#They hate seeing it be broken down. They want it to be broken down. It's a very confusing mix. They hate being confused.

[kanhotep]

I think the problem is that it's not an inherently right or wrong situation.

Stolas:

Yes, he made a lot of mistakes. But he was also in an abusive marriage and never had much agency over his own life. He is allowed to want something for himself. He is allowed to love Blitz. And he never chose Blitz over Via.

From Via's perspective it looks like that and I absolutely understand where she's coming from. But I think from Stola's perspective it was never either Blitz or Via.

He saw Blitz in danger and he knew that he could not live without him. He would have tried for Via. But in the end it would be exactly how Andrealphus prophesied: Blitz's death would have broken Stolas.

If it had been Via's life in danger, he wouldn't have come in there and sang a song trying to take the blame.

He would have gone in there in blazing fury, full demonic form and killed anyone who tried to come between him and his daughter.

Because if Blitz's death would have broken him, Via's death would destroy him.

So yes, Via is angry and it comes from an understable place. But Stolas isn't the villain in that story.

He is flawed and imperfect but he loves her and he never saw Via as an obligation but as a gift. But the seventeen year old doesn't understand that there is a difference between doing things because of someone and for someone.

Lucifer:

Much more complicated matter which is not at all helped by the fact that Charlie is a grown woman and therefore more responsible for her relationship with her father than a teenager is.

All in all, the biggest problem with their relationship is that we're missing a lot of facts.

We don't know when Lucifer and Lilith split up, we don't know what the custody arrangement between them was, we don't know if Lilith had grown resentful of her husband, heck we don't even know if Lilith was Lilith all the time or if Eve dropped in from time to time (necklace theory).

What we do know is this:

Lucifer called Charlie more or less regularly (when he wants something from her)

Charlie never invited Lucifer over [maybe more of a presumption than a fact, but heavily implied]

Lucifer desperately wants to be in Charlie's life

Charlie believes there is something inherently good in every sinner, Lucifer believed the opposite

And following that Charlie sees the Sinners as her people while Lucifer hates them for wasting his gift

The last two points seem to be the greatest point of conflict between them and again, there is no wrong in this.

Lucifer gave mankind free will because he thought he would free them and give them the chance to create, to hope, to live.

But all he ever saw was destruction, despair and death.

He saw the invention of more and more weapons that killed more people in more brutal ways. He saw the invention of biological warfare.

He probably met the hitlist of history's greatest monsters.

And he never saw the opposite. Never saw the architectural wonders we've constructed, never saw how we helped each other, didn't hear of the stories of goodness and hope and joy that is in the world.

After all, who would have told them to the devil?

Still he tried to make it better (or so he says) but nothing stuck. It all just kept getting worse and worse.

And now his little girl is trying what he had already failed to do. Tries to help those souls that he believed to be only capable of hatred and destruction. Asks him to go to heaven.

Heaven. The place that once was his home. The place where the people live he once called family. The people that ripped of his wings and threw away his halo before tossing him, the Morningstar, the lightbringer, into the endless dark. Banishing him and never looking back.

Lucifer saw his child, the most important thing in his life, probably the only good thing he has left, trying to step into his footsteps. Footsteps he knows lead right down a cliff.

Charlie accuses him of not believing in her and to an extent she is right of course. Lucifer does not believe she can achieve her goal.

But it's not because he doesn't believe in Charlie. It's because he doesn't believe in her goal.

Which is an important difference.

And honestly? I don't think he believes in that goal right up until the Finale.

The only thing the song reminds him of, is that Charlie is a strong and wonderful person and she needs to make her own experiences. She needs to at least try. Not only for the Sinners but also for herself.

And he didn't want her to try because he was to afraid for her to fail. For her to be hurt like he was. But Charlie's not him and maybe she's stronger than he ever was.

So he let's her.

Only when she goes and does the impossible, gets a bunch of Sinners to make a stand for a common goal - to work together, fight together, die together - only then does he see that he was wrong. That her goal is not impossible, that his little girl was right and now that he knows that there is good in Sinners left, he supports her wholeheartedly.

Which is why I am absolutely expecting their relationship to drastically improve.

Of course there is a lot more to their relationship than that, a lot more to unpack, but I'm not going to dive into it now because it's mostly guesswork.

Anyways, long story short: The reason why some people hate on Via and Charlie is the same reason why some people absolutely despise Stolas and Lucifer and consider them the worst dads ever: Because their relationships are incredibly complicated and not black and white.

And honestly, isn't that what Hazbin Hotel is all about?

Remind me again why this fandom is so pissy that these two are reasonably upset about their dads’ negligence?

[beloveds-embrace]

hiya! may i please be 🦈 anon :P

i just saw some of your notes on the neglected omega reader, and the reactions from the pack after they realise they're the threats to you in your heat (absolute devastation, they cant fix it though, the only way they could get close is if you were sedated). after that lonely heat the pack starts trying to fix it, showering you in love and adoration, yet you growl, dont let them in touching distance, and leave any physical gifts back at their doors, not even in their rooms. if any of the pack tries to feed you? you simply reply that you're not hungry, or you feel sick, anything to be away from them. their faces after they see you scavenge for food directly after they offered is almost comparable to after you growl in your heat, rejection, defeat, and guilt.

i think i may be wanting some hurt/no comfort to read

Hurt/no comfort you ask for? Hurt/no comfort you shall get beloved anon 🙂‍↕️

Original Post

The air in your room reeks of sterile emptiness. Stale sheets and hollow pillows, the scent of detergent clinging like cobwebs- cold and impersonal. Nothing here is soft. Nothing here is safe. It is a cage without bars, a nest without warmth, and it’s all you have now.

You are starving for touch, for scent, for safety. But the hunger turns sour in your gut because you know you are unwanted. Unloved.

They have left you.

The thought curls sharp inside your chest, a cruel thorn that sinks deeper every second the door stays shut.

They must hate me.

They must, because how else could they forget you like this? Forget your heats, your needs, your voice when it grew quiet, and then quieter still? And hadn’t you tried to make it easy for them? Hadn’t you swallowed down your hurt, your fear, your endless ache just to keep the peace?

But they’d let your scent curdle. Let you fade into the background like wallpaper, just another fixture they could overlook. Now, you’re ruined inside and out- something sickly, something sour. And no one wants to touch something so… rotten. You understand; you wouldn’t want something like yourself, either.

You wrap your arms around your legs, chin pressed to your knees, trembling as the walls lean in.

They smell it before they see it.

The scent of your heat hits like a knife between the ribs- sharp, wrong, and devastatingly fragile. But it’s the undercurrent that guts them: a bitter rot of loneliness and despair that should have never accompanied you.

Soap is the first to find you, his own scent- sweet and warm, the summer sun and melting icecream- coiling through the hall like a frantic pulse. But it’s met with a growl so feral, so wounded, that he recoils. He doesn’t even make it past the doorway.

“Sweetheart-”

Your snarl cuts him off, raw and rasping, lips pulled back to show teeth. A threat.

He stumbles back, as if burned. The devastation on his face cracks something deep inside of him, his hands trembling as he reaches out and stops just shy of touching the frame. Gaz and Price arrive next, Ghost trailing behind them, and all three of them freeze when they hear Soap’s ragged voice, see the look on his face.

“She- she won’t let me near her.”

Won’t let any of them near you. Gaz steps forward, soft and steady, his beta instincts humming with the need to fix, to soothe, and his scent is something gentle and steady like the lapping of ocean waves- but you press yourself deeper into your nest of broken sheets and reject him, too. Price tries next, voice low and commanding, but the alpha in him only agitates your frayed nerves, makes you hiss like a wounded thing. And Ghost- Ghost doesn’t even try. Can’t, frozen in place as he is. He sees it for what it is.

A rejection.

They’re the threat now. You view them- your own pack as a threat to you.

The silence that follows is shattering. Soap digs his nails into the skin of his palms so harshly he leaves violent crescent moons behind. Gaz’s shoulders shake as he turns away, ashamed. Price sits down hard against the wall, like his knees have finally given out. And Ghost stands in the doorway, fingers curling into fists, his mask the only thing keeping them from seeing the way his face crumbles.

Because they did this. And they know it.

They let you fall apart.

They try to fix it, of course. Oh, God, do they try.

Price leaves his favorite jacket outside your door, the one that smells of gunpowder and cedar and something distinctly alpha and John. Soap writes you notes, apologies scribbled on scraps of paper and slipped beneath the crack. Gaz leaves little gifts- tea, candles, things he remembers you liking before. And Ghost? He stands guard. He’s a shadow outside your door, silent and unmoving, as if his presence alone can make up for his failures.

But you reject it all.

The jacket disappears, but you never wear it. The notes go unread, folded up and left in the corner like discarded memories. The gifts get left outside their doors in return- untouched, unopened.

And it kills them.

They see the way you flinch if they come too close. The way your eyes dart to the exits, calculating how fast you can escape if they dare to step inside your orbit when they were once the very stars circling you. They hear your brittle voice when they try to coax you into eating, into talking, and then they see you scavenge the kitchen like a ghost when you think they’re not looking.

Soap and Gaz drink, let the liquid poison make them forget their pain for one night. Price tears his office apart. Ghost stares at the empty nest you once shared and wonders if you’ll ever come back. Wonders what he must do just for you to look at them as something less than a threat to you.

But you don’t.

Days pass. Then weeks. The pack tries to stay patient, tries to be gentle, but the distance grows wider, and with it, their guilt festers. Soap lingers outside your door the longest, pressing his forehead to the wood and whispering apologies through the grain. How could he let his packmate, his fellow Omega, feel like this?

“Please, bonnie… please let us fix it.”

Gaz leaves another meal at your door, but this time it’s warm and handmade- freshly cooked, something that smells like comfort and home. He waits. Hopes. But the plate is left untouched again.

Price is quieter. He doesn’t leave gifts or words, just stands outside your door sometimes and waits, like his presence alone might be enough.

Ghost, though. Ghost is the worst.

He’s careful never to touch you, never to linger where you might even see him, but you feel him everywhere. His scent hangs heavier in the air, marking paths he knows you take, and it gnaws at your resolve.

