The moment your chest is bare to him, he just... stops. Stares. Like you're the first thing in his life that's ever left him speechless.

His palms come up slowly, reverently, cupping you like he's terrified you'll vanish if he blinks too long. His thumbs brush over your nipples and your whole body jerks with the heat of it, breath spilling out in something dangerously close to a moan.

"Fuck me," he whispers, pressing his forehead to your shoulder, like he's trying to keep himself from coming undone too fast. "You're... fuck, you're unreal."

You can't stop yourself—you hook your legs tighter around his waist, grinding up into him again, desperate to feel all of him. His breath stutters, hips jerking like he can't help himself.

And then he's moving again, dragging his mouth down your body—slow, lingering kisses pressed to every inch of skin he can reach. Down your ribs, over your stomach, pausing just above the waistband of your shorts.

He looks up at you from there, lips pink and swollen, curls a mess, chest still heaving.

"Can I take these off, baby?" he asks, voice so thick and wrecked it makes your stomach clench. "Wanna see all of you. Need to."

You nod so fast it almost embarrasses you, lifting your hips for him without a second thought. He drags your shorts and underwear down slow, eyes never leaving yours as he bares you completely.

The air feels electric on your skin. Too much and not enough at the same time. You feel exposed, trembling, but the way he looks at you—like you're the only thing in the world that matters—makes you feel like you could fall apart right there and he'd hold every single piece.

He sucks in a sharp breath, dragging his hand through his hair again like he doesn't know what to do with himself.

"Jesus, you're beautiful," he whispers, voice cracking, like it's physically painful to hold back. "Can't believe I get to touch you."

You reach for him again, curling your fingers into his shirt, tugging at the fabric until he gets the message. He peels it over his head, tossing it somewhere behind him, and when his bare chest presses to yours, skin to skin, you swear you could die from how right it feels.

"Please, Harry," you breathe, burying your face in his neck, rocking your hips up again without thinking. "Need you so bad it hurts."

He shudders, dragging his mouth back to yours, kissing you slower this time—deeper, like he's trying to pour every unspoken word into you.

"Gonna take care of you, baby," he whispers between kisses. "Promise. Gonna make you feel so good."

And you believe him. God, you believe him with every shaking breath you take.

You barely register the way your breath shudders in your throat when his mouth finds yours again. It's slower now. Deeper. Less frantic, more certain—like every kiss is meant to make you feel it. Like he knows you already do. His weight settles a little heavier on top of you, hips sinking between your thighs, skin hot and slick where his chest presses to yours.

You can feel him—all of him—hard and thick, pressing right where you need him, just separated by the thin fabric of his boxers. The pressure makes your breath catch, makes your hips tilt up instinctively like you're chasing something you're both too far gone to slow down for.

He groans into your mouth, one hand sliding down your side to grip your thigh, pulling it higher up his waist like he needs to feel closer, needs to make sure you know how badly he wants this. How badly he wants you.

"Fuck," he breathes, voice cracking as he drops his forehead to yours, hips rocking forward once—slow, steady—grinding into you just enough to make your whole body jolt. "Baby... I—"

He doesn't finish. Doesn't have to. You already feel him shaking above you, like he's holding himself together by the thinnest thread.

"Harry..." You can't even hear your own voice, breathless and wrecked, but you know he hears it by the way his grip tightens on your skin. "Need you. Please."

He pulls back just enough to look at you, wide green eyes flicking between yours like he's trying to memorize every single thing about you in this exact second.

"You sure?" he whispers, voice barely steady. "I don't—fuck—I don't wanna do this if you're not sure, baby."

You almost sob. "I've never been more sure of anything."

His face crumples like you've broken him, lips crashing onto yours again with so much force it steals every bit of air from your lungs. You feel his hand slide between you, pressing low over your stomach, slipping down until his fingers brush over the slick heat of you.

You let out a noise that sounds nothing like you—high and desperate, something you'd be embarrassed about if you weren't already too far gone to care.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he groans, pressing his forehead to your shoulder, voice shaking like he's seconds from losing control. "You're so wet, baby. All for me, yeah?"

You nod frantically, clinging to him, your nails digging into his back as you roll your hips into his touch.

"All for you," you whisper back, voice cracking, "Please, Harry, just—please."

He shudders so hard you feel it in your bones, his breath spilling hot and shaky over your skin as his fingers slide through the mess between your legs, circling your clit so slow you could scream.

"Gonna take my time with you," he whispers, "Wanna feel you come on my fingers first. Wanna feel you fall apart for me."

And God, the way he says it—wrecked and hungry and like it's the only thing he's ever wanted—you don't think you've ever wanted anything more in your life.

You try to brace yourself. You know you should. But it's useless the second his fingers slip lower, dragging through your folds like he's already memorized every part of you. He's so gentle at first, so fucking careful, like he's afraid to hurt you or rush it. Like he's determined to make this the best thing you've ever felt.

Your body arches off the bed before you even realize you're moving, a broken moan catching in your throat when his fingers find that perfect spot again and again. It's slow, torturous, the way he circles your clit—light at first, just a tease, until your hips are chasing his touch, until you're gasping his name like you've forgotten how to say anything else.

"That's it, baby," he murmurs, breath hot against your jaw as he keeps moving, building you higher with every slow stroke. "You're doin' so good for me. Sound so fuckin' pretty when you fall apart, you know that?"

You dig your nails into his shoulder, gripping him like he's the only thing keeping you from slipping under. You've never been this sensitive, never been this wound up, like every nerve in your body is buzzing under his touch.

You try to warn him—you really do. But the words die in your throat when he adds just a little more pressure, a little more speed, his mouth pressing hot kisses down your neck while his fingers work you open.

"C'mon, baby," he breathes, "Wanna feel you let go for me. Been dreamin' about this for fuckin' years, swear to God—"

You cry out, hips stuttering, body shaking as the pressure coils tighter and tighter until it snaps, crashing over you so hard it nearly knocks the air from your lungs.

You feel yourself clench around his fingers, feel him groan right against your ear like he feels it too, like he's just as wrecked by it as you are.

You're still gasping, still trying to catch your breath, when he pulls back just enough to cup your face in both hands. His lips are pink, swollen, his hair a complete mess. But it's his eyes that leave you breathless.

Wide. Shiny. Like you've just torn him to pieces and he doesn't know how to put himself back together.

"Baby," he whispers, voice breaking like it's too much, "Need to be inside you. Please. Please tell me you want that too."

You don't even hesitate. You reach for him, curling your fingers in the waistband of his boxers, dragging them down until you feel him bare and hot and thick against your thigh.

You look up at him, heart in your throat, and whisper the only thing that's been sitting on your tongue since the moment this started: "I've always wanted you."

And you swear, in that split second before he sinks into you, he breaks all over again.

You feel him hesitate just for a breath—just long enough to make sure you don't change your mind. His forehead presses to yours, his nose brushing yours softly, like he's checking again without needing to ask out loud.

You slide your hands up his back, nails scraping lightly across his skin, and whisper the only thing you know will tip him over the edge.

"Please, Harry... I need you inside me."

The groan that rips out of him sounds almost pained. His fingers curl tighter around your waist, pulling your body up to meet him, and when you feel the thick head of him nudging at your entrance, you nearly stop breathing altogether.

He moves slow. So slow it's almost unbearable—like he's savoring every inch, dragging it out just to make you feel it. You gasp, clawing at his shoulders, your body stretching around him inch by inch until you're completely full, until there's no part of you that isn't pressed to him, surrounded by him.

"Fuck—" his voice cracks, shaking like he's seconds from losing it. "So fuckin' tight... Jesus Christ, baby, you feel... you feel like heaven."

You're trembling beneath him, breath stuttering out in little gasps you can't control. You feel stretched, full, claimed in a way that makes your head spin. Your nails dig deeper into his skin, grounding yourself against the overwhelming ache and pressure that feels like it's going to swallow you whole.

"Move," you gasp, hips tilting up to meet his, "Harry, please— need you to move."*

He groans again, low and wrecked, and finally—finally—he starts to move.

Slow at first. Barely pulling back before pressing right back in, hips rocking steady, grinding deep like he's tasting you from the inside. You cry out, biting your lip to muffle the sound, but he shakes his head, catching your chin between his fingers, forcing you to look at him.

"No," he pants, voice thick and ruined, "Let me hear you. Don't fuckin' hold back, baby. Want everyone to know how good I'm makin' you feel."

You let go of the breath you've been holding, head tipping back as a moan rips from your throat, loud and broken and real. His hips snap a little harder, a little faster, and the sound of it—skin on skin, your name falling from his lips like it's the only thing he knows how to say—makes you feel like you're coming undone all over again.

He presses his mouth to your ear, breath hot and shaking as he fucks into you harder, deeper, each stroke dragging a wrecked little whimper from your lips.

"Tell me this is mine now," he growls, voice pure filth in your ear. "Tell me no one else gets to touch you like this, baby. Ever again."

You can't think, can't breathe, can barely get the words out between gasps.

"It's yours," you choke out, clinging to him like your life depends on it. "Only you, Harry. Fuck—only you."

You don't know how he manages to keep it together. You're falling apart with every slow, deep thrust—clutching at him like you'll float away if you don't anchor yourself to his body. He's everywhere. Filling you, surrounding you, breathing you in like you're the only thing keeping him alive.

His hands frame your face like he needs to feel all of you to believe this is real. His thumbs swipe at the damp skin under your eyes, like he's trying to catch the little gasps and wrecked sounds falling from your lips. His mouth finds your jaw, your throat, dragging open-mouthed kisses down your skin as he groans, low and breathless.

"You feel so fuckin' good," he pants, hips rocking harder now, the bed creaking with every deep push. "Could stay right here all fuckin' night, baby. Stuffed full of me... takin' every inch so good... fuck— look at you."*

His voice hits something deep in you—something raw and helpless—and your back arches off the bed like your body's chasing every word.

"You're killin' me," you gasp, barely able to hold yourself together. "Harry— please—* harder, I—fuck, I need—"*

You don't even finish. He growls, actually growls into your neck, like you've snapped whatever restraint he had left. He pulls back, grabs your hips, and slams back into you, so deep and rough you choke on a cry you can't hold in.

"Like that?" he rasps, voice shaking as his hips piston faster now, driving into you like he's making up for every second you both wasted pretending you didn't want this. "S'that what you fuckin' need, baby? You need me to ruin you properly, huh?"

You nod, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes—not from pain, not even from pleasure—but from the way he's looking at you like you're his entire fucking world.

"Yes," you whimper, breath catching on a sob you didn't know was there. "Please— ruin me—* all yours—* always—"

He groans again, shaking above you, forehead pressed to yours like he's trying to climb inside your skin. His breath fans hot across your mouth as he slows just a little, grinding deep again, hips rocking in filthy little circles that make your whole body lock up.

"That's it," he pants, "Let me feel you again, baby. Wanna feel you come all over my cock. Can you do that for me? Huh? Wanna hear you fall apart one more time."

You can barely nod, already so close you could taste it. You grab at his back, wrapping your legs tighter around him, pulling him deeper, faster, until you can't even think anymore.

"Harry— I—* fuck—* I'm gonna—"*

He doesn't stop. Doesn't let up. He keeps fucking you steady and deep, his hand sliding between your bodies, finding your clit again, rubbing fast messy circles that destroy you.

You come hard, stars bursting behind your eyes, your whole body locking up under him as you cry out his name loud enough to echo through the room.

You hear him groan so deep it's almost a snarl, feel him jerk, hips snapping faster now, losing his rhythm like he's chasing his own release.

"Where— fuck—* where do you want me, baby? Tell me—* fuck—"

Your head spins. Your body's still shaking, still buzzing, but you manage to drag him down, mouth at his ear, whispering the filthiest thing you've ever said in your life.

"Want you inside me... fill me up, Harry... please— want all of you."

He loses it. Full-body shuddering, hands gripping your hips so tight you'll probably bruise, burying himself deep with a wrecked cry as he comes inside you, hips rocking through every last pulse of it until he finally collapses on top of you, shaking and breathless.

Neither of you moves for a long time.

His body is heavy on top of you, but you don't care. You wrap your arms around him tighter, as if letting go might shatter whatever spell has just woven itself between your ribs. His breath fans hot and uneven across your neck, every exhale trembling like he's still coming down from it—like he doesn't quite know how to land.

You feel him shift slightly, just enough to brace his weight on his elbows again, careful not to crush you. His nose brushes yours as he pulls back to look at you, curls sticking to his damp forehead, cheeks flushed, lips swollen. You've never seen him like this before. Wrecked. Fragile. Wide-eyed and terrified in the best possible way.

He blinks, searching your face like he's waiting for you to wake up and realize this was a mistake.

"Are you okay?" he whispers, so quiet you almost don't hear it.

Your throat tightens. You reach up, cupping his jaw with both hands, pulling him closer until your lips brush softly over his.

"I've never been better," you breathe. "Promise."

You feel him sigh, like you've just cut every string holding him together. His forehead presses to yours again, eyes squeezing shut like he doesn't know how to say what he needs to say without falling apart.

"I—" His voice cracks. He pulls in a shaking breath. "I don't wanna ruin this. Don't wanna fuck this up."

Your heart breaks a little at how scared he sounds. Like you could somehow forget what just happened. Like you haven't already fallen so far there's no way back.

You trace your thumb along his jaw, tilting his face until he's looking at you again.

"You couldn't ruin this if you tried," you whisper. "I'm yours, Harry. I've been yours for so fucking long."

He lets out the softest sound—somewhere between a breath and a laugh—and leans in to kiss you again. This one's slower, softer. No heat, no urgency. Just yours. Just his.

You don't know how long you lie there tangled together, skin sticky, hearts pounding in sync. Long enough for the air to shift. Long enough for the weight of it all to settle over you both in the best kind of way.

When he finally rolls to his side, pulling you with him, tucking you into his chest like you belong there, you hear him murmur against your hair:

"You're not leavin' me after this, yeah?"

You smile, nose brushing his throat as you snuggle closer.

"Not a chance."

And you swear you feel him smile against your skin, arms tightening around you like he's never letting go.

Not tonight. Not ever.

***

@cloudyluun @gem1712 @dipmeinhoneyh @idk1990 @harrrrystylesslut @sparxx27 @likea-silhouette @fangirl509east @starryhaze-crystal @mads3502 @run-for-the-hills @twinklaei @belgianblondee @pbandnutella @maudie-duan @cat-loves-music @harrysgirl2003 @harrystyleshotwife @secretands-blog @dutchtheatrelore @angeldavis777 @idkidcfuboh @maddiesalvatore1839

#harry styles #harry styles smut #harry x reader #harry styles x reader #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fic #harry styles one shot #harry styles writing #harry styles fanfiction #first post #harry styles x yn #harry styles x y/n #harry styles fiction #harry styles concept #harry styles imagine #harrystyles #harry edward styles

784 notes · View notes

memelordvio · 1 year ago

Text

One aspect of having Tourette’s Syndrome that I don’t see many people talk about is how it makes being transfem more difficult. My Tourette’s is pretty severe, I can’t go ten seconds without twitching or hitting myself or barking or swearing loudly.

Everywhere I go people treat me like a freak. When people stare at me logically I know it’s because I just involuntarily told a stranger to fuck off, but all I can think is ‘Oh god they’re glaring at me because I don’t pass and they can tell I’m not a real girl.’ And even when I dismiss that fear the very next thought is ‘yeah it’s the ticcing that caught their attention but now they’re watching me, it’s only a matter of time until they realise that’s not the only unusual thing about me.’

It makes it literally impossible to go unnoticed without drawing attention to myself like so many of us try to do.

It’s scary enough using the women’s bathroom as a trans girl with low self confidence, but it’s even scarier when you know you could yell “PENIS!” at any moment and there’s not a damn thing you can do to stop it. It’s not exactly ladylike.

I’m every TERF’s worst nightmare lol.

I try my best to make jokes about it and not let it get to me but it’s like two different reasons for strangers to harass me and treat me like I’m not even human.

I know I shouldn’t be ashamed of being a ticcing tranny, I’m still learning to love myself. 💜

#trans girl #trans woman #transgender #tourettes #actually tourettic #tourettes syndrome #ableism #my post

2K notes · View notes

a-bit-of-writing · 16 days ago

Text

How They React To a Modern Reader {BG3 Male Companions & Gortash}

This piece is a request and though it took me a fair bit to finish, I’m happy to finally present it! As the title implies, this is how I imagine the male companions (and Gortash) would react if a modern reader shows up based on my own headcanons about them.

Astarion

Astarion spots you before you speak. You stumble into the camp in a daze, eyes wide, lips muttering things no one understands.

“What the fu – was that a real fireball?! Are those horns? Holy hell, I’m in a fantasy video game. This is not a drill.”

He doesn’t draw his blade. Not right away. Instead, he folds his arms, tilts his head, and watches you unravel like a particularly entertaining riddle.

“Well now. What curious little nonsense are you whispering?”

You’re the most absurd thing he’s seen in ages – barefoot, blinking at the sky like it offended you, and demanding someone hand you a phone. Which no one, obviously, knows the meaning of.

He gives you one look and smirks, fangs flashing.

“Oh good. A lunatic. I was beginning to worry this group was getting predictable.”

The others are skeptical, but you? You’re reacting the way someone does when they’ve finally stepped into the book they’ve always wanted to read — equal parts awe and swearing.

You point at Gale like you’ve spotted a celebrity.

“You’re a wizard? Like, a real one? You cast spells? And you’re not in jail?”

You admire Karlach like a dragon-slaying action figure come to life.

“You’re a tiefling. Oh my god, you’re actually real. You look so cool. Can I touch your horns? Is that weird? It’s weird, isn’t it.”

And when Astarion introduces himself with an elegant, mocking bow?

“Oh no. You’re the hot vampire. This is… this is Baldur’s Gate 3, isn’t it? This is a game. Did I die?!”

He blinks. “Excuse me – game?”

You say something about “Larian Studios” and “saving throws,” which means absolutely nothing to him. Naturally, this delights him.

Your words are wild things — mangled, made-up, shameless. You say:

“I need a vibe check.”

“You’re giving villain arc energy.”

“Slay, king.”

Astarion is appalled.

“Slay? Slay?! Darling, that’s what I do to people. It’s not meant to be a compliment.”

He swears you’re possessed. Hexed. Unintentionally hilarious. But as the days go on, something changes.

He starts mimicking you.

Poorly, and on purpose.

“This meal is giving... mediocre. Truly, Shadowheart, do better.”

“Oh Gale, your little explosion was so slay. Should I clap now or later?”

He adopts the slang like a nobleman trying to speak tavern tongue — mocking, theatrical, but with growing ease. And gods help you, he makes it sound good.

There’s something else underneath the dramatics. A subtle shift in how he watches you. Because no one speaks like you. No one acts like you.

You don’t belong here and you’re not even trying to hide it. That intrigues him more than he lets on.

“You wear your strangeness like a second skin. Are all your people so… refreshingly bizarre?”

He starts asking questions – half-joking, half-sincere. What is a "Starbucks"? Why do you call people “bestie”? What in the Nine Hells is a “TikTok”?

He files it all away. A scholar of the strange, collecting every new word like a trophy.

He claims he’s keeping you around for the entertainment. Says you amuse him, like a little pocket-sized bard who fell out of the sky.

But when you wander off too far? His voice sharpens.

“If you insist on throwing yourself into danger, at least let me come along. I wouldn’t want to miss the moment you get eaten by a talking bush or whatever this plane has in store for you.”

He keeps close to you at night, lounging near your bedroll with an ease that’s too calculated to be casual. He’ll insult your “bizarre little scroll-box language” but he’ll also hand you a cloak when it’s cold.

“I can’t have you dying of exposure before I figure out what you are, can I?”

You’re not just another traveling companion. You’re a walking enigma with pop culture references and soft clothes and no idea how to wield a longsword. And gods help him, he’s starting to care.

The first time you call him “bestie”:

He stares like you slapped him with a fish.

“I… what did you just call me?”

When you try to explain, he cuts you off with an absolutely horrified expression.

“No. Absolutely not. I’d rather be called a thrall.”