But you don’t break.

You can’t. Because if you let them back in, they’ll hurt you again, and you don’t care how much it destroys them. You are sure they do not love you anymore- they are merely trying to absolve their guilt, more than anything else.

They see the weight you carry, the exhaustion in your bones, the hollowness where your light used to be, and they don’t know how to fix it. Price stays awake at night, staring at the ceiling and wondering how he let this happen- how he let one of his omegas slip so far away that he doesn’t know how to reach you anymore. Soap aches. He aches in the marrow of his bones, his scent dull and muted without you there to soften it. He sketches you from memeory- moments and seconds where you’d been happy. He should have seen it sooner. Should have done something. Gaz tries to hold them together, but even he cracks eventually. The sight of you turning away from his gift, his offering, cuts so deep he doesn’t know if it’ll ever heal.

Ghost doesn’t break. But he’s the one who starts leaving things inside the nest you abandoned, the nest that once had an imprint of you. Little things. A mug. A scarf. A photo. Pieces of them, pieces of you.

Because Ghost knows it’s not just about earning your trust back. It’s about proving that no matter how far you run, no matter how long it takes-

They’ll still be here.

Waiting.

[theonottsbxtch]

GIVEN ENOUGH | LN4

an: nessa barrett's new album has been pure inspiration i swear to god, listen to given enough while reading this because LORD, i fully felt bad for this version of lando even though i wrote him

wc: 2.8k

LANDO EXHALED, HIS JAW TIGHTENING as he glanced at her from across the room. She was draped in a crimson dress that clung to her like a second skin, every inch of her perfect for the cameras that flashed relentlessly. The evening air was heavy with champagne and ego, the kind of event he loathed, but his manager had insisted. "Keep the image alive," they’d said. The golden couple, the picture of perfection. But the truth of it all lingered like poison in his throat.

She caught his gaze and smiled—small, distant, rehearsed. He knew the curve of her lips too well to be fooled. That wasn’t a smile for him. That was for the photographers. For the sponsors. For the endless charade they’d both been roped into.

Lando took a sip of his drink, amber liquid burning his throat. The taste was bitter, but not nearly as bitter as the memory of last night. Or the night before that. The endless cycle of her tears, his apologies, the shouting, the silences. She always cried so beautifully, like it was an art form, and he hated how it disarmed him every time. How it left him apologising for sins he didn’t remember committing.

Haven’t I given enough? The thought tore through him like a cold wind. He clenched the glass tighter, ignoring the laughter that rippled around the room. She always needed more—more attention, more promises, more of him. And he’d given it. Again and again, until he didn’t know what he had left.

And yet, she stood there, radiant and hollow. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to hold her or disappear entirely.

“You’re staring,” her voice came, soft yet sharp, as she stepped beside him. The closeness was suffocating, the scent of her perfume almost too much.

“Am I?” His tone was flat. Detached.

“Yes.” Her smile didn’t waver, even as her words dropped lower, meant only for him. “You should try looking at me like you actually care.”

He laughed, quiet and humourless. “Funny. I was just thinking the same about you.”

The corner of her mouth twitched, a warning, but she didn’t say anything else. She turned back to the crowd, her hand brushing his arm in a way that seemed deliberate, calculated. It was always like this—a performance. For everyone else, they were untouchable. Together. But behind closed doors, there was nothing left to save.

For a brief moment, Lando wondered if she knew how much she’d drained him, how much she’d taken. Probably not. She’d smile, shed a few tears, and take more. Because that was what she did best.

And he’d let her. Every single time.

Lando adjusted his tie, trying to loosen the invisible grip around his throat. The gala was a success, he supposed—if success was measured in hollow conversations and counterfeit smiles. The air hummed with whispers of power, of wealth, of people pretending to matter more than they did. She thrived in it. He endured it.

As she floated away to join another circle of admirers, he downed the rest of his drink. It was always like this: her holding court while he played the silent shadow. To the outside world, they were the perfect pair. To him, it felt like being dragged across broken glass.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, the vibration pulling him back to reality. He fished it out, hoping for an excuse to leave, but the screen only held a reminder of tomorrow’s schedule. Another meeting, another event, another night like this.

He sighed, setting the glass down with more force than intended. The sound drew a few glances, but he ignored them. Instead, his eyes found her again, across the room. She was laughing now, the soft, melodic sound he used to adore. Now it only made him tired.

“Rough night?” The voice came from behind him, low and sardonic. Lando turned to see a man, older, sharp-suited, with the kind of smirk that made you want to punch him.

“Just another one,” Lando replied, his tone clipped. He didn’t know this man, didn’t care to.

The man nodded, his gaze sliding to where she stood, radiant under the chandeliers. “She’s something, isn’t she? Always knows how to light up a room.”

Lando didn’t respond. He didn’t need to.

The man chuckled, a knowing sound that grated on Lando’s nerves. “But I suppose that’s the thing about women like her. They take everything you’ve got and leave you wondering if it was ever enough.”

Lando’s jaw tightened. The words cut too close, too deep. He turned back to the bar, signalling for another drink. The man didn’t push further, just gave a slight nod before disappearing into the crowd.

When the bartender slid the glass toward him, Lando stared at it for a moment, the amber liquid catching the light. How many of these nights had he survived? How many more could he endure?

“Lando.” Her voice was soft, cutting through the noise.

He turned to see her standing there, her smile as flawless as ever, though her eyes held that familiar edge. The one that always seemed to ask, Are you going to fight me, or are you going to give in?

“We should leave soon,” she said, brushing a hand over her necklace. “People will start to talk if we stay too long.”

He almost laughed at that. People always talked. It was the only constant in their world.

“Right,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion. He grabbed his jacket, the movement sharp, deliberate.

As they walked toward the exit, arm in arm for the sake of appearances, Lando felt the weight of her against him. To the onlookers, they were untouchable, unstoppable. But he knew better. She wasn’t leaning on him. She was pulling him down, piece by piece.

And no matter how much he gave, it was never enough.

The ride back to the hotel was suffocating in its silence. Lando stared out the window, watching the city blur into streaks of light and shadow. She sat beside him, her fingers scrolling idly on her phone, her face unreadable. They didn’t speak. They rarely did anymore unless it was for show.

When the car finally pulled up to the grand hotel, she stepped out first, the driver opening the door for her as though she were royalty. Lando followed, loosening his tie as they made their way through the lobby.

They looked like a power couple—walking in step, polished and composed. Heads turned as they passed, whispers trailing behind them like a faint echo. It was always the same. People admired what they thought they saw.

When they reached their floor, the elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. She stepped out first, her heels clicking against the marble. Lando followed a step behind, his feet heavier with each stride.

She stopped in front of her door, the number gleaming under the dim hallway lights. “Goodnight, Lando,” she said, her voice smooth, pleasant. Polished for the cameras that weren’t even there.

He nodded, already turning to head to his room further down the hall. But then her voice stopped him.

“Lando.”

He turned back, his hand still on the keycard in his pocket. She stood there, her hand on the doorframe, her head tilted slightly as she studied him.

“You’re in a mood tonight,” she said, her tone light, teasing, but there was something else in her eyes. Something sharp.

“Am I?” he replied flatly, his exhaustion bleeding through.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she took a step toward him, closing the distance between them. Her perfume reached him first, soft and heady, the kind he used to find intoxicating. Now it just felt cloying.

Her hands slid up his chest, her touch feather-light, deliberate. “You don’t have to sulk,” she murmured, her voice dropping lower, almost a purr. “You could come in. Stay with me tonight.”

He stiffened, his eyes searching hers. “I thought you said goodnight.”

She smiled, that perfect curve of her lips that had fooled so many. “I changed my mind.”

Before he could respond, she leaned in, her mouth brushing his. It wasn’t gentle. It never was with her. Her lips moved against his with a hunger that felt practiced, calculated. Her hands slid to the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

He didn’t move at first. He didn’t want to. But then her tongue traced his bottom lip, and he gave in—not because he wanted to, but because it was easier. Because blowing off steam with her was less complicated than the alternative. Because if he left her standing in that hallway and found someone else, people would notice. They’d talk. They always did.

His hands found her waist, gripping tighter than he intended. She moaned softly against his lips, her body pressing into his as if she could melt into him entirely. It was almost enough to make him forget the hollowness behind it all.

Almost.

He broke the kiss first, his breath uneven. She leaned back just enough to meet his gaze, her lips slightly swollen, her expression unreadable.

“Come on,” she whispered, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “No one has to know.”

The irony of her words wasn’t lost on him. No one has to know. As if they weren’t already a living spectacle. As if their lives weren’t dissected and discussed by strangers every day.

He nodded, wordlessly, and followed her into the room. Because it was easier. Because it was expected. Because it was all he had left to give.

The door shut softly behind them, the click of the lock cutting off the world outside. Her heels echoed against the hardwood floor as she stepped into the room, shedding her wrap and tossing it onto a nearby chair. The suite was immaculate—too pristine, too perfect, just like everything else in their lives.

Lando stood by the door for a moment, watching her. She didn’t glance back, already unfastening the clasp of her necklace and setting it on the dresser. The silence between them was thick, stretching taut like a thread ready to snap.

She turned, her eyes locking onto his. “Well?” she asked, her voice soft but challenging. “Are you just going to stand there?”

He shrugged off his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if he were stalling for time. He didn’t know why—he already knew how the night would go.

She closed the distance between them in two strides, her fingers hooking into his shirt and pulling him closer. Her lips found his again, more insistent this time, and he let her. His hands settled on her hips, his grip firm but distant. She pressed her body against his, the warmth of her skin bleeding through the thin fabric of her dress.

“You’re so tense,” she murmured against his lips, her hands sliding up to his shoulders. “You need to relax.”

He almost laughed at that. Relax. As if he could. As if this—they—weren’t part of the reason he felt like he was drowning. But he didn’t say it. He just let her guide him, her movements fluid and precise, like a dance she’d perfected over time.