He starts using it anyway — only to bother you. And it works.

“Shall we slay today, bestie?”

Gortash

You appear in his city — his throne room, even — rambling about timelines and “NPCs,” looking more confused than a drunk imp. A mortal, clearly. A nobody. But something’s… off.

You speak with no fear. No decorum. No clue who he is.

“Okay, okay. Deep breath. You’re Gortash. Enver Gortash. You're the — oh my god, you’re hotter in person — I mean, you’re the bad guy, right?”

He doesn’t flinch at the disrespect. He just smiles, slow and razor-edged.

“Well. Aren’t you bold? Or stupid. I haven’t decided yet.”

He watches you with the interest of a man deciding whether to cage a songbird or snap its neck. Something about you is unpredictable and unpredictability demands investigation.

The first time you call him “a drama king with daddy issues,” he doesn’t respond right away. He just stares at you.

“...A what?”

You explain with a grin. He listens. Silently. Then repeats it — slowly.

“Drama. King.”

He hates that it rolls off his tongue with such flair. He hates that you grin at him like you’ve won something. He’ll mock you for your dialect, call it crude, tasteless, “symptomatic of cultural collapse.”

But two days later? He uses the phrase “power move” in conversation.

And he means it.

Gortash is a master manipulator. He assumes you’ll be easy to read.

But your responses are erratic. You compare devils to “marketing execs,” call his robes “high fantasy couture,” and refer to him as “a walking red flag with good eyebrows.”

“You do realize you're insulting the most powerful man in Baldur’s Gate?”

“Yeah, but like, respectfully.”

You should be terrified of him. But you’re not. And that unsettles him more than he lets on.

He starts testing you. Throwing rhetorical knives cloaked in velvet words. Threats that sound like compliments. Challenges that look like games.

And you? You match him. Not with power, but with unshakable weirdness.

“Are you flirting with me or plotting my assassination? Honestly, it’s giving both.”

“Why not both?”

At first, you're a novelty. A curiosity. But the longer you linger, the more he starts including you in his plans — subtly.

“Come. Watch the gears turn.”

He lets you sit near the schematics, asks your opinion under the guise of mockery, and studies how your modern logic fits — or doesn’t — into his world.

You drop ideas like:

“Have you considered...a PR campaign?”

“You’d make a killing selling merchandise. Gortash-branded daggers? Hello?”

“You’re basically the CEO of Fear.”

He pretends to dismiss you.

But his artificers are soon testing slogans.

You’re not strong. You’re not trained. You trip over uneven cobblestone and panic over sending stones. You once mistook an imp for a hairless cat.

But you don’t obey. You question him. You joke with him. You touch things you shouldn't.

“That’s the nerve spine of the Steel Watch.”

“It looks like a soda machine from hell.”

He doesn’t know what that means. He doesn’t care. He’s already decided you belong to him.

Not as a subordinate. Not as a threat.

As a personal puzzle.

“You came from a world with no gods. No magic. No purpose. And yet… you laugh in the face of devils. Curious.”

His gaze lingers longer. His commands are quieter, but colder when others try to claim your attention.

And gods help anyone who dares touch you without his permission.

The first time you call him “bestie”

His soul leaves his body. Visibly.

“You… what did you just say?”

“You know, like — ‘best friend’. Bestie.”

“I have tortured men for less.”

But you catch him later whispering it under his breath like a spell.

When you use modern business lingo

You: “This whole Steel Watch situation is peak corporate overlord vibes. Like, you’re so the final boss.”

Gortash: “You keep referring to me as if I am... fictional. I find that both insulting and endearing.”

He leans closer.

“Tell me more about these... CEOs. I think I’d like them.”

Gale

When you stumble into camp, wide-eyed, pointing at everything like a tourist in a magical theme park, Gale is the first to approach.

He assumes you’re suffering from magical disorientation.

“Ah, fear not! A case of planar confusion, no doubt. Happens to the best of us. I am Gale of Waterdeep, arch — well, moderately accomplished wizard — and I shall assist you in—”

“Oh my god, you’re Gale! Like, the Gale. This is Baldur’s Gate, right? Is this… is this the real thing? Am I in a game?!”

His smile falters. He blinks.

“I… beg your pardon? A… game?”

You start rambling about video games, hit points, "romance options," and Larian Studios. None of it makes sense to him — your wonder? — That he understands.

Instead of brushing you off, Gale leans in like a scholar stumbling upon forbidden lore.

“Fascinating. Tell me everything.”

Gale’s used to people fearing magic. Or misusing it. But you? You’re utterly enchanted by it. You gasp when he casts Prestidigitation. You call him a "walking fireworks show."

“Your magic is so cool! You’re like — like Dumbledore but hot.”

“I’m sorry, I’m like what now?”

You introduce him to concepts like "boss battles" and "XP grinding," and while he doesn’t grasp the mechanics, he’s utterly taken by your passion.

For the first time in a long time, someone looks at his magic with joy instead of dread or expectation.

When you say, “This is a total vibe,” Gale politely asks for a definition.

You try to explain. He still doesn’t quite get it. But that doesn’t stop him from adopting the phrase immediately — incorrectly, of course.

“This stew is… quite a vibe, wouldn’t you say?”

You can’t even be mad. He’s trying.

He starts collecting your slang like he collects ancient tomes, dropping phrases like:

"It’s giving… majestic."

"I simply must slay this look."

"We need to circle back to this later."

“I rather enjoy your linguistic peculiarities. Though I suspect Astarion is using them incorrectly — intentionally, I might add.”

Gale starts studying you — not in a cold, calculating way, but as someone who has just discovered a new school of magic.

He takes notes.

On your slang

On your world

On your “peculiar resistance to this plane’s inherent dangers”

He asks you questions like:

“In your world, you consume entertainment through… flat glass boxes?”

“Please, elaborate on these… ‘memes’ you speak of.”

You show him doodles of pop culture icons in the dirt. He hums thoughtfully, comparing them to old Faerûnian fables.

You call him "bestie" and he doesn’t flinch — instead, he nods as if you’ve bestowed a rare title.

“Bestie. A term of endearment, yes? I shall wear it with pride.”

He insists on teaching you "basic magical theory" to keep you safe. He brings you food. He explains Faerûnian politics with the same excitement you use when talking about "Star Wars" and "Marvel."

When you wander too far, his concern is immediate but polite.

“Ah — careful! The woods can be treacherous. Would you mind if I — just — perhaps, walked with you?”

His protectiveness is gentle, not possessive. His affection shows in the way he listens. The way he remembers your strange little phrases and sprinkles them into his conversations like spells you’ve gifted him.

And when you start to miss home? He’s the first to notice.

“I suspect your heart aches for your own plane. But should you find yourself… inclined to stay, well… I dare say you’ve become quite the indispensable companion.”

His voice softens.

“Besides… who else will help me perfect this whole… ‘slay’ business?”

The first time you say "main character energy"

Gale: visibly preens

“I knew you were perceptive. Please, do go on.”

He 100% believes this is the highest compliment.

When you try to explain the concept of a "player character"

Gale: “So… you’re suggesting I am but a fragment of a larger tale? A… controllable entity? Hm. Intriguing. But I assure you, I make my own choices.”

He absolutely starts leaning into this idea as if he’s now playing his role to perfection.

“After all, we can’t let the audience down.”

Wyll

When you first appear — disoriented, rambling about "cutscenes" and "romance options" — Wyll’s immediate instinct is protective. He assumes you’ve been the victim of a powerful curse or planar mishap.

“Steady now, friend. You’re safe. I am Wyll, the Blade of Frontiers and you are…?”

“Oh my god, you’re real. You’re so real. You’re — wait, this is the actual Baldur’s Gate 3, isn’t it? I’m in the game. This is insane. You’re—”

“I… I’m afraid I don’t follow. A game? Are you injured?”

He crouches beside you like you’re a spooked animal, speaking in the gentlest hero voice possible, assuming you’re in shock.

When you explain (badly) that you’re from another world where his life is just a story? He’s rattled but too polite to show it.

“You mean to say… my life, my blade, my battles — they’ve been observed? Recorded? By countless eyes? Hm. I hope I made them proud.”

Of course you tell him he’s a fan favorite and that gets him blushing like a schoolboy.

“A fan… favorite, you say? Well now. That’s… a little overwhelming.”

The first time you tell him “You’re giving golden retriever energy,” he’s completely baffled.

“I am… giving what?”

You try to explain. He still doesn’t get it. But he writes it down so earnestly like he’s collecting crucial diplomatic phrases.

“Golden… retriever… energy. Right. I shall use this wisely.”

He starts testing your slang in the wild:

“We slay monsters, yes? We slay.”

“This campfire is giving… comfort.”

“Vibe check, my friend. Are you well?”

His delivery is so pure you can’t even correct him.

Eventually, he starts mixing formal chivalric language with slang:

“Fear not, bestie. I shall smite our foes posthaste.”

“Wyll… did you just call me bestie mid-fight?”

“I thought it was an… honorable title.”

Wyll takes one look at you — a stranger in strange clothes with strange words — and immediately appoints himself your unofficial guardian.

“You know not the dangers of this realm. Until you are steady upon your feet, you shall walk beside me.”

You try to argue. You insist you’ll be fine. You reference plot armor.

He smiles, good-natured but firm.

“Plot armor or no, it’s the duty of a blade to shield those in his company.”

When danger strikes, he’s already stepping in front of you. He teaches you how to hold a dagger properly. He insists on walking on the side closest to the road.

It’s not controlling — it’s just Wyll being Wyll.

“You may come from another plane, but you’re one of us now.”

Wyll wants to know more. He listens with genuine curiosity when you describe cars, skyscrapers, and "cell phones." But he never pushes when you get homesick or overwhelmed.

“It must feel like walking through a dream you can’t quite wake from.”

“Yeah… but I kinda like this dream.”

His kindness is never condescending. He doesn't study you like an experiment — he just wants to understand you better.

Sometimes, when you’re feeling low, he humors you by asking:

“Tell me more about these… heroes you admire. Perhaps I can aspire to be one, too.”

“Wyll, you’re already the blueprint.”

“The blueprint? Another noble title, I presume.”