Her hands moved to the buttons of his shirt, her fingers deftly working them open. She kissed along his jaw, down his neck, her breath warm against his skin. He closed his eyes, trying to will himself to feel something. Desire, anger, anything. But all he felt was the gnawing emptiness that had been with him for months.

She pulled back just enough to look at him, her eyes searching his. “You’re quiet tonight.”

“Just tired,” he said, the words coming out flat.

Her brow furrowed slightly, but she didn’t press. Instead, she reached for his hand, guiding him toward the bed. “Come here.”

He followed, his steps heavy, his mind already elsewhere. She sat on the edge of the bed, her hands trailing up his arms as she pulled him closer. Her lips found his again, her kiss slow, sensual, calculated.

For a moment, he let himself get lost in it. In the warmth of her skin, the softness of her lips, the way her body moved against his. It was easier than thinking, easier than feeling.

But even as he sank into the motions, a voice in the back of his mind whispered the truth: this wasn’t love. This wasn’t even connection. This was survival. For both of them.

Her hands slid lower, tugging at his belt, and he let her. Because if he stopped now—if he pulled away, if he walked out—he didn’t know where he’d go. Or what he’d do.

And so, he stayed. Not because he wanted to, but because it was what was expected. Because it was what he’d been trained to do. Give enough to keep the peace. Enough to make it through the night.

But even as he moved with her, his body going through the motions, his mind drifted. And he couldn’t help but wonder how much longer he could keep giving before there was nothing left of him at all.

A little while later the room was dark except for the faint glow of the bathroom light spilling into the corner. She’d slipped out of bed without a word, the soft click of the door barely registering in the haze of his thoughts. Lando lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. The sheets were tangled around his waist, their warmth suffocating despite the cold air in the suite.

He ran a hand through his hair, his chest rising and falling with measured breaths. His body felt heavy, his mind heavier. The act itself had been mechanical—motions he’d gone through so many times before, with her, with others. It should’ve been release, a momentary reprieve from the weight he carried. But instead, it only added to the weight.

In the bathroom, water ran softly from the tap, and he could hear the faint shuffle of her movements. She was thorough, always. Her routine was perfect, every step deliberate. He imagined her wiping off her makeup, smoothing out the lines that cracked her carefully crafted image. She’d come out in a silk robe, her hair pinned back, her expression serene, as if none of it ever touched her.

But him? He was cracked straight through, and no amount of polishing would make him whole again.

He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, exhaling sharply. His mind churned, fragments of thoughts colliding like shards of broken glass. He could end this. He could say the words, let it unravel, walk away. She’d be fine. She always landed on her feet. And him? He’d finally be free.

But what then?

Lando swallowed hard, his hand falling back to the mattress. The truth of it burned in his chest, heavy and bitter: he wouldn’t end it. He couldn’t.

Because this—this mess of a relationship, this performance they lived—was the most stability he’d ever had. It was the closest he’d come to something resembling a home. And even though it was killing him, it was better than the void that waited outside of it.

He clenched his jaw, staring at the ceiling as if it held answers. There were none, of course. Just the same gnawing emptiness that followed him everywhere.

The bathroom door opened, and she stepped out, exactly as he’d imagined: her robe cinched at the waist, her hair swept back, her face bare but flawless. She glanced at him briefly, her expression neutral, then moved to the other side of the bed.

“Goodnight,” she said softly, slipping under the covers.

“Goodnight,” he replied, though the word felt hollow.

He lay there for a moment longer, the silence pressing down on him. Then, with a sigh, he pushed back the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

“Leaving?” she asked, her voice calm, almost indifferent.

“Yeah,” he said, reaching for his shirt on the floor. “I’ve got an early morning.”

She didn’t respond, simply turning onto her side and closing her eyes. It was the same every time. No argument, no questions. Just this unspoken understanding that this was how it worked.

He dressed quickly, buttoning his shirt with practiced efficiency. His tie was a crumpled mess in his hand, but he didn’t bother fixing it. As he grabbed his jacket and shoes, he cast one last glance at her. She looked peaceful, like a portrait in a gallery—beautiful, untouchable, and completely detached.

He stepped out into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind him. The silence out here was colder, emptier, but he welcomed it.

As he walked toward his room, his shoes dangling from his hand, he felt the familiar weight settle on his shoulders again. The routine was almost comforting in its predictability. Wake up. Smile for the cameras. Go through the motions. Give enough to keep the world spinning.

Because if he didn’t, he wasn’t sure what would happen.

And that terrified him more than anything else.

the end.

taglist: @alexisquinnlee-bc @carlossainzapologist @oikarma @obxstiles @verstappenf1lecccc @hzstry8 @dying-inside-but-its-classy @anamiad00msday @linnygirl09 @mastermindbaby @iamred-iamyellow

[machveil]

What do you HC König to look like under the hood?

..this is for scientific reasons , nothing nefarious going on here 👀👀

okay, so I have some Fun Thoughts, might get angsty (?), but overall we’re grooving🎀✨

CW: mention of a gun misfiring + shrapnel, past injury

[big sigh] crooked roman nose, and he’s got a big nose. I know it in my heart. very pronounced, his nose bridge is defined, but I’m a whore for a good crooked nose and I just. I know he has one, look away from me. as much as König is anxious over his physical appearance, I don’t think he hates his nose in particular or anything - like, yeah, it’s busted and another thing someone could stare at or whisper about, but it’s the least of his personal concerns. could he have it fixed? absolutely, he has the cash for it, but I think his mindset is ‘this could get broken again, why bother’

I don’t know, I just see him and I picture this man has a honkin’ nose

sad, wet König has sad, wet eyes. we know those baby blues anywhere, them icy eyes, but I think they’re always a little wet. he’s just one of those people who’s eyes always look a little glossy even when he’s not feeling any particularly strong emotion. he could be brushing his teeth and his eyes look wet

also, with his eyes in mind, he’s got long eyelashes. just a brief mention because, not that he cries regularly - far from it, but when he does? miserable little meow meow, he’s got big, fat tears clumping to his eyelashes as he sniffles (very snotty, sorry) and sobs (choked and broken, again, very sorry)

oh baby, man has thick, slightly upturned eyebrows. for as fearsome and intimidating as the Colonel is, he has resting miserable face. his eyebrows are thick, a couple stragglers that are longer than the rest (old man eyebrow moment). they naturally look like he’s knitting his eyebrows, even when his face is resting. he actually looks so pitiful and miserable when he actually furrows his brows, just a dramatic upturn

he’s ginger. in my head, he’s ginger. as much as I love hearing König with different hair colors, he’s got long, luscious copper hair to me. now, I’m not saying my personal opinion is objectively correct, but I have three photos that I want you to look at because please. please imagine sad, wet König with copper hair for me (picture one, picture two, and picture three). I’m a ginger König truther, I just have to put it out here

also, you heard me right. long hair. gorgeous, long locks of hair. let me paint you a picture, and by paint you a picture I mean here’s another Pinterest link. please! big, muscular man, the back of a Greek statue, and he has his pretty copper hair braided? ough, fucking manifesting him. and he has a lot of hair, it’s thick. he can’t be bothered to always brush it - can you imagine this behemoth of a man with the worst bed head ever? knots and matted down clumps of hair, stray strands poking out every which way - and when the sun hits his hair it looks a little more on the blonde side. I just think he’d be so pretty with copper hair guys, have I won someone over? do you believe me and my ginger König propaganda?

freckles!! as much as I love König having freckles, I don’t think he’d enjoy having them. and they’re not just under his hood, mind you, man is covered in them from head to toe. while his face is definitely coated in them, I think his shoulders and upper back got hit the hardest with them, also his arms, but more so his biceps. again, absolutely covered in them, but those areas are slammed with them

back to his face, he’s plastered. chin to forehead, ears dotted with some too. as an adult no one really comments on them because he wears the hood, very few actually know what he looks like, but as a kid? maybe it’s because he’s so heavily freckled, but that was a sore point that kids poked fun at him for. he’s carried that with him into adulthood, sometimes he’ll wear a balaclava around the house when he feels particularly bad about it - but even then, he still sees the freckles around his eyes

okay, so, firm believer he has facial scars, right? but I don’t think they’re from deployments or anything in the field, I think they’re from when he was a rookie. I saw one (1) post about it and it’ll live in my head forever (I wish I saved it, it was a recommended post on my feed that vanished). König has facial scars from shrapnel. this is really early König I’m talking about, predeceasing the balaclava and sniper hood. either his own gun or someone’s training next to him (I lean towards another rookie, I eat up the angst of it being something that was out of his control, don’t mind me), but there was a misfire and shrapnel got his face

I think prior to the misfire he still had a couple nicks and smaller scars from his childhood on his face. maybe a kid pushed him a little too hard and a piece of gravel got him or something. but this? granted, it was a total accident, but it shatters his heart. everything heals up fine, luckily it missed his eye, but half his face is scarred over in various spots - short and long streaks, rough skin covering where freckles had been

present day, as much as he hides his face for the sake of his identity, I think the main contributor are his scars. since that accident he’s gotten a few more minor scars to his face, mostly faded and barely visible, but the shrapnel scars are what he’s really hiding

I think his lips are on the thinner side, quite chapped too. in the same vein, I’ll also mention his teeth - König has nice white teeth, they’re just a little crooked. obviously, he’s very smoochable, got some kissable lips. he likes to joke about how, because his teeth aren’t perfect, he’d be easy to recognize by his dental records. he finds this very amusing

I think those are all my current thoughts on what he looks like! uuh, optional opinion I go back and forth on is him having stubble. I like to think he keeps clean shaven a majority of the time, but sometimes he’ll let his stubble grow out. sorry König beard truthers, I cannot get on board that train

[little-mrs-morales]

Trash TV

Dieter Bravo x Personal Assistant Reader

The hotel room buzzed with an awkward quiet, broken only by the faint sounds of the city beyond the thick glass windows. Dieter Bravo sat slouched on the edge of the bed, his hoodie bunched around his hunched shoulders, the fabric stretched tight between his restless fingers. His usual dramatic bravado was gone, replaced by a kind of nervous vulnerability you hadn’t seen before. Maybe it was because he’d never stayed sober this long. Or maybe it was because he’d never been in a relationship that wasn’t driven by his money.

You sat across from him, legs tucked beneath you on the armchair, a hotel robe loosely draped over your frame. This was your first Christmas as not just his personal assistant but also *kind of* his girlfriend. You hadn’t put a label on your relationship, but he’d stayed sober for you and become surprisingly faithful. You never thought you’d see Dieter Bravo clueless about someone flirting with him—yet when the receptionist tried, he brushed her off, saying he couldn’t wait to see the gifts his lady got him. That’s what you were to him: his keeper, his lady, the one who sorted out his messes but also the one he knew he couldn’t survive without. He wanted you in every aspect of his life, even if it meant staying sober.  

It had been an easy night until now—room service, bad movies, and his running commentary punctuating every ridiculous scene with remarks about how he’d do better. But something had shifted—a shadow crossing his face during a rare quiet moment. And now you were here, trying to figure out what he’d never say aloud unless it forced its way out.

“I’m not lovable,” Dieter said suddenly, his voice heavy with self-hate. The words fell like stones into the quiet, echoing through you.

You blinked, caught off guard by the rawness in his voice. “What?”

He didn’t look at you. Instead, he focused on the frayed edge of his hoodie, tugging at a loose thread. “I’m fun for a little while,” he said, the corner of his mouth twisting into a bitter smile. “But there’s too much under the surface. It’s more than anyone should have to deal with.” He let out a laugh that sounded painful. “I’m like trash TV—and that’s ironic because I’m a good actor—you watch it for a while, and it makes you feel better about how normal you are, but it gets annoying if it’s all you watch.”

You stared at him, his words hanging in the air like a unspoken truth. He wasn’t joking, not this time. The usual quips and distractions he threw up to keep everyone at arm’s length were gone, leaving only the jagged edges of his insecurities. He sat there, bracing himself for rejection, like he expected you to agree.

“You really believe that?” you asked, your voice softer than you meant it to be.

“I know it,” he shot back quickly, defensively. His hands stilled, and he finally looked up at you. His dark eyes were wide, vulnerable in a way that made your chest ache.

“I’ve been through this enough to know how it ends.”

“How does it end?” you pressed, leaning forward.

“With me fucking it up,” he said, his voice breaking just enough to betray him. “With you realizing I’m...” He exhaled sharply, dragging his hands through his unruly hair. “I don’t know. Too much? Too broken? Take your pick. It always happens eventually. And I’m gonna end up shattered, restless, and totally done with myself.”

The weight of his confession was suffocating, but not for the reasons he feared. It wasn’t disappointment or regret that sat heavy in your chest—it was the sheer force of wanting to prove him wrong. You stood, padding over to the bed and sitting down next to him. He tensed at first, but he didn’t pull away.

“Dieter,” you said, your voice steady. He turned his head slightly, just enough to look at you from the corner of his eye. “You’re not trash TV. You’re far from it.”

He scoffed, but you cut him off before he could deflect. “I’m serious. You’re messy, complicated, and frustrating as hell sometimes. But you’re also funny, smart, and... God, so kind when you let yourself be. You care more than you think you're allowed to, and it scares you.”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt. You took it as permission to keep going.

“You’re not some temporary distraction or someone to put up with. You’re just... you. And yeah, maybe you’re a lot, but I’d rather have all of you than none. You don’t have to be perfect to be worth loving.”

His breath hitched, and you swore you saw the faintest sheen of tears in his eyes. He dropped his gaze, his hands wringing together in his lap. “You don’t get it,” he muttered. “You don’t know everything yet. You know more than most, but there are still things…” He knocked on his head. “…things that would scare you away.”  

“Then let me see,” you said. “Stop deciding for me what I can handle. Give me the chance to decide for myself. And I’ll show you I can handle all of you.”  

He looked at you then, really looked at you, like he was searching for the catch, the lie, the flaw in your words. When he didn’t find it, his shoulders sagged, some of the tension bleeding out of him.

“You make it sound easy,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“It’s not,” you admitted. “But nothing worth it ever is.”

Dieter let out a shaky laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’re either insane or... I don’t know. Insane seems more likely.”  

“Probably,” you teased gently. “But that’s why we fit. We’re both insane. A good match, I’d call it.” You nudged his shoulder with yours. “You’re insane for putting up with me. For bringing me my pretty pickles when I’m on my period, or buying my crazy stationery when I’m in a creative mood.” 

He huffed a small laugh, the ghost of a smile pulling at his lips. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.  

You stayed close, giving him space to process in his own time. He didn’t say anything more, but the way he leaned into you spoke volumes. There was still a long way to go, but at least he wasn’t alone in it anymore.

He was quiet for a while, his breathing calming, his hand finally still in his lap. Then he shifted slightly, turning toward you. When his eyes met yours again, there was something different—a hint of determination under the vulnerability.

“You really think I’m worth it?” he asked, his voice low, almost fragile.

“I don’t think it,” you said softly. “I know it.”

His gaze flicked to your lips for a brief second before returning to your eyes, as if asking for permission. You didn’t hesitate, leaning forward to close the space between you. The kiss started gently, his lips soft and unsure against yours, but soon deepened, filled with a raw desperation and quiet gratitude. His hands cupped your face, trembling but steady, as if afraid to let go. You had shared countless kisses before, but this one felt different—more real, more alive.

When you finally broke apart, your foreheads rested together, breaths mingling in the space between you. Dieter’s eyes were glossy, his expression unreadable for a beat before he whispered, “I think I love you.”

The confession hung in the air, raw and unpolished, but it was everything.

You smiled, your hands resting on his wrists. “Good,” you murmured. “Because I love you too.”

A shaky laugh escaped him, and he pulled you into a tight embrace, his face buried in the crook of your neck. For the first time, it felt like he wasn’t holding anything back. And for the first time, you knew he believed he didn’t have to.

Writing Prompt #2916

"I'm not lovable. Not in the long term. I know that."

"What?"

"I'm fun for a little bit, but there's too much when you dig down. It's more than anyone else should have to handle. I'm like trash TV—you put it on for a little bit and it makes you feel better about how normal you seem but grating if it's all you watch."

[astracora]

The Morning After

Characters: Sylus x gn!mc

Warnings: Some hurt/comfort, semi-canon compliant heart condition, spoilers for current story release (Sylus Limited Myth mentioned).

Word Count: 1259

Written: 27th December 2024

Notes: Pre-relationship Sylus/MC, with my personal pov of the game and lil headcanons littered in. Unnamed MC, but using my personal MC's basic appearance and adjusted backstory (Cat Curse MC). I take some liberties with what the game offers me.

Masterlist AO3

You’re pleasantly sore. A dull ache, soothed by oils and warm hands the night before. You’re not sure what you expected from sleeping with Sylus… it shouldn’t surprise you that he was gentle with you afterwards. Easing your aches, cleaning you up, feeding you. He had never made you feel like anything less than a treasure after that first meeting.

The need to sleep though, is strong. As good care as he took, Sylus Qin is a greedy man. As gentle as he is starving, treating you like an oasis in a desert. It’s both a terrifying feeling and an incredibly thrilling one.

His sheets are warm, but as you reach you hand out, he is not there to greet you.

Blood runs cold, broken heart stutters.

He’s gone.

Of course he’s gone.

Why wouldn’t he be gone.

He’s a fickle cat, as easily bored as he is amused. Short bursts of sharp emotions, that fade as quickly as they come.

Your sleepy pleasure drifts away from you, lost in a haze of self contempt. It is the downfall of extreme emotions, to be riding on a cloud in joy, and then crashing down to earth in sorrow. Hard enough to balance, without the added haze of pleasure addled brain. Still tingling from every touch, every kiss, every bite, every moan.

Hand pressed against your face, you roll onto your stomach, trying to force the feeling of inadequacy away.

You feel yourself on the verge of tears, irritated and hurting, but angry with yourself for feeling. For letting yourself feel like this.

Stupid.

Stupid.

Stup-

Fingers in your hair, tracing over the back of your neck, you jolt. Startled, fraying. Red rimmed eyes, and a sniffling nose to see Sylus sitting on the side of the bed. Coffee in hand, though he hates it. His eyes widen, blinking at your expression, before he places the coffee on the side table. Leaning down to look closer at you, hand on your face, holding you. “Kitten? What happened?”

You don’t know what to say.

I thought you had left me.

I thought you were disappointed.

I thought you realised I was too much work.

“You weren’t here.” You choke out, your hand pressing against his, holding it there. You want it permanently etched into your body. His hand prints on every part of you. His mark in your soul. You want him to be part of you more than you’ve ever wanted anything.

You hate yourself for wanting so much.

You watch as his red eyes burn, before he leans down, pressing his lips to your forehead, inhaling against your hair. He thumb continues to stroke your cheek and he speaks against your skin, “I have no plans to go anywhere without you, beloved.”

Your weak heart jumps, dances, skitters. It is hard not to. He is nothing if not good with words.

For a moment you stare at him, as he stares back. His eyes mapping out your features, sparkling gems glittering in his eyes. You wonder if you look closer could you really see his soul there. Eventually his staring is too much, and you pull the sheet up, though he stops you, head titled.

You almost laugh. He does resemble a dog sometimes… or perhaps more of a wolf. Something as wild as it is capable of domestic life.

“You’re staring.”

“Am I not allowed to stare?”

You tremble inside, and glance away, “I’m not used to it.”

“Am I the only one whose stared at you, kitten? I find that hard to believe.”

He does look doubtful, but you don’t really know how to answer him. It’s not the stare, it’s the things you can see in his eyes. The warm heat, the twinkling joy, the way he looks like every man in love, in every movie you’ve ever watched. Cynical though you are, thinking such a thing doesn’t exist.

Yet he stands before you, with that look. So much more alive than anything you could ever imagine.

You feel like crying again, but its not a bad feeling. This one feels freeing, warm. Like kisses on your cheek, and mumbled promises of adoration into skin.

“I think I’d be too much work for most.”

He laughs, “You are. Very difficult.” Now he lies down, on his side, staring at you, smirk showing his canines. Looking for all the world like a creature that can drag you to hell. Beautiful red eyes, snowy hair, a sculpted face you think any artist would weep at. He looks like he belongs in a world removed from yours.