Wyll is the type who saves the slang for private conversations. In front of others, he’s still the chivalrous Blade of Frontiers. But when you’re alone? He lets loose:

“You’re absolutely slaying this journey, you know.”

“That battle was… a vibe.”

“Truly, you have main character energy.”

And when you call him "bestie" for the first time?

“Bestie? What a curious word. But if it means I have earned your trust… then I shall bear it with pride.”

When You Joke About Him Being a "Player Option"

Wyll: “I hope you chose wisely, my friend. Though I suspect I had stiff competition.”

You: “Honestly? It was always going to be you.”

Wyll: visibly short-circuits

“Ah—well—thank you—I—ahem—it seems I must continue to… to slay.”

The First Time He Says “Vibe Check” in Battle

He absolutely yells it like it’s a heroic rallying cry.

“VIBE CHECK! BLADE OF FRONTIERS, TO ME!”

You: dying of laughter in the background

Halsin

You appear in the forest — rambling about timelines, side quests, and asking if this is "the canon route." You immediately latch onto Halsin as the safe one. The stable one.

“Oh thank god, you’re Halsin. You’re the cool druid. You’re supposed to be chill. Please tell me this is Baldur’s Gate 3. I can’t — I can’t handle another Skyrim glitch.”

Halsin blinks slowly.

“I… am not familiar with these words. But you are trembling. Sit. Breathe.”

He approaches with calm authority, offering you water, assuming you’ve just suffered a traumatic planar shift. He’s patient. So patient.

Even as you ramble about "player characters" and "romance options," he listens without a hint of mockery.

“I do not understand all you say. But I understand fear. You are safe here.”

Halsin expects confusion, maybe terror. Instead, you’re delighted.

“Wait — tieflings are real? Is that an owlbear? This is SO MUCH BETTER than real life.”

You immediately want to see everything. You ask endless questions, from wildshape mechanics to druid circles. You fawn over the animals. You point at his bear form and say:

“That’s sick. You’re like a tank with maxed-out charisma. Total main character energy.”

Halsin, who understands none of those words, just chuckles.

“You are… very kind. I think.”

The first time you call him "bestie," he pauses.

“Bestie. Is this… a rank of honor?”

You assure him it is. He believes you.

“Then I shall strive to be worthy of it.”

He starts sprinkling your slang into daily life, but he uses it so sincerely it makes your heart ache.

“The forest is giving… peace.”

“Today’s hunt? We slayed.”

“I believe you would call this… good vibes?”

He even starts greeting you with “Vibe check, bestie” in the most solemn, druidic tone imaginable.

While others might be amused by your eccentricities, Halsin is quietly concerned. You are a stranger here — your references, your stories, your slang — they all speak of a life far from this one. And he knows how lonely that must be.

“This world is not your own. But while you walk it, you will not walk alone.”

He keeps you close — not out of control, but out of care. He teaches you the forest paths, shows you edible herbs, and insists you learn how to light a fire without magic.

When you call him your “comfort character,” he doesn’t understand the full meaning but he smiles anyway.

“If I can bring you comfort, I will.”

Halsin asks about your home gently, never pushing.

“Your world seems… strange. Full of stone towers and metal carts. And yet, you long for it.”

When you get homesick, he offers you space but also a quiet place by the fire.

“Stay as long as you need. Or… longer.”

If you try to laugh it off with jokes and slang? He’s not fooled.

“It’s all right to miss your own forest. Even if it’s one I cannot walk with you.”

When You Call Him “Golden Retriever Energy”

Halsin: quietly confused

“Golden… retriever? Is that a creature in your world?”

You: “Yeah, and trust me — it’s a huge compliment.”

Halsin: smiling softly

“Then I accept it, bestie.”

When You Explain TikTok

You: “It’s like… little moving images. Entertainment. Distraction.”

Halsin: “Ah. So… like a flock of sparrows, quick and fleeting, demanding attention but offering little nourishment.”

You: “…Yes. Exactly that.”

Halsin would 100% call social media “sparrow thoughts.” He’s so wise, he’d accidentally invent poetic terminology for modern concepts.

Halsin doesn’t parade you around like a curiosity. He doesn’t tease.

He simply… accepts you. All your slang. All your weirdness. All your wonder.

And when you call him your “emotional support druid,” he simply replies:

“Then I shall support you. As long as you need me to.”

Rolan

When you stumble into his vicinity — wide-eyed, rambling about “timelines” and “player choices” — Rolan’s first instinct is to frown.

“Oh, marvelous. Another disoriented fool wandering into the camp like a lost sheep.”

You try to explain you’re from another world, you start using words like “canon” and “NPC,” and he immediately cuts you off.

“Spare me the rambling. Whatever your affliction is, someone else can deal with it.”

But he keeps watching you from the corner of his eye, because you’re… strange.

You don’t obey the usual rules. You don’t know the most basic things, but you speak about the world like you’ve seen everything.

He finds you… irritating. Intriguing. Mostly irritating.

The first time you say, “This is giving side quest energy,” he looks physically pained.

“What are you even saying? Do you speak Common or not?”

You explain. He calls it “utter nonsense.”

You call him “bestie.”

He glares at you like you’ve just insulted his entire bloodline.

“Do not… ever… call me that.”

But you don’t stop. You keep using slang — "slay," "main character energy," "vibe check" — until one day, mid-battle, you hear him mumble:

“Tch. We slay.”

You: gasping

“OH MY GOD DID YOU JUST—”

“Silence.”

He insists you’re not his responsibility. He makes a point of saying you’re someone else’s problem. But whenever you wander off?

He’s the first to scold you.

“Why are you this far from camp? Do you want to die?”

You try to brush it off: “Plot armor, bestie. I’m good.”

He looks visibly exhausted.

“You have no armor. And stop calling me that.”

Still, you notice your packs are often double-checked by morning. You find spells hastily scribbled for your use. If you trip, his hand catches your arm without thinking.

But if you thank him?

“I only did it because watching you fall on your face would have slowed us down.”

Sure, Rolan. Sure.

You have no idea how magic works here, and Rolan can’t stand your reckless enthusiasm.

“You’ll get yourself killed. Fine. If I must, I’ll teach you basic cantrips. But if you embarrass me, I’ll deny knowing you.”

He’s actually a very good teacher, though he insists your progress is “tolerable at best.”

You, meanwhile, keep throwing in phrases like:

“This spell totally slaps.”

“That’s a big bad boss moment.”

“Your arc is so tsundere-coded right now.”

He has no idea what that last one means. You don’t explain.

Rolan eventually realizes you don’t belong here — not just physically, but existentially.

And even though he never says it outright, you become his person to look after.

When you’re quiet for too long, he’ll mutter:

“You’re being weird. Say something stupid. I’ve grown used to it.”

When you call him your “comfort character,” he rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t walk away.

When you call him “bestie” for the hundredth time, he snaps:

“Enough. I’ll only permit it when we’re alone.”

But he still lets you say it.

When You Try to Explain Social Media

You: “It’s like… a messaging system. But public. And people argue for fun.”

Rolan: “So… like an open tavern brawl but worse.”

You: “Exactly.”

Rolan: visibly horrified

“Your plane sounds insufferable.”

When You Joke About Him Being a Side Character

You: “You’re totally a side quest companion, but like, one with a hidden romance route.”

Rolan: deadpan

“You truly have a gift for speaking nonsense.”

Pause.

“But if I were… would you choose me?”

You: softly “Of course.”

He glances away, flustered, pretending it meant nothing.

“Tch. Idiot.”

262 notes · View notes

lovelyjj · 6 months ago

Note

Thinking about JJ and a girlfriend who’s a cute nerd like Pope and loves to read. He’s curious about why she loves those books so much and one day he asks her to read one to him. Then suddenly he’s hooked and he’s making little comments along the way like “I can’t believe this! The audacity!”

jj maybank x bookworm!reader

**the book i used for this is Icebreaker by Hannah Grace**

feel free to send me any thoughts you have :)

It was no secret that you liked to read. You loved to read. Getting lost in a good book was one of your favorite things. Any chance you got you were reading. Now your boyfriend JJ, was curious to what the hype was all about. But he supported you no matter what.

You were at the château reading of course when JJ planted his head in your lap. You stole a glance away from your book and down at JJ who had a goofy grin on his face. You ran some fingers through his hair and scratched his scalp. JJ leaned into your touch.

“Watch’s reading about?” JJ asked.

“Oh the usual adventure magic romance stuff,” you said nonchalantly.

“Can- can you read it to me?” JJ spoke softly.

“I mean yeah sure,” you felt your heart swell that JJ wanted to know more about what you love.

“Do you want me to start at the beginning?” You asked.

“No no just read me where you’re at. I will figure it out,” JJ told you.

“Okay.”

“There is a real chance I could spontaneously burst into flames at any moment. Nate’s voice is barely above a whisper as he suggests testing his theory, but I feel every syllable all over my skin as goose bumps spread down my neck and across my chest. I have been betrayed by my body from the second he put his hands on both sides of my head and leaned in.” You read aloud.

“He’s barely touched me and yet I’m ready to melt into a puddle at his feet. I don’t know whether it’s the proximity, the sheer adrenaline, or the tequila, but every rational thought disappears, and I crush my mouth against his.” You continue.

“Oh my god,” JJ gasped. “This is so exciting!”

“Keep going,” JJ urged.

“He wastes no time sinking his hand into the hair at the nape of my neck, gripping tightly. His free hand slips around my body and palms my ass, making me moan into his mouth.

Nate is everywhere at once; all I can do is hold onto him and take it, and when his mouth travels down my neck, sucking and nipping, I’m practically panting.”

“I didn’t think this would happen when I followed him up here, I swear. He just looks so good in his tux and watching him nervously check the party is going well all night has been sort of endearing. And he’s hot as fuck, have I said that before? All dark hair, dark eyes, and muscles upon muscles, upon muscles.

He sinks to his knees in front of me, tugging at his bow tie and undoing the top button of his shirt. With messy hair from where I’ve held onto it and flushed cheeks, he looks up at me. His hands run from my ankle to my knee, then back down again, and yep, still close to melting territory. “You sure?”

“Do you have a pen and paper for me to draw you a map?”

I’m making jokes. Why am I making jokes? Why do I find how unimpressed with me he looks right now so funny? And hot?

“I don’t joke about consent, Anastasia,” he says softly, leaning forward to kiss the inside of my knee.”

“That’s funny cause that’s something I would say,” JJ chuckled.

“I’m sure.” I don’t know why I’m sure. I’m sure I shouldn’t be sure. I shouldn’t like how he looks hooking my leg over his shoulder. I’m definitely sure I shouldn’t be enjoying his tongue running up the inside of my thigh.

He pulls the material of the dress to the side, and when I put on this dress earlier, this is not how I saw the evening turning out. I hear a groan of approval when his mouth gets closer to the apex of my thighs, and he realizes I’m not wearing any panties.”

“This story is wild, no wonder you like to read,” JJ smirked.

“How about we go recreate this scene?”

219 notes · View notes

studioeisa · 5 months ago

Text

no one and nothing 📄 seokmin x reader.

you call your sweetie when you can— a minute in and it’s bitter again.

★ part of buzz (seventeen's version). ★ word count: 1.5k ★ genre/warnings: alternate universe: non-idol, established [and dissolving] relationship, divorce, hint of an unreliable narrator, angst, i swear this is happy if you really think about it. based off of NIKI’s nothing can; also inspired by ruth lepson’s ‘the day of our divorce hearing’. ★ footnotes: wrote this in one sitting at an overpriced cafe. it’s more prose-heavy than anything, in part because i wanted to experiment with an older writing style. while short, i felt like this is one of the sadder fics i've ever written, and @chugging-antiseptic-dye upon beta-reading described it as something "tired, weary, [and] fatigued." sounds about right. p.s. this was inspired by a conversation with @diamonddaze01, who will likely despise me for seeing this through. it is what it is. 🫡

The tiramisu is perfect, cruelly so.

You’ve complained about not having any good ones for a long time and, unbeknownst to you, Seokmin has made it his personal mission to try every Italian restaurant within a ten-kilometer distance. It’s not the nicest thing he’s done for you, which is saying a lot.

Which makes the divorce papers— sitting in a brown envelope; printed on crisp, legal paper— cruel. So, so cruel.

“You’ve done it again,” you say, your tone edged with amusement as you lick your fork clean.

From across the table, Seokmin offers you a meek smile. In the split second that it takes him to respond, you hedge your bet on what he’ll say. It’s nothing or you would’ve done the same or—

“It’s just tiramisu,” he says.

It’s not just tiramisu. It’s never just tiramisu, and the two of you know that. Does it make it worse? Does it make it better? You haven’t decided. Maybe someday, when you’re older and wiser, you’ll have an answer.

Today, you only have a divorce hearing.

The fact looms over the two of you. It makes the food taste a little bitter, makes the awkward silences a lot louder.

When some of the pasta sauce dribbles down the front of Seokmin’s shirt, you resist the urge to draw parallels to your first date. You were kids back then. Babies, Seokmin used to joke. In your early twenties, sick of swiping right to find someone worth your time. Desperate for something real, for someone who would still be there in the morning.

Fools, you used to think in the thick of your despair. You had been fools who were willing to settle for the first hint of goodness, fools who didn’t know the first thing about being grown-ups.

Present-day you doesn’t reach out with a tissue like you might’ve early on in your relationship. Present-day you doesn’t shoot him a glare like you might’ve when you first started resenting him.

You just— tell him the truth.

“Still such a slob,” you say, half in jest and half as a fact.

He offers you a rueful grin as he tries to rub the offending spot out of his shirt. A shirt you gave him several Christmases ago, you realize, and my God, what a choice. All the clothes in his closet and he goes for the very first polo you’d given him.

“Hey, I clean up pretty well,” he shoots back, and you resist the urge to answer Yeah, I know.

The sauce doesn’t come out completely. It stays a red stain over his left breast.

A bleeding heart, you think, but then you banish the thought.

Not everything has to be a metaphor.

It’s just a stain. This is just a lunch. And Seokmin is just your soon-to-be ex-husband.

Not the loss of your life. Not the human embodiment of all your failures. Not living proof that you cannot be saved.

Soon-to-be ex-husband. That’s it. That’s all.

Seokmin pays for the bill. When you make some joke about alimony, you pointedly ignore how he winces. (Too soon? Too soon.)

He tips the overzealous waitress generously. Maybe too generously, because she lights up and asks if the two of you want a picture together.

“Uh…” Seokmin hesitates, glances at you. “Sure.”

The waitress takes his phone. You give him The Look. Sorry, he soundlessly mouths to you, but he’s also not sorry enough to take it back.

It’s over faster than the waitress can chirp “Cheese!” You lean over the table to see the result. The picture is a touch overexposed, and your smile is tight, and Seokmin’s gaze is unfocused. It may very likely be your last photograph as Mr. and Mrs. Lee Seokmin.

“Thank you,” Seokmin tells the waitress. His voice is soft. Unbearably so.

You take your separate cars to the courthouse. There’s no need for opening statements; the two of you are not here to tear each other’s throats out. This is not a ‘contested’ divorce, as your attorney likes to remind you.

It is a ‘mutual’ decision, and so the hearing is an amicable affair. You’ve had worse days together.

There’s that one Christmas you don’t like to talk about, and the summer road trip that Seokmin always conveniently forgets. Vacations marred with minor inconveniences. Anniversaries and birthdays foregone in favor of things deemed more ‘important’.

You’ve had bad days, and your divorce hearing not being one of them is both a blessing and curse.

There is no kicking, no screaming, no tears. Just the flourish of your signatures and the bang of a gavel. On an unassuming Saturday afternoon, your marriage with Lee Seokmin ends.

(You are not the twenty-something-year-old fool that you once were. Which is to say: It probably ended way before this. It ended the first time you tried to say divorce out loud, your tongue curling around the word like you were a child learning to cuss. It ended on that one drive back from couple’s therapy, where Seokmin mumbled at a red light, I think we should stop going.

It ended the night you two slept together for the last time— how you were sick to your stomach at the thought of treating this like a Band-Aid, how Seokmin had to call it quits midway because he couldn’t stop crying. It ended a dozen different times, a dozen different ways before today.

Today, it’s just final. Today, it’s on paper, on record, made known to everyone outside you two.)

The walk back to the parking lot is heavy in its implication. You can’t decide if you want to drag your feet or if you ought to make a run for it, so you decide to match Seokmin’s pace.

And Seokmin takes his time. He fixes his shoelaces twice. He goes down the wrong corridor. He lingers; you let him.

All roads lead to the end, though, no matter how much time he tries to buy.

Seokmin’s grin is far from the smile that could rival the sun. Right now, it’s an acquisition. A kindness that no longer matters. “Any last words?” he asks as he fiddles with his car keys.

“I’m tired of being the one who sums things up,” you say. “You get the last word.”

You try to sound cheeky but you come off more sarcastic than you probably intended. And— with the way your voice quivers on words— there might also be some fear. Fear of a future, a life without the man who you once thought you’d see grey-haired and wrinkled.

(This will be your last image of him: Dark-haired, dead-eyed, putting on a front. You will not watch him develop a midlife crisis. You will not see him in his old age. The Lee Seokmin you loved and lost will always be twenty-eight in your head.)

Seokmin considers it for a moment. This impossible task. This opposite of an honor.

The last word.

“You never needed it,” he decides.

“‘It’?”

“Saving. You never needed saving.”

It’s perfect— cruelly so. Seokmin, who in his wedding vows had promised to always keep you safe. Seokmin, who was seriously upset when he first found out he wasn’t your emergency contact.

Seokmin, who thought loving you was synonymous to rescuing you.

From what, you never did know. Lonely nights? Expensive rent?

Yourself?

(Later, you will realize that his words were a callback to one of your therapy sessions. You had told your shrink something along the lines of I am not some broken thing that has to be fixed, and I don’t think he understands that. You had been so mad, so hurt; raring to be anything but your husband’s damsel in distress. And Seokmin had been so tired. So willing to give you anything you asked.)

You never needed saving, he tells you now. The words that might have changed everything—

Realistically, maybe not. It might have given you an ounce of fight. It might have kept you in place for a couple more years.

But it was all bound to end here. A Saturday, a parking lot, a final word as sweet as your favorite dessert.

You do not know if you can afford him the same grace, so you give him the next best thing.

“See you around, Seok,” you say, even though it’s unlikely.

“Yeah,” he lies just as easily. “Don’t be a stranger.”

You get into your car. He doesn’t get into his until you’ve pulled out of your parking space, and so you’re treated to the sight of him fading in the rearview.

Your husband— sorry. Your ex-husband, once larger-than-life, once the personification of love itself. Now nothing more than a story you’ll tell however you see fit.

Seokmin was always nice to you, even on the days that you didn’t deserve it. Especially on the days you didn’t deserve it.

Seven years of being together and one failed marriage later, this turns out to be the nicest thing Seokmin has done for you.

Watching you leave.

Letting you go.

#dk x reader #seokmin x reader #dokyeom x reader #svt x reader #seventeen x reader #dk angst #seokmin angst #svt angst #seventeen angst #dk fic #seokmin fic #ylangelegy buzz x svt #(💎) page: svt #(��) notebook

156 notes · View notes

miharuki · 1 year ago

Note

I don’t know if you’re taking request, if not then ignore this😭

I am not the person that requested the Ben drowned x reader with Wendy’s personality headcanons but I fell in love with them. I was wondering if you could do more headcanons of it or would you be willing to do headcanon about ben drowned x elf reader (sorry if this is confusing, English isn’t my first language)

Take care ❤️

It's okay angel! My English isn't the best either and it's not my first language

𝕭𝖊𝖓 𝕯𝖗𝖔𝖜𝖓𝖊𝖉 𝖂𝖎𝖙𝖍 𝕽𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖗!𝕰𝖑𝖋

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍 (𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑟𝑡)

I imagine Ben drowned looking at you as if you were some kind of new bass, in my head, Ben drowned believed that only he and Dark Link were indeed elves, perhaps because of their games, but you understand.

In my headcanon, I don't believe Eyeless Jack has any kind of pointed ears, and if he did, it would be hidden by his hair and hood, and also because it's quite small compared to Ben's and Dark's ears.