Sylus takes your hand, rubbing his thumb over it, and places it against his lips, bites on the inside of your wrist, then kisses it. Eyes closing for a moment, freeing you from their grasp, as he exhales. Like you are air he needs to breathe.

“I enjoy the work though, kitten. I always will.” His eyes open, and grab you again, imprisoning you. Keeping you here, with him, “And you know I will never back down when I’ve decided something.”

Unfaltering. Unkillable. Unstoppable. You think of the words the twins use for their boss. If there is a single vision of Sylus it is a man who will stop at nothing to achieve what he wants. With violence, with money, with skill…

With heat and passion and pleasure.

You enter his arms willingly, if loving this man is a sin, you think you joined him as a fiend a long time ago. Before you even noticed it was happening. Sleep greets you once again, comforted at his presence, and relieved by him.

Perhaps that broken heart can beat a little longer for him.

———

He watches you fade into your dreams, and while he wants to join you, for a moment he just wants to be here. Real, and warm, and flesh and blood. You are in his arms, you let him touch you. He is surprised how much he still yearns for, like he has not scratched the surface of many years of need.

Of waiting, and hoping, and searching.

Of running up against the prison of fate, demanding he bow to its whims.

He cannot force the world to bring you to him, so he has to find you.

You think he can stop loving you, or find you too much. You fear he will wake up and regret it.

Sylus wishes you could see into his heart, and his soul. He wishes you could feel it thrumming inside of you, everyday, because you are the life of him. You are what gives him cause, him reason. You are a part of him, in all the ways that matter.

He hears you in his chest, he feels you in his bones.

He has chased you through worlds, and he will never stop.

There is a siren’s song in your very blood, and he will always listen to it.

You are all that he wants, and there is no time where that is no longer true.

Be he dragon, or man, he feels greed so fierce and powerful he knows it will never dim. No matter how long he gets with you.

As long as you extend your hand, as long as you smile, as long as you find pleasure with him, touch him, need him, want him… he will always be there, and always need and want and hunger for you.

There truly is no amount of work you can offer him, that does not thrill his soul to do.

[revelboo]

im 110% gonna take pictures of lego beebs once i build him nstuff BUT. BUTT. i found out the tfa constructicons just full on have plumbers cracks; the allspark almanac is full of all sorts of weird little gems gdshgjkmdsg- wanted to share since their idw counterparts got their moment to shine

Oh, no. Yikes, they’re- just, no 😂 thanks, I hate it

Drive Pt 2

Constructicons x Reader

• “What do you think the boss meant? About fragging humans?” Long Haul asks, looking from Hook to Scrapper. Because one of them must know. “Cause it sounded like somebody is.” Which makes no sense whatsoever. Sure, it’s fun enough to chase and terrorize them, but they’re not really sturdy enough for that. And far too small. Leaning over the berth where Hook had laid their human, he nudges you with a servo, fascinated despite himself with how soft you are.

• Aware of the speculative way Mixmaster, Long Haul, and Scavenger are studying you, Hook vents. “No one’s fragging humans.” Probably. But who knew? With the things he’s seen in Medbay, it honestly wouldn’t surprise him one bit. It’s not like it was that long ago that Wildrider was dragged into into Medbay by two of the other Stunticons with his spike wedged in a section of oversized concrete pipe and a lot of attitude about it. Most of it angry and sullen. And they look down on them. At least they don’t try scrap like that.

• Everything hurts as you shift, aware that you’re lying on something hard. Whimpering when something hard bumps you and rolls you onto your back. Eyes squinting open, your heart stutters in your chest as three vibrantly green monsters loom over you. “It’s awake,” one of them says, a giant servo still outstretched. Screaming, you roll and go sprawling when you try to lunge to your hands and knees. “And loud,” the same one growls with a laugh as your eyes water at the throbbing in your ankle. Broken? Sprained? Trying to crawl away only to have one grab you by that leg and drag you back as you scream.

• “Leave it,” Scrapper growls, venting as Long Haul keeps rolling you onto your back as you panic before pinning you flat under his hand. And you’re screaming again. “What did I just say? Leave it alone.” Glowering until Long Haul huffs and lets you go and then Scrapper has to pin you on your belly when you try to scramble away, noticing you’re pretty much dragging one leg. And he almost feels bad. Almost. “Pet’s broken, Hook.”

• Pet? “I’m not a pet,” you whisper, eyes watering as you’re gently pinned flat, the pressure enough to make it hard to breathe but not crush you. And then a new one is running his big servos over you, ignoring when you fight his examination. Hearing him venting as he touches your ankle and you cry out. “Stop!” He ignores that too, carefully manipulating your foot as you sob.

• “Don’t be so dramatic.” You’re leaking as Hook checks your ankle, but really? He has no idea what to look for. If it’s broken or not. Knows next to nothing about humans. “Be still,” he snarls as you struggle, leaning over you and smacking his other fist against the berth and you finally stop, eyes wide and heart beating frantically against his servos. “Maybe broken from the fall,” he tells Scrapper with a shrug. “I don’t fix humans.” A warm, little hand lands on his servo, trying to push him away in vain. Those terrified eyes overflowing and pained.

• “Can I play with it?” Scavenger asks, leaning his arms on the berth you’d been placed on. Aware of his brothers crowding around to see. As soon as Hook removes his servo, you curl up on your side, arms over your head and legs pulled tight to your body and his amusement fades. Because you’re even smaller up close, with tiny breakable bones and soft flesh. That’s discolored in places from their handling and the fall. And the sound you’re making? That hitching, broken sound of fear as you shake violently? He hates the way it makes his spark twist and ache and looking up at his brothers, he sees their uncertainty on how to deal with this. That it’s not fun anymore. Hesitant, he reaches out to run his servo against your spine. Sees Mixmaster touch your hair and Long Haul stroke an arm as you cringe into a tighter ball. Bonecrusher brushes against him, reaching to touch your hip while Scrapper and Hook watch and exchange a look.

Previous

[dollyfiles]

obsessive & perverted exbf!rafe sneaking into your house to remind you he’s the only one allowed to touch you

cw : dark!rafe x fem!reader, noncon, forced penetration, unprotected sex, rough, creampie

Rafe was crouching down by the flower pot, just like he used to when you two were together, feeling for the little metal key you always hid there before finally finding it. Every step up the stairs brought him closer to you, and the voice in his head grew louder. It wasn't just obsession; it was need. A sick, twisted need to own you, to claim you again, to prove to himself that you hadn't slipped through his fingers completely.

When he reached your bedroom and saw you lying there, so peaceful, so oblivious, a wave of shame washed over him. He knew this was wrong. He knew he shouldn't be here, shouldn't even be thinking about touching you. But the voices were taking over him.

Rafe stepped closer, his hand trembling as he reached out to touch your cheek, just like this random guy did earlier today which is why Rafe was even here in the first place. You were doing this on purpose. You had to be. Why else would you be so friendly, so flirty, right in front of him? Did you really think you could move on? Did you think he would let you?

As he climbed onto the bed, his weight barely shifting the mattress, his thoughts turned darker. He hated you for making him feel like this, hated you for pushing him to the edge. But more than anything, he hated the idea of you forgetting him. Of you giving that smile, that laugh, that body to someone else. "You're mine," he whispered, his voice rough as his hand slid down your side. "You don't get to pretend like you're not."

His hand wandered down your body, rough and possessive as he claimed what he believed was still his. Gripping your pink lace panties he pulled them down to your ankles, revealing your perfect little cunt to him. The sight almost making him cum in his pants. It had been way to long since he got to touch you like this.

You woke up with a gasp as you felt cold digits slipping through your folds, eyes wide with confusion and fear. At first, you thought you were still dreaming—it had to be a dream. Rafe wasn't here. He wasn't allowed to be here.

But his obsession had consumed him completely. He pinned your wrists above your head, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, "Don't look at me like that, angel. You knew this would happen. You knew I wouldn't let you go.”

Your breath hitched as his grip on you suddenly roughened, flipping you on your tummy and pressing your face into the pillows, while every gasp, every tear, every tremble of your resistance only fueled him further. This was how he claimed you, how he reminded you who you belonged to.

You’d broken things off weeks ago, desperate to escape the toxic spiral of your love. Rafe wasn't just possessive—he was dangerous. He consumed you, broke you, shaped you into something you barely recognized.

"Rafe, please," you whispered, voice shaking as you heard the buckle of his belt. "Don't do this." But he didn't listen. He never listened. "Shh," he said, his voice soft but firm, like he was scolding a child. "This is where you belong. You know it is."

Your stomach twisted at his words, holding onto the sheets of your bed as you felt the tip of his cock push past your entrance. You wanted to fight back, to scream, to push him away—but deep down, you knew it was useless. He was stronger than you, both physically and mentally. He always had been.

As his hands gripped your hips, forcing you to submit, tears welled in your eyes, but Rafe didn't see them. Or maybe he did, and he just didn't care. To him, this was love. Twisted and consuming, but love nonetheless. He made you his doll, his perfect little angel, molding you into whatever he needed you to be. And even now, after everything, you let him. It was pathetic.

He let out a deep growl once he was fully inside you, your cunt gripping him tightly even though you wanted to vomit, your body tensing up. “Shit angel, this fucking pussy missed my cock, huh?”

You cried, shaking your head uncontrollably as if it was just a bad dream, “stop, plea—“ you yelped as he pulled your back up against his chest, Rafe’s palm finding your mouth immediately and shutting you up, not wanting to wake up your parents, who were sleeping peacefully down the hallway.

He kept on pounding into you at a rough pace, hitting so deep that you knew your walls would be permanently outstretched, your abused cunt throbbing around him, despite the disgust you felt for your ex. "You think you can just forget about me?" he whispered, his voice low and breathy, one of his hands gripping your hips so hard that he knew there’d be bruises, wanting to leave his marks on you. "Flirt with some guy like I don't exist?"

His face was so close to yours, loving the sight of your tired and tear stained face, looking so small and helpless beneath him while little whimpers and cries left your lips. It was sick. He was sick.