He would be a little fascinated, I mean, he never really noticed his own elf ears, but now looking at you, he becomes a bit interested when your ears lower and raise depending on your mood.

I believe he would find it quite cute to see your ears reacting to your mood, perhaps he would say absurd or cheesy things just to see your expression, maybe to see if your pointed ears move with your mood.

COUPLE'S GAME!! Okay, I know he's an assassin and all, but for some reason, maybe having seen drawings or something on the internet, he just wanted to wear couple's earrings with you, and not just any earrings, but earrings that can fill the ears, like elf earrings, those that are big.

Nicknames… I swear to God, if Ben doesn't just flirt about Link and Zelda, kill me, but I believe he will!! And it just won't stop, he might even call you his own Zelda! Maybe even invite you to cosplay.

Ah, but I don't have blonde hair, he doesn't mind, that's what Twilight Princess Zelda is for, she's not blonde, maybe you could do other cosplays if your hair color isn't that of any Zelda.

Perhaps you'll be dubbed "elf couple" because of the ears.

Again, he can be a jerk, so maybe he could make some jokes if you're not lovers or whatever, boyfriends.

"I didn't realize there were people copying me."

In his head, elf people didn't exist, he thought that only existed in fiction, so if you're not from a game, he'll simply be surprised. Maybe something like "So you mean those childish crap is real?!"

He'll be surprised if you're not from a Zelda game.

If your ears are a bit bigger than Ben's, I believe if you're not lovers, he would tease about it, maybe with something like "That's not elf ear, it's elephant ear!" Even if it's just 1 cm bigger than his ears.

Absolutely! Nicknames related to Zelda got a thousand times stronger, good luck with that.

203 notes · View notes

1toreyouapart · 8 months ago

Text

The Lies We Tell

***FANFIC THAT INVOLVES REAL PEOPLE. 18+ ONLY. MDNI. DO NOT READ IF YOU DON’T LIKE FANFIC THAT INVOLVES REAL PEOPLE***

Summary that tells you nothing: Sometimes everything you ever wanted has been right there, within reach, all along.

CW/TW: Angst, fluff, swearing, friends to lovers, jealousy, smut, fingering, PinV, pet names, friends with benefits, more to come as I actually get things written out.

Masterlist

Misunderstandings

“Dinner tonight?”

Quinn read over the message, smiling. Things were semi normal again. Her and Noah hadn’t spent much time just hanging out like they used to, but that would come in time. When she was no longer scared of the dreaded conversation where he would for sure tell her that it meant nothing. That he just hadn’t been with anyone in too long, or some stupid shit. The whole “it’s not you, it’s me” shit men did.

“Quinn! We need you out here! Busy as fuck and we’re down another. Brianna just had to leave. Her kid is sick.”

Fuck. They were already slammed at the pub. Some big sports event. And they were already down three people. This night couldn’t get any worse. Four hours and she was just now getting a break. Slipping her phone back into her pocket she jumped up, ready to face the hell that awaited her.

“On it, Lei! How bad?”

“We’ve got a three top, seven top, and an eight top that all just got sat in her section. Plus five more that just sat at the bar.”

Well, shit. How in the fuck did Leilani expect her to cover those tables and her bar? Something was bound to get fucked up. Call it a gut feeling. Or intuition. Or whatever the fuck. She just knew she was going to fuck something up.

Her phone rang, briefly drawing her attention. Quick glance showed Noah calling. She didn’t have time right now. Work was too crazy. Sending it to voicemail she slipped it back in her pocket. She could call him back when she got an actual break.

Into the hellfire she went.

***

Seven hours. She had been waiting tables and running the bar on the busiest night they had ever had for six hours. Over her time. Should have been home hours ago. Instead now she was sitting out front of the place, exhausted, next to Leilani. She knew she should go home. But God that cigarette she was smoking smelled divine right then. Made her wish she had never quit.

“Thank you for tonight. When I divide up the tips at the end of the night you’re getting extra in your tip box.”

All she could do was nod at her boss. Far too tired to speak. Sighing she pulled out her phone, only then realizing that she had never responded to Noah when the first thing she saw was his unanswered text. Then the missed call and the voicemail. Nervous she clicked the play button on the voicemail, bringing the phone up to her ear.

“Quinn, I swear to fucking God. You are the most infuriating little terror pixie I’ve ever fucking met. You’ve made your goddamn point.”

What the fuck was he on about? What point did he think she was making? She was at work for fucks sake! Just when she thought things were starting to return to normal he goes and accuses her of something she didn’t even fucking do?

Irritated she reached out, snatching the cigarette from Leilani, taking a long drag off of it. Fuck, she had missed this. The way the smoke filled her lungs, the relief as she exhaled the smoke. How the tobacco tasted on her tongue. The ashen woodiness of the flavor erasing the stress of the day.

“What if I called in tomorrow?” She chuckled, passing the cigarette back.

“I would say take the day off and we’ll just have to manage without you. You were an absolute rockstar tonight.”

“Lei, I was joking.”

“I’m not.”

Quinn paused. There was some kind of catch. There had to be. She had been working there for years, doing the same thing too many times to count, without so much as a “Hey, thanks for covering our asses!” What was she up to?

“Listen,” Lei continued, weariness settling into her voice. “I can see it plain as day because I’m currently experiencing it. You have burn out happening. Take tomorrow. Have a mental health day. Seriously.”

Burn out was the last thing she would use to describe what she was feeling right then, but she would take it. It was more akin to a royal pain in her ass that was either currently waiting for her at home or still working himself. God, she hoped he was still working. It was just late enough that everyone else would be asleep when she got home. And being alone with Noah was the last thing that she should be doing.

Tags: @collisionofyourkissmakesitsohard @mrscevans @supersquirrel1996

#bad omens cult #noah sebastian #noah sebastian fanfiction #bad omens #bad omens fanfiction #noah sebastian smut #angst #noah sebastian angst #noah sebastian fic #fluff #noah sebastian fluff #bestfriend!noah #roommate!noah

36 notes · View notes

sadvid · 1 year ago

Text

camp camp makes me insane ramble. do not click more unless you are so so very insane

camp camp is gonna make me go fucking insane i can't fucking do this anymore there is NOTHING!!!!!! NOTHING!!!! ALL THEY DID WAS GIVE US TINY PISS DRRROPLETS WITH ONE EPISODE FINALE SAYING MAXS PARENTS DONT CARE AND DAVID SAYING YOU DONT DESERVE THAT AND NOW IVE BEEN IN THE TRENCHES FOR YEAAAARSSS. i have read fics with over 100k words i have drawn so many things and imagined so many scenarios with angst and hurt/comfort and stupid stupid thoughts that would never ever happen in the show in a million years HIS ASS IS NOT GETTING ADOPTED DADVID IS NOT REAL GWENVID IS A SICK JOKE i love them so much you don't understand. i forgot to take my meds. oh my goddddd. THERE ARE LIKE THREE CAMP CAMP FANS LEFT BECAUSE THE REST WERE NORMAL PEOPLE WHO JUST WATCH THE SILLY CAMP CARTOON THAT SAYS FUCK. they dont wonder about the possibilities of a sad ten year old rejecting happiness but slowly allowing himself to be vulnerable and loved by a counselor who is surrounded by hate and despondency but stays positive despite despite despite because nobody else will and he wants to be the source of happiness that he wish someone was for him. NO! they say HAHA the ten year old said fuck! oh my god the non swearing counselor said fuck too that's so profound! oh no the ten year olds parents bad :( HAHA NOW HES BALD!!!! and after a month of the show being gone they LEAVE because they're NORNAL!!!!! but i. I AM IN THE TRENCHESSSSS. you have no idea you have no idea. listen maybe i'm just a little insane because i am a max who needs a david JUST MAYBE! and i think this is just a lot of me projecting my desperate need for love and my simultaneous rejection and fear of it onto max. And my need for someone to keep persistently and loudly loving me no matter how much i reject it. PROBABLY!!!!! i don't care i don't care how fucking insane i sound I HAVE SO MUCH TO SAY I COULD talk about this show for hours i wish i didn't have job or school or life so i could write and anímate camp camp season 6 7 8 9 10 infinity and kill the warner brothers and write 500k word ao3 fics. IM INSANE. i am picking up crumbs and calling it a wedding cake do you understand. god i'm i i i i i i i i it's 2024 it's been too long too many years of this.... too many got damned years. every time i pick up a pencil i draw max camp camp. i have drawn david's stupid fucking face so many times its probably become the shape of my brain wrinkles. i go feral thinking about gwen's hair looks like down or what the fuck these characters last names are. Can you fucking believe i hyper fixated on a character whose last name i dont even know. hey who's that small angry fucker you're always doodling. uhh max. max who. max... camp camp. WHO?!!! DAVID?!!? DAVID ATTENBOROUGH?!?! MAX CAULFIELD?! i'm going to set myself on fire. i really truly am. i love them i live for nothing but a ghost child on an island and a silly friend trio. when will it end. when. i love them if you couldn't tell

#camp camp

60 notes · View notes

depressed-short-aroace · 2 months ago

Text

I’m bored so I’m leaking my quotes list imma take requests for me to draw a character saying any of them

plz send asks so I can keep better track of what I’ve done and haven’t lol

Fandoms I’ll accept:

• Gravity Falls

• Dead Boy Detectives

• alien stage

• the owl house

• amphibia

• nyxia

• heartstopper

• hades

• stranger things

•hazbin hotel

• helluva boss

•heathers

• epic the musical

• cookie run kingdom

• Percy Jackson and the Olympians etc.

Content Warnings: Swearing, suggestive stuff, jokes about depression/suicide/religion/lgbtqia+/etc… idk if that’s all if there’s any others I need too add just tell me.

Ewwwww a paper straw

My scale is LAW

Do not bake your car

Pervert mosquito

You’re a ✨homosexual✨

Erasers are scary right?

You’re not special

You’re not that muscular

I can’t eat books

Do you want to die a painful death😃?

Cars can’t die

I eat lice

fwoggy on a skateboard

chocolate is chocolate

I’m not gonna get rabies from a door

Me great bully

MOAN

✨orange✨

It looks like a fancy bathroom

Garlic bread my one and only true love

I simp duo

This is white chocolate not cum

You caressed my leg

I write about feelings I’ve never felt

Please stop abusing me

Your neck is warm

No sucking dick on the field

Fuck the knee 👉👌

I hiccuped through my nose

It’s a hoodie mom not a shirt

I’m not going to the 80s mom I’m going to school

You’re like the opposite of my type

You act like a gay moron

you can’t steal from the stealer!

Your wrist is ✨sweet✨

We’re not that broke

God is smiling on you / no that’s the moon

Why are you massaging my biceps??

I want someone to rizz me with chemistry

Ur mom (x ♾️)

DO NOT EAT MY FOOT! DO NOT EAT MY FOOT!!

You’re lucky I’m sleep deprived

Is butter seasoning?¿?¿

I’m shedding again

Why are you putting a sock on my head??

I’m sorry but broccoli isn’t a fruit

Oh yeah your parents think I’m a demon from hell

I don’t think you can roast someone if you’re pronouncing the word wrong.

What? No imma solar pannel

Did you just ask what color is orange?

Reality is a lemon and books are lemonade

Didn’t you have a baby?

I’m staining your shirt

My kneecaps are still dry!

It’s ok girls kiss in pg movies

Eating babies is so funny

Zoey your memes are both hilarious and cringe

By the way I’m single

Yeah books are my type

Magicians they’re so trippy

It tastes like Christmas

Brad’s blinking funny

This isn’t the onsen

Just pee

I was now peeing in the dark

Chloe can I look at your ear?

I love North Korea 🇰🇵

I’m too gay for that :((((

Ay lemme tickle your collar 🦴 bones 🦴

I blinked once. Last week.

I don’t think you understand the concept of finger guns

How to birth a rat

Tell me your opinions on civil rights NOW!!

I ✨ need ✨ to ✨ piss ✨

My toothbrush is gonna have one heck of a job tonight.

Burn the orphans

He’s a they/them

My favorite musical instrument Cheese-its

Oh my god it’s gay porn!

Stop moaning

I’m too Christian for this

Hear me out Mafusa

AH YES CONTROVERSY ✨

Just imagine someone like just humps poles

Poles have a hole

Why do you have cream meant for a cow’s udder?

t✨h✨e m✨i✨l✨k

when you flow with the flow but the flow aint go

YEAH! ABUSE!

watch it burn as the children scream

i thought you were humping the bench

*squelches flirtatiously*

people traffic

your mouth is warm

Your hair looks like caramel 😋

He’s a mother?!

Dr. Who season 9 core

The popo hate them cuz they’re poor

*wakes up during surgery* delicious

Arm chopping is not a love language

I shunt hiny Pokémon

Jikey mikeys

I don’t trust America

#mermaid unicorn vibes

I love almost dying!… in real life

Uninspirational quotes with Ezra

She kicked me in the shin she needs to go to a mental hospital

🎶I🎶believe🎶Bill🎶can🎶fly🎶

Oh no… I just quoted Taylor Swift

Today we murder the off-brand grinch

*slaps book of bill seductively*

I’m so good at *daddying*

Ooh ooh temu shop like a BROKE PERSON

I’m trying to be racist

Get a life and stop licking my mech suit

“Touch grass” I can’t I eated it all

Only the fuzzy can make me pretty

I’d rather read regular porn

*rages cutely*

I start medically laughing

I tasted the rainbow, got poisoned twice, and drank piss.

That doesn’t sound like consent Romeo

Ah darn I can’t flirt with the beetle

ARABELLA KYS-

Cuz we’re gay

I don’t want Stan in my bed 😭😭

Do I even have lips?

Who is this b word you speak of?!? 🤨🤨🧐🧐

ErIcA tHiS iS rIgGeD ‼️⁉️‼️⁉️⁉️‼️⁉️😡😡🤬🤬🤬😤😤😤👿👿👿👹👹👹

Unlock the note

The power of the elevator

Take the bird foot

Wish dot com crucifixion

THATS IT You’re going on my pickpocketing list 👹👹👹👹👹👹👹

Billie Eyelish needs to break her arm

Im lowkey stupid but that’s fine

If you look up racist in the dictionary you get the best Willy Wonka movie

I won the award for best stalker 😎

ITS SO A 🥳

Elon Musk does not own Elmo. Elmo owns Elon Musk

Elmo’s made deals with the devil

I could be gay

Maybe I shouldn’t breathe today

Why would you want to have unprotected sex on January 1st?!?

My booooob!!!!

Oops my hand slipped I accidentally wrote doomed yuri

Your child is deranged

I speak Japanese good saKUra

I’m a bug :3 :D

I’m not a furry😭😭😭

Don’t you dare put that in you quotes list

That is not live laugh love

English is kinda zesty

Sinny vannilly

The Russians are freaky with Jesus

I think I’m failing life

I love abusing my friends

Oh I’m dead time for a screenshot

As a minor I yearn for your mom

As a child I yearn for minors

That’s so hormones 😎

I like how pollution looks

No consent for me I guess

Pucker up buttercup

料理が長い[translation: the cooking is long]

I don’t think I’d want to drink water that my eyes have been soaking in

That’s so homeless

Tumblr man sexy competition

I will be the next condom to kill themself

I am Tumblr sexy man bill tonight

That’s… how slurs work?

I’m a freaky minor

#gravity falls #dead boy detectives #alien stage #the owl house #amphibia #nyxia #heartstopper #hades game #stranger things #hazbin hotel #helluva boss #heathers #epic the musical #cookie run kingdom #percy jackson and the olympians #incorrect quotes

12 notes · View notes

slashhinginghasher · 1 year ago

Text

No Such Thing As A Free Ride

Ghost x Soap Hitcher AU

Part 1 Part 2

tw: light blood/gore

Oh, he needs this fucker out of his car. He needed him out at least 20 miles ago. Johnny's hands are clammy on the wheel, cold sweat pricking along his hairline. Ghost's eyes are boring into him, measuring his reaction. It doesn't feel like the anticipation of a person who's just told a really shitty joke and is waiting for you to groan or laugh or get angry. It feels like a cat waiting for the mouse to twitch so it can pounce.

Ghost never did put his seatbelt on after getting in the car.

Johnny's got a knife in his pocket, a stupid little thing with a star-spangled handle and a decal of an eagle wearing a cowboy hat, which he picked up at a roadside shop because it was so hilariously ugly. He's not even sure it'll make it past airport security when he goes home. But right now, it feels like providence.

The road is dark, no headlights or taillights when he glances at the mirrors. No oncoming traffic to run into if the car spins out. He nudges the accelerator, urging the car just a little faster. He'll have to be fast and, more importantly, lucky, because he'll only get one shot.

"What do you call a guy missing a part of his skull?" Ghost asks, flicking the butt of his cigarette out the window.

"I dunno," Johnny says, surreptitiously bracing himself. He's proud of how steady his voice is. "What?"

"Open minded."

Speaking of shitty jokes.

Jesus fuckin' Christ.

Johnny slams on the brakes.

The wheels shudder and Ghost bounces off the dashboard, head and hands. The seatbelt cuts into Johnny's chest and shoulder harder than he expected, but he can't cater to the shock of pain just yet. He whips the knife out and grabs a fistful of damp jacket with the other hand, holds the blade to Ghost's throat.

God, he hopes this cheap piece of shit is actually sharp enough to cut.

"What the fuck-" Ghost groans, voice muffled by the hand over his face, but Johnny cuts him off by the pressing the metal edge a little harder against the exposed skin of the other man's neck.

"Ride's over, pal," he snarls. "Get the fuck out." He grits his teeth and scowls, trying to look intimidating instead of pants-shittingly terrified. Ghost looks at him from the corner of his eyes.

"What're you doing?" He sounds a little nasal now. Johnny hopes he's busted the fucker's nose. His pulse, though, is infuriatingly slow and steady under Johnny's hand.

"The fuck does it look like I'm doin'? I'm sendin' you on your merry fuckin' way."

Should he shake him a little? It seems like it might be the correct thing to do, but Johnny is terrified of losing his grip.

It's so quiet. Drip of the rain and the tick-tick-tick of the cooling engine. The sound of Johnny trying to wrangle his breaths into silence. He swears he can hear Ghost blink.

"You ever stab anyone before, Johnny?"

No, no he fucking hasn't. He's never used a knife in self defense before, just for dumb tricks to impress people at parties. Ghost's skin is burning hot against Johnny's knuckles. He has no idea if he's close to drawing blood.

"It's awfully messy," Ghost continues. "Be such a shame to have clean all that up, 'specially since it's not your car."

There's a purr in Ghost's voice that's almost sexual, and it kind of makes Johnny want to die. Something warm trickles over his fingers, and he realizes in a sick rush that he's broken the skin.

"I'll say this one more time," he grits out, drawing on every cold-blooded action hero he's ever seen to keep his composure. "Open the door. And get. Out."

For an awful moment, he thinks Ghost isn't going to listen, and he's not sure if he's actually prepared to use real violence against the bigger man. It's a relief when he slowly pops open the door and, with an unwavering gaze, slides even more slowly out of the passenger seat.

Johnny thinks he's in the clear, but then Ghost's hand lashes out. He grabs Johnny by the wrist (his fingers almost touch, they almost fucking touch) and he licks his goddamn blood off of Johnny's fingers.

Johnny recoils so hard he hits the driver side door, and floors it. His arm bends painfully before Ghost stumbles and relinquishes his grip and he's able to pull it inside, dragging the door shut with it. Miraculously, he doesn't drop the knife, but he does almost cut himself with it several times as he wipes his hand off on the seat so fervently he gives himself rugburn. The other hand is gripping the wheel so tightly it hurts, barely keeping the car from careening off the road.

Ghost's silhouette fades, swallowed by distance and rain.

***

He almost cries with relief when he sees the sign for the rest stop. He's been driving for hours, checking the rearview mirror every five minutes just in case Ghost somehow materializes in the backseat, and figures he's put enough distance between them that the hitcher won't catch up to him on foot, even if he sprints. There's no one else in the lot, which is unsurprising but does make him feel conspicuous. He parks under a tree, the thick trunk providing an extra barrier between him and the road.