There was nothing you could really do except take it. He was trapping your body with his hands, tightly holding you in place. he kept pushing and pushing until he the tip of his cock hit your cervix, your cunt squeezing him tightly as your fear slowly turned into something like pleasure.

You tried to you remind yourself that this wasn't love. It wasn't passion. It was control, manipulation, obsession. But a small, dark part of you—the part you tried to bury, to forget, whispered that maybe this was exactly what you deserved. You knew Rafe was anything else than okay, and yet you let yourself fall for him, and look where that got you.

“Fuck you like that shit, don’t you? Your eager pussy is holding onto me so hard, baby. Such a cockslut.”

It seemed like there was no end in sight. Except you felt something build up in your abdomen, your walls clenching around his cock as you shakily released all over him, creaming his cock. Rafe couldn’t hide his smirk, the way your body was reacting to his touch had him weak, hips bucking into you more irregularly as he was chasing release himself.

"Fuck", Rafe muttered against your shoulder, his voice a low, guttural growl. "You're perfect. Gonna fill you to the brim.” Panic shot through you, squirming in his grip but he held you in place. His thrusts became slightly faster, each one more forceful, driving himself closer to the edge. Your body tensed, your moans muffled against the palm of his hand as you felt his cock twitch, Rafe moaning out as hot ropes of his cum spilled inside your plush walls.

Your cunt was aching as he pulled out, some of his seeds dripping out and onto your velvet sheets. To Rafe it was a sight sent from heaven itself, seeing you all fucked out on your bed, knowing he was the one that got you like this.

All you could do was lay still, your body trembling as Rafe's weight completely shifted off of you. You didn't move, didn't speak as he buckled his pants, eyes focused on you while his heart was still racing. "That’s what happens when you forget," he said, his voice cold but satisfied. "You're mine, angel. Don't make me remind you again."

You let out a quiet sob, tears soaking the silk of your pyjamas as you curled into yourself. Even though Rafe hated to see you like this he felt a weird sense of satisfaction. You were his. You’d always be his. And if you’d ever try to forget, he’d be there to remind you again. Because the thruth was; you could never really escape him.

tags .ᐟ @rafesbangs @pintrestgrl @vampteeths @ickyrafe @bambiangels @kissyrafe

[anakinstwinklebunny]

SCOTT MONROE's weight pressed you harder into the mattress, hand covering your mouth as his hips kept moving against yours. The cheap bed frame creaked under his rough pace, sound echoing just too loud with your whimpers following

“Keep it down,” he droned, eyes burning into yours, catching every flicker of your desperate expression. “You want my mom to walk in here and see her sweet little boy fucking someone like you?”

Your muffled whimper vibrated against his palm again, fat tears pooling in your eyes as shame loomed your mind for feeling heat bloom deep in your belly. His other hand moved to grip your hip hard enough to leave a bruise, anchoring you as he slammed into you again and again, stretching your hole in a ways that made you want to scream

“Look at you,” he sneered, lips going down to brush against your ear. “Such a fucking mess. You couldn’t wait, could you? Had to come crawling into my bed like the needy little slut you are.”

His words stung, hurt, yet they sent a jolt of electricity straight to your core, as bad as it may sound. Your nails scraped along his back, desperate for something to hold onto while he was in the middle of wrecking you, cock hitting that devastating spot with every thrust.

“Don’t pretend you don’t love it,” Scott snapped, pulling his hand from your mouth to wrap it around your throat instead. Thumb pressed lightly against the side of your neck, where your pulse was, just enough to make you gasp and your fingers claw at his wrist. “You’d let me do this anywhere, yeah? Against the wall, in Sam's car--hell, maybe even in the fucking living room if I told you to.”

You really tried to respond, do anything, but your words came out as a broken, choked moan from the pressure of his hand and the strength of his movements.

“Pathetic,” he muttered with a grin crossing his lips. His free hand slide down your body to where you were soaked and slick for him; fingers circled your clit with such precision your body arched up to him, a cry escaping your lips before you could even stop it.

And who would have known, that through the smallest gape at Scott's doors, a pair of eyes were watching his twin brother treat you as if you were nothing but the dirtiest slut ever

Scott froze, hand letting out from your throat to, surprisingly, gently smack your thigh “What the fuck did I just say?” voice a harsh whisper. “You want her to hear? Want my mom to know I’ve got you spread out, dripping all over my cock like this?”

Your lips trembled, head shaking as tears slipped down your flushed cheeks. The humiliation, the pleasure--it was way too much, and obviously Scott could see it all screaming over your face. His teeth sank into his bottom lip, a quiet groan slipping free despite trying to hold himself.

“Fuck,” he hissed, head dropping down as his rhythm faltered. The mean, sharp tone in his voice cracked, and he whimpered, dick pulsing around your walls “I hate how fucking good you feel.”

You clung to him, nails digging into his skin as a gasp left his swollen lips “I--hate it--I hate how much I fucking need you.”

His voice broke, low whimper slipping from his lips once more as he buried himself deep one last time, trembling with the force of his upcoming release.

And for a moment, when it was all over, as his lips brushed against yours, soft and shaky, Scott wasn’t mean or cruel. He was just a boy who wanted you to stay.

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[rottenfyre]

random ahh question about Jaybird.

is Jason only angry at the reader,or is he still in love,somehow

Jason doesn’t forgive her. Not yet. Not ever, probably. But there's something twisted inside him, some part of him, that can’t quite let her go. He can’t forgive her, not for what she did. But, fuck, there’s still a piece of him that remembers the moments that made him feel like maybe she cared, maybe she wasn’t as broken as everyone else in his life. Maybe, just maybe, she could’ve been the one who understood him when he needed it most. But that was a lie. And it makes him sick to think about how blind he was to it all.

So yeah, he’s angry. Furious. And it’s not just at her. It’s at himself for ever believing in her. For ever letting himself think that she could be the one person who wouldn’t let him down. Bruce did it, Dick did it, the whole damn world did it—why would she be any different? But still, Jason can’t help but want to forgive her. Because deep down, there’s a part of him that still loves her. Not in the way he used to, not in some naive, romantic sense where he was sure she’d always be by his side. No, it’s different now. It’s darker, more twisted. It’s the kind of love that gnaws at you, that eats you alive, that you can’t escape. He knows she doesn’t deserve his forgiveness, but a part of him still craves it. He wants to forgive her. He wants to, but it feels like it would mean giving her something she doesn’t deserve. It would mean letting her off the hook. And that’s the last thing he can do.

But does that mean he doesn’t still love her? Does it mean he’s not holding onto the shadow of that love, even though he’s in pain from it? Fuck, no. He’s still holding onto her, even if it’s just to tear her apart like she tore him apart.

Jason wants her to feel what he felt. He wants her to suffer in the same way, to carry the weight of everything like he did. Because, deep down, if she feels that pain—if she feels the same agony he went through—then that means she still cares. Doesn’t it? If she suffers, then that proves she hasn’t completely forgotten about him, right? That she hasn’t moved on the way he thinks she has. He needs that proof. He needs her to hurt, not because it will make him feel better, but because it means there’s still something left. Something that’s still tethering her to him. If she’s sorry, if she regrets it, it means she still has a piece of him, just like he still has a piece of her.

But the fucked-up thing is, Jason isn’t sure if he wants her to feel bad for the right reasons. He’s not sure if it’s because he wants her to realize what she did or because he’s holding onto the hope that if she feels guilty enough, maybe she’ll come back. Maybe she’ll look at him the way she used to. Maybe, just maybe, she’ll regret walking away. It’s like he needs that validation from her. He needs her to acknowledge the bond they once had, the one he can’t seem to forget no matter how much he tries to move on. If she can just show him that she’s sorry, it would mean something. Anything. It would mean that there’s still some shred of her that remembers how it felt before everything turned to shit. And maybe that would make everything worth it. Maybe.

It’s twisted now, though. It’s not love, not entirely. It’s this toxic mix of anger, longing, and resentment. He hates her for what she did, but there’s still this part of him that clings to the version of her he thought was real. That “angel” he put on a pedestal? She doesn’t exist, but he can’t let her go completely.

And then there’s the trauma. What they went through together—it’s burned into him. No one else gets it, not Bruce, not anyone. She’s tied to him in a way that’s impossible to ignore, even if he wishes he could.

Jason’s so twisted up inside, he doesn’t know where the anger ends and the love begins. Or if it even matters. He doesn’t even know if it’s love at all anymore. It’s obsession, sure. It’s a need, a craving to see her feel what he feels. To see her broken the way he is. Because if she’s broken, too—if she’s hurt—then that’s the only way he can justify the way he feels. It’s the only way to make it feel like it wasn’t all in vain. If she feels bad enough, if she regrets enough, it means she’s still his. And even if he can’t have her back the way he wants, at least he can have that. At least he can have her on his terms. Because that’s all Jason really wants anymore. He doesn’t care about forgiveness. He doesn’t care about moving on. He just wants to know she hasn’t completely forgotten about him. That she hasn’t just erased him from her life like he was nothing.

He doesn’t care about how she feels—he just wants to know she does feel. He needs to know that she’s still haunted by the memory of him, by what they went through, by how he bled for her and she left him. Because if she’s sorry, if she feels bad, that means she hasn’t moved on. And if she hasn’t moved on, then she’s still his in some sick, twisted way. Even if she never admits it. Even if she never comes back.

So now he’s stuck. He doesn’t trust her, probably never will again, but he can’t stop thinking about her either. It’s not just about what she did; it’s about everything they were before. That connection, still messes with his head. And that’s what makes him dangerous—because Jason’s the kind of guy who doesn’t let go. Not really.

Jason doesn’t forgive her. But God, he wants to.

[minjiarchive]

only yours | jiu x fem!reader

i hope you missed me...

warnings: mommy kink, degradation, humiliation, slapping (just really rough sex lol)

your arms feel weak as you pushed against her chest, only managing a poor attempt to create distance. every muscle in your body ached, trembling from exhaustion, bruised and overstimulated. her hands, steady and firm, caught your wrists easily, pinning them back down against the rough surface of the mattress.

“where do you think you're going?” minji says, a mocking chuckle escaping her lips. “you're so cute, baby. as if you didn’t just beg me to ruin you with please, mommy...”

humiliation floods through you like a tidal wave. you shook your head weakly, tears pooling in your eyes as you try to turn your face away from her piercing gaze.

“i didn't mean it,” you whisper, your voice barely audible over the sound of her pounding into you. “i hate this. i hate you…”

the slap came fast, the sharp crack echoing off the walls. your head snaps to the side, the sting of her palm blooming across your cheek, leaving you gasping.

“liar,” minji grips your jaw firmly, forcing you to look at her, her expression a mix of amusement and something much darker.

“you need me so fucking much.”

you try to shake your head, the tears spilling over now, but her grip didn’t loosen. she leans in closer, her lips brushing against your ear as she purrs, her voice soft but dripping with mockery.

“don't ever lie to mommy. you begged me—mommy, please—like the desperate little slut you are. and now that i've given my spoiled brat what she wanted...”

her other hand trails down your body, her thumb grazing over your hardened nipple, making you flinch under her touch. the pain was sharp, but the humiliation of her words cut deeper.

“fuck... mommy, don't,” you whimper, your voice cracking. “please—”

she silences you with another slap, lighter this time, but enough to make your head spin. “yeah? you like that?”

you bite your lip, trying to hold back the sob that threatened to escape. every part of you wanted to resist, to push her away and deny her words. but the weight of her presence, the way she looks at you like she owned every part of you, broke something inside.

and her smirk widens, clearly pleased at your reaction but not enough, “come on, pretty girl. show me how much you love being filled up.”

your face burns with shame, but the words tumble out, your voice shaky and broken. “i l-love being filled by you, mommy.”

her eyes gleam with satisfaction as she releases your jaw, letting her hand trail down to your throat, resting there just enough to remind you of her power.

“such a good girl,” she praises softly, sounding almost tender now. “see? that wasn’t so hard, was it? you're so much prettier when you just lay there and take it.”

before you could catch your breath, she shifts again, pressing the strap back against you. the slick sound of it dragging along your sweat-coated skin made you gasp. minji's grip tightens on your hips as she slid the strap back into you, slow and deliberate.

the sound was obscene. every wet thrust echoing through the bedroom. and your body consumed in embarrassment, the sheer volume making it impossible to ignore how soaked you were.

“do you hear that?” minji teased. “god, you’re so wet it’s embarrassing. bet the other girls could hear how hard i'm stretching you out.”

your body arches under her as she set a relentless pace, each thrust accompanied by that humiliating, wet slap. “n-no, they… they can’t…” you tried to protest despite the whine that fought to slip out.

her breathy laugh snapping through the air, “oh? is that what you really think, baby?”

your eyes start to well up again, the humiliation crashing over you in waves. “mommy, please…” tears streaming down onto the sheets. “please, no more…”

but she doesn't stop though. if anything, your begging only spurrs her on. her hands dug into your hips, pulling you back onto the strap with each thrust, making sure you felt every inch. “aw too much?” she repeats, her tone full of tease. “but isn't this what you got wet over? thinking about mommy making you take every inch of me?”

the wet, smacking sounds only grew louder, each one making your face blaze hotter. you could barely keep your voice down, your whimpers and moans slipping out faster. she leans down, her breath hot against your ear as she growls.

“are you gonna cum for mommy, hm? gonna let mommy cum inside of your pretty little pussy?”

with every part of you in a deep haze under her spell, you struggle to breathe out. “n–no i can’t…”

“please?” her tone almost said in a way to mock you. “you'll be filled for days, baby. i'll open the door for everyone else to hear how much you belong to me, would you like that instead?”

your heart races at the threat, your mind reeling from the thought of the members hearing—seeing. “no! please, mommy, don’t…” you stumble out in a desperate rush.

“aw, poor baby. not knowing what she needs from mommy.” her smirk returning as she kisses your bruised lips.

minji picks up her pace, the strap driving into you harder and faster. “that's it,” she coos, “cry a little louder for me. let them hear how much you love being mine.”

your sobs turning into broken cries as you give into her completely, to her humiliation, and the overwhelming pleasure that leaves you at her mercy.

and minji doesn't stop—not until you were utterly spent, your mind clouded with the dizziness of the feeling. only then did she pull you into her arms, holding you gently as if to remind you that, you were hers.

[museandwords]

worship in decay

Warnings: alcohol consumption, unprotected sex, uses of feminine pronouns, jealous bucky, emotionally immature reader (not explicitly just to a degree), mentions of god, they're in love but they're broken your honor. no use of Y/N can't think of anything else, let me know if i miss a tag! Author’s note: i really enjoyed writing this little bit, just wanted to share, maybe someone somewhere wanted to read it! MINORS DNI! 18+ ONLY

You don't explicitly remember texting him, not right now anyways. You laugh, your head an airy mess as you try to maintain a sense of normalcy despite the unreadable look on Bucky’s face. 

You reach for the shot glass, the man next to you has turned shifty-eyed with the arrival of your big, menacing, glaring visitor. You can feel yourself become more skittish.

“I’m fine, Buck.” You say with a tight smile.

Bucky scoffs and rolls his eyes. Then he licks his teeth, then he looks toward the ground in contemplation for a moment.

“Yup.” He says, a beat skips, then he’s crouching down, his shoulder meeting the crux of your abdomen before he throws you over his shoulder.

“Bucky!” You squeal, the glass spills down the back of his leather jacket, soaks his hood and he shakes his head. “Bucky wait!” You try to fight, but only for a moment before the dizziness in your skull takes over and you hang in defeat because if you don't, you’re going to throw up all over his shoes and his ass.

There’s no interference from any other bar loungers as he heads toward the exit with you. He’s Captain America’s best friend, you are the safest you can be right there.

Yet his grasp is firm as he carries you.

“Bucky put me down!” You finally say, trying to wiggle out of his grasp. Bucky’s metal fingers dig into your waist.

“No.” He says as he walks out into the cold, crisp night air. The wind gets sucked out of you for  a moment as you adjust to the temperature change. It’s sobering. 

“I’m gonna hurl.” You threaten after a moment before Bucky relents, only a little.

Despite the barbarity of his actions of carrying you out, he places you down delicately, but his hands stay on your forearms as he holds you against him. The hard metal of his left causes you to shiver in his grasp.  He looks down at you, and there’s a fire in his eyes, one you haven’t seen before.

He’s angry.

“Who was that guy?” He asks, his eyes dart between your eyes to your mouth, his breathing is heavy as he leans in toward you. You feel like he’s taking all of your air, both with his proximity and the way he’s holding you.

You open your mouth, though no sound comes out, and Bucky’s patience snaps.

He shakes you once.

“Who was that?” He repeats.

“Nobody!” You automatically shouts back.

Bucky doesn’t like that answer, because you both know that was a lie. He releases you and lets out a low growl as he runs a hand through his hair. He’s muttering low beneath his breath as he paces away from you, you can hear him swearing.

“Why did you text me?” He says suddenly, wild and burning as he turns to you. You flinch, not expecting such ferocity in his voice, he’s never used that tone on you before.

“I-I don’t know…” You admit, your heart rate begins to pick up and your mouth feels dry.

“You’re lying.” He says, eyes narrowing as he moves to grab your chin, forces you to lock in on him as he glares you down. You whimper. 

And you can’t tell him that because then it shatters the illusion of whatever this was. You had missed him, and you wanted to see him, to touch him, to smell him. 

“I said I don’t know!” You say as you try to wiggle out of his grasp, Bucky’s hands are firm on you, unrelenting.

“Try harder.” He growls.

In truth, you just wanted to see him.

And you wanted to tell him you hated seeing him with another woman.

But you didn’t really think he’d come and track you down and haul you out of a damn bar like a neanderthal. You didn’t even think he’d read the damn text. Your head swirls.

When you don’t answer, Bucky looks down at your mouth, and he growls before he forces your chin forward and his mouth is on yours. It’s not sweet and romantic, it’s hungry and it’s intense and you gasp. 

Bucky doesn’t back down as he shoves his tongue in your open mouth and squeezes your ass so tight you whine.

When he pulls away, his expression is glowering and he’s still in your space. 

“Come on.” He says, his hand falling from your chin to hold your hand and guide you down the street. “I’m going to fuck you, Come on.” He says. And you follow, tail tucked firmly between your legs. 

-

“Say it.” Bucky says, his right hand pressed against your mid back, his metal hand tightens around your left hip.

Your head hangs, your hair provides the perfect shield of your face from his gaze.

Your face is scrunched, eyes closed and your teeth ground together as his cockhead strokes over your G-Spot before brutally plunging hard against your cervix.

The sensitivity of your cervix and the aggression he displays has you seeing stars as your mouth falls open.

Short, heavy grunts sound from your throat followed by gutted pants. Your body thrashes with each hard thrust, his hips knock against yours.

He means business, and you don’t say a word.

Bucky squeezes, before his hand lifts from your hip and claps against the fullness of your ass. You hiss from the sting and your pussy clenches around his shaft from the slap.

“You have to say it.” He says, his voice a low, gritted growl as he continues his savage thrusts. Though there’s an underlying softness, a desperation in his voice as he pants out.

A high-pitched whine sounds as you grip at the sheets, your manicured nails clawing into the fabric. You know what he wants from you.

You want to give it to him.

“I-I…can’t.” You whimper, your eyes opening as you continue to take his cock. You can’t tell him you love him when he fucks you like a bitch, like all the men you’ve had before. The brutal fucking isn’t what makes you love him.

It’s the fact he came to find you tonight, the fact that he takes you for coffee and still messages you after the two of you spend the night together. It’s the fact he isn’t scared of the fact that you're fragmented and broken. He takes you just as you are, and doesn’t want you to be anything else.

And that he’s told you he thinks you look pretty in pink.

Tears begin to form in your eyes as he drills into you, your back arches and you focus on that rather than the fact he’s trying to fuck you as a form of punishment. You like it anyway even though it’s wrong.