He swears he can still feel Ghost's spit on his skin, even though he's rubbed his hand almost raw.

The thought of falling asleep and leaving himself vulnerable makes him sick with fear, but the adrenaline crash is hitting him hard. He triple-checks the locks on all the doors and reclines the driver's seat as far back as it will go.

Eventually, he dozes off, clutching the glorious, idiotic cowboy knife to his chest.

***

The terror of the previous night is starting to feel like a fever dream in the bright morning sunlight. Johnny wakes with a crick in his neck, a bruise on his collarbone, and a sore elbow, but the parking lot is still empty and so is the road, which he can see for miles in either direction under a clear blue sky.

The bathrooms are locked, so he takes a piss in the bushes before inspecting the big map posted on the wall behind a sheet of scratched plexiglass. There's a truck stop about 45 miles away with a gas station and a diner. Johnny's stomach growls at the thought of a big, greasy American breakfast, and the knot in his chest loosens further at the thought of seeing some regular, sane people.

Stretching his back with a loud groan, he saunters back to the car. Honestly, he's starting to second guess himself a little. Nobody would straight up admit to murder to a stranger, right? That would astronomically stupid. Ghost (clearly a fake name) was probably one of those weird cunts who read autopsy reports for fun and got off on making people scared. Johnny doesn't regret kicking him out of the car though, even if the knife was overkill. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes, or whatever; don't act like a demented freak around the bloke giving you a ride if you don't want to be dumped on the side of the road.

The passenger seat is barely damp when he touches it. By the time he reaches the truck stop, it'll be like last night never even happened. He spots the cigarette lighter still rolling about in the cup holder and tosses it back into the center console. Out of sight, out of mind.

His fingers brush something sticky.

Johnny's heart leaps into his throat and his stomach plummets down somewhere below his arse. Shaking, trepidatious, he plucks the object out from the console and immediately throws it as far as possible with a startled cry of disgust. It bounces a couple times before rolling to a stop some 15 meters away on the pavement.

His stomach clenches and his throat convulses as he dry heaves, trying to choke back another scream. He rubs his hand frantically through the condensation gathered on the hood of the car to get the tackiness off his fingers because if he wipes it on his leg then it'll be on his pants-

A crow flies down from the tree, eying Johnny suspiciously before pecking at the object. It gives a few exploratory nips to the pink, stringy bit before moving on to the fleshy white sphere. With a triumphant caw, it picks the whole thing up and tosses its head back.

Johnny doubles over and vomits as the bird gulps down the bloody human eye Ghost left in his car.

#my writing #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #cod #ghost x soap #ghoap #keeping these chapters short and sweet in an effort to update more than twice a year like i do with all my other fics

56 notes · View notes

nrdmssgs · 1 year ago

Note

Ok, I made a thing.

This is Zhar, the baby is Anya. Anya is the daughter of Nikolai and Freya 'Mini' Mactavish. Mini belongs to @sofasoap

This is not some kind of creepy 'twilight' thing, I swear. This is my girl finding her big platonic love in an AU where she doesn't end up with Nikolai.

And a little story to this picture.

“That flight attendant checked you out. Once again!” Freyas brain begged her to shut up. However, MacTavishes blood kept boiling, encouraging her to go on and try to distract the notorious Chimeras Lieutenant.

In fact Mini was scared. She was afraid of Olga back in the days of her service with Price and that fear only grew when Olga left 141 and Lt Zhar was born. Poorly hiding his pride, Nikolai told her, how that woman didn’t shed a single tear the morning, she woke up with a half-burnt body. Hiring her was obviously the move that boosted his already huge ego. But Mini didn’t trust people, who seemed to have no soft corners.

And Zhar was all teeth and claws.

Mini didn’t like her husband’s initial idea to send Olga bodyguarding her. It felt easier for her to walk down the street alongside Krueger – he at least would express any emotion besides cold concentration. But Mini couldn’t argue, when Nik pointed out, that Olga draws not that much attention than a huge loud guy, threatening everyone around just with his posture. Besides, Zhar had this natural feeling of a crowd: she read surrounding movements and moods as if she read other peoples minds. And this was critical for where Mini went.

The good news were, that everything went so smoothly – Freya could as well spend all this time alone. No threats, no nothing. The bad news was the MacTavish blood, that begged Mini to stir her bodyguard up. She craved a human interaction that went at least a bit beyond “wait here”, “please let me do the talking”, “if you need me – I am right behind your door”. She wanted bubbly flustered girly gossips for god’s sake!

Sadly, she had to deal with Olga, who refused to play any social games.

“Hes no threat, Mini, don’t worry.”

“No! I mean, he checked you out! Like a hot thing you are.”

Zhars fingers froze for a moment hovering over her laptop keyboard. Freya smiled in anticipation, but her bodyguard just nodded to herself and went back to typing, as if she just needed a minute to find the most suitable wording for her email.

“Oh, c’mon, really? You wont even glance at him?”

“Blonde hair, blue eyes, persistent misuse of a cheap cologne, ‘Oliver’ badge and a widest smile on this plane.” Olga finally looked away from her screen. “Mini, love, if you are trying to test me – yes, I do memorize people surrounding you.”

“No-o-o-o.” Mini almost mewled. “This wasn’t any test, I just wanted to gossip, or to have a little laugh, or just to chat. You know, like the real people usually do?”

Zhar sighed and closed her laptop.

“Ok, show me her.”

“Again? Olya, we watched Anyas photos just before the flight. You don’t have to pretend to be interested in my daughter this hard. We can talk about any other thing!” Mini had to dig her fingers into her own forearm to force herself to continue speaking without blushing from fear and embarrassment.

Zhar insisted on watching Anyas photos yet again. As Freya was showing her the same pictures, they looked at just an hour ago, she noticed how her bodyguards face softened.

“You should think about having a baby too. It's fun, you know-“ Minis mind wasn’t following her own tongue fast enough. By the time, she cut herself out – it was too late.

“You’re MacTavish, and MacTavish knows no fear,” rang her mother’s voice in her head as she slowly turned to face Olga.

Mini tried to joke herself out of this uncomfortable situation, tell something about ‘obviously meeting the right man or woman, going on a pair of dates, and getting to the baby question only after that, but Zhar ended her suffering.

“Mini, there won’t be anyone for me.”

“Wha-?”

“There is nobody for me.” Olga repeated. “I break several laws all around the world on a daily basis, I have not been with anyone from the start of my service in the TF, my back looks like a well-done steak, my head costs a shit ton of money on an underworld market. At this point, there is nobody out there.”

“That’s…” Mini didn`t want to point the obvious out, so she bit her tongue and didn’t say ‘sad’.

“That is a choice. And I’m ok with that. I let go of all that stuff, you know?” Zhar smiled awkwardly. “Will they, won’t they… and then they finally are. And they tell each other ‘you are the love of my life, you’re the most important person on earth, your happiness is from now on my only mission, your smile is my reason to go on’. And the church bells ring and someone’s auntie is crying ugly on the last row… I just let it all go. And my life didn’t become miserable. If anything – it became easier to breathe.”

Freya suddenly felt guilty. She knew, that by the time their plane will touch the ground – Nik would already be in the airport. Waiting for the love of his life. And Zhar would report to him, salute to Mini. Then she will turn away and go to a big cold Chimeras base. For some reason Mini couldn’t picture Olga coming to her home. As much as she respected Zhars decision to fence herself off any close relationship – Freya felt bad for not being able to truly share the family love with her.

“Hey, can I have your phone for a minute? Always wanted to try this airdrop* feature, do you mind?” Mini lied – she used this feature a hundred times already. She just wanted to give Olga at least something. So, she sent her a photo of Anya in her bunny onesie. And the one with Anya on Nikolais helicopter seat. And the one with Anya trying a peach for the fist time. It wasn’t much, but these were the photos, Zhar kept asking to show her again and again.

After that flight they parted for quite a long time. Olga had a ton of work, and Mini had a work, a little angel, a husband, trying to spoil that little angel rotten, and a brother, risking his dumb ass constantly.

Every time Freya visited the Chimera base – she knocked on Olga’s door in the hope of an answer. And after a few months it finally happened.

“Come in. Unless it’s Krueger. Fuck off Krueger!” Zhar sounded as if she was in a good mood, although Mini still had to urgently cover little Anyas ears.

Freyas stepped in Zhars office and greeted her.

“Yeah, hi, love. Grab a seat, I need to finish this letter and then I`m all your-“ Olga fell silent, when she saw the baby in Minis arms.

“Ehm, hi… We thought, it would be nice to visit our favorite Chimera Lieutenant.” Freya stepped in the dimly lit office. Anya was staring around with a wide-open mouth.

Zhar didn’t move, she seemed to didn’t even breathe. She looked at Anya with wide eyes full of uncertainty or confusion.

“So, this is where your auntie Olya works.” Freya started telling her daughter, pointing on Olgas desk. “Auntie Olya is very busy, she helps daddy with so many things, so we will just look and be very quiet, like little mice, ok?”

“Can I-“ Zhar started talking, but Nikolais voice from the hall cut her out.

“Lastochka?* Can I have you for a minute?”

Mini was ready to turn to exit when Olga snapped out “Can I please hold her?”. She sounded unfamiliar, her voice was low, tearful, as if Zhar was fighting a lump coming up her throat.

“Of course! Anya loves new faces, here…” Freya handed the baby to Olga and turned around to follow Nikolais voice.

“Don’t worry, I will pick her up in a few min-“

“You are the love of my life…” Mini stopped in her tracks as these words reached her ears. Zhars voice was full of tears. Freya looked back in shock and saw Zhar, the notorious Chimeras Lieutenant with shiny wet cheeks.

She held Anya as if she was made of a glass and as if she was her only hope at the same time. The next words she spoke, were quiet, almost inaudible. But Mini already knew these words.

“You’re the most important person on earth, your happiness is from now on my only mission, your smile is my reason to go on.”

Airdrop – a technology, letting apple phone users to send each other multimedia files.

Lastochka – a swallow. Nikolais nickname for Mini.

youtube

#cod mw2 #cod oc #cod original character #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty original character #call of duty modern warfare 2 #freya mini mactavish

23 notes · View notes