He knows how to love you, he’s shown you. But he’s just as bad, just as self-destructive and this is the only way you both can make a point across without causing permanent damage.

Bucky’s metal hand slides down your hip, past the apex of your thighs before he’s using the pads of his middle and forefinger to rub your clit with just the right amount of pressure. You gasp, both from the firmness of the metal and the pleasure that shoots from the base of your spine.

“Quit looking for dick everywhere.” Bucky suddenly says, his voice low and strained as his head falls back, he’s pussy and power drunk over you, and he can’t stop.

“If you need to be fucked, you have my number, sweetheart.” He grunts. “You know where I live.” He says, each word punctuated with a hard thrust straight into your drenched cunt. You whine, more tears produce, and you’re so close.

Bucky always fucks you just the way you need, just right.

“I’m gonna cum.” You whisper into the sheets, and suddenly he’s off of you. He’s pulling out, his fingers are gone and you nearly scream from the sudden loss. Your eyes open wide and you panic.

What did I do? What did I do?

The fear isn’t long-lived, Bucky grabs you by the waist and turns you over so you’re on your back. He grabs your knees and spreads them wide before he slots himself between your thighs again. His cock is already prodding at your folds.

You’re both panting, and for a moment his eyes dart up your body, and your gaze meets. He’s got that wild look in his eyes, but it’s muted, more tame than earlier in the evening.

He looks at you with softness, despite the brutal intensity that he set.

Bucky brings your legs over his shoulders, and he leans down at the same time as he breeches your pussy once more. He closes his eyes as he lets out a breath, his forehead rests against yours as he feels you throb around him.

“I can’t get this tight little pussy out of my head.” He whispers into you as he begins to move again. The reply is a needy whine as he picks up his pace. “It’s my favourite place to be.” He groans.

Bucky worships you like you’re the reincarnation of a God.

“Bucky.” You breathe, your hand comes down to play with your clit. You need it, you can’t hold it anymore, the way he’s whispering in your ear, the way his cock drags against your walls, you’re going to lose your mind.

“No.” He is quick to snake your hand away, his hand engulfing yours as he brings it above your head, his whole body presses into yours as he fucks into you, his hips grinding into yours now. He presses his lips into yours, taking full advantage that your mouth is hanging open as his tongue licks in it.

It’s like he’s trying to possess you.

“Come on, pretty girl, cum on my dick.” He urges hotly. “Let me feel you.” He pleads, soft, and that’s what does it for you.

You fall apart, completely shatter as your pussy rhythmically clenches around him. Your body wraps around his, clinging to him like a tether and you hold your breath. Bucky's cock is your favorite thing to cum on.

He groans, and suddenly you feel him tense against you.

He's cumming too, thick and warm cum straight into your womb as he bites down against your shoulder.

His eyes are closed and he swears he can see God. He can feel God. He never thought he’d find it after all these years.

After a moment, his head rests against your shoulder.

You're both panting, sated and more relaxed now as Bucky collapses on top of you. You feel like jelly.

You grunt, though you don't push him away.

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom. TW: suicide thoughts.

John’s War

When it begins, it’s subtle. A flutter in his stomach, which later turns into an ache in his heart. He knows it’s wrong, and he desperately tries to fight it. It’s like a war, and he is the only participant. 

John’s been in love many times. Audrey was the first, Bethany the last. And it’s been fine. Normal. Girls seem to like him. He’s got quite the reputation by the time he’s reached sixteen.

***

It all started to crumble when his sister, Harry, came out as a lesbian at fourteen. Their parents had been livid, but Harry came prepared and was totally unfazed. She’d even arranged to stay at her girlfriend’s family, fully aware that her own mum and dad would kick her out if she didn’t retract and started to act normal.

***

Lance was half American, half British. He and his mother had recently moved back to London after almost twenty years in America. The moment John laid his eyes on Lance, the fluttering began. Lance looked like a film star. Golden, curly hair, green eyes, androgyne features, a slender body, strong hands, long fingers. He was everything John wasn’t. Gay, for starters. And he wanted John of all people.

Words John’s father used on such people, played on repeat in his mind:

Faggot. Queer. Degenerate.

John tried to tell Lance, he was straight, but there was no denying how much John wanted Lance to kiss and touch him. His penis reminded him repeatedly and inconveniently every so often of that particular fact.

“John. Stop this. It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Lance whispered softly and kissed John’s neck. “Haven’t you heard of bisexuality?”

***

Running away to Afghanistan was the only way forward for John when he couldn’t rescue Lance after his overdose. He felt the need to atone for his lack of observation. 

How had he not seen the self-destructing path Lance was heading down? He was a bloody doctor, for Christ’s sake! Had he been in denial about that too? Didn’t he want to believe that such a talented man Lance turned out to be, could choose to destroy himself just because he failed the interview for the main role in a West End play?

“I’m sorry, darling, but there’ll be other roles. New chances. No one gets them on the first try, surely,” John had tried to reassure his lover, but to no avail.

So, there he was. In Afghanistan where danger lurked around every corner. John was quite startled that he enjoyed the danger so much. He felt alive, thrilled, his broken heart notwithstanding. 

And then, another man invaded his thoughts, and eventually his bed. Major James Sholto.

***

Mike Stamford had never seen a more broken man in his life than John Watson, as he limped past the bench, where he was sitting thinking about Sherlock's words from earlier: 

“Who would want me for a flatmate? I’m a difficult man at best. People hate being around me. Can you imagine someone actually living with me? Who is alive themselves. No, Mike. There exists no such human, I assure you.”

“John! John Watson!” he called out. 

When John just gave him a blank stare, Mike sighed and introduced himself. The response was insulting to say the least. No “oh, nice to see you again, mate,” or “what have you been up to?” There was…nothing.

“Who has left you heartbroken, John?” Mike didn’t say and let John walk away without having said a word.

***

After his meeting with Mike, John finds himself outside Barts hospital. He’s got fond memories from his practise here. With Mike. He winces when he reminisces how rude he was to the jovial man. But it couldn’t be helped. John’s a broken man in so many ways, and he just wants to be left alone. He looks up. Wonders how it would feel to stand on the edge of that roof. Would he dare to jump off it if the opportunity arose? He’s never been afraid of heights. And he longs for the pain to subside. The emotional pain. The pain that scars his heart.

Time eludes him. Why are his knees hurting? He opens his eyes. Is he kneeling on the pavement? Apparently. When did that happen? How long? His thoughts stop abruptly when a warm hand is placed on his good shoulder.

“Are you alright?”

A deep baritone. John perceives a posh accent. The warmth from the man’s hand travel down his spine like lava. 

Radiant. Alluring. Dangerous. 

He lifts his head. At first glance, the man could be Lance’s twin. But then, John realises that it’s only the curly hair and height they have in common. This man’s hair is almost black with tinges of auburn. His eyes are blue, but also green and blue green. The colours are constantly shifting. They’re mesmerising. John wants to drown himself in them.

John stands. He still hasn’t said a word. The man hands him his cane and speaks again.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

For the first time in years John’s first response isn’t to flee. Instead, he straightens his back, lifts his chin and asks:

“How? Tell me.”

The flicker of surprise, quickly followed by insecurity on the man’s face, makes John realise that this can be, if he lets it, a new beginning.

“Go on,” John prompts.

When the man speaks again, John is lost. An ease sets within him, and his heart stops cracking.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

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[peachdues]

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!! Have some love!!

“I’m always in that dungeon. Always in the dark. I can’t see my way out.”

You say it so casually, as though you’re simply commenting on the state of the weather or the strength of your untouched tea.

Obanai’s stomach curdles.

A quick glance to you reveals passive features, as neutral as the cadence of your voice. And yet, despite the pleasant set of your mouth, your eyes are vacant; fixed upon some distant point in the garden, but not seeing anything at all.

You are not here; you’ve wandered off, gone someplace far beyond the safety of the Butterfly Mansion. Far away from him.

Despite the coolness of the early spring air, Obanai suddenly finds himself sticky; hot. He sets his own cup down to wipe his damp palm against the front of his trousers.

“In the beginning, I dreamed of one day seeing the sun; the trees. Watching the light filter through the leaves. I thought it would help me endure, but it only trapped me even more. Because I forgot what trees and leaves looked like. And that left me only knowing darkness.” You tilt your head, eyes narrowing as though in thought. “This is all a dream. And I am still there.”

The wilted bandages sticking to his skin skin threaten to slip down his chin, to choke him off around his throat. Already, it feels difficult to breathe, and his fingers shake when he tries to pry them away from his mouth.

“You’re not dreaming.” Obanai forces out a croak. “This is real. You’re out. You’re free — safe.”

“But, I never left. I don’t think I ever will.” Finally, your gaze shifts to him, though it remains empty. “What is it that I did, do you think? To be punished like that?”

Obanai cannot answer you; his lungs his shriveled in his chest. There is no more air to breathe.

“Was I that bad?” And this time, a tiny fissure snakes its way through your voice. “I must have been, to have deserved that.”

The lock is broken; you are cracking wide open and he cannot stop you. And yet, the selfish part of him wants you to pick open this shallow scab. Obanai is desperate and he’s in love, and he wants you to remember so you can remember why you need to despise him; remember the depth of his betrayal, and cast him aside for good.

“Maybe…maybe it was because of someone else.”

It’s as close as he can get to admitting the awful truth of it all, because the truth, won’t mean anything to you. It would only matter if you were still you and he was still Obanai. But it doesn’t mean anything, now. Not when he’s your stranger.

You frown. “I must have harmed them badly, for them to despise me so.”

No, he thinks desperately. I could never despise you. I could hate all the world and still never hate you.

But, Obanai is a coward, and so, he does not tell you this. Instead, he swallows hard, and he clings to his pretenses. “Maybe it was to hurt someone else. Someone who held you dear.”

“No one loved me that way. I would’ve remembered if they had — if not the person, then the feeling.”

Oh, but he did. He does. Even a coward can be brave when left alone.

—

BONUS

You pick at a loose thread on your hospital gown. “You must have loved them a lot.”

“I did.” I do.

The corner of your mouth tilts up in something like a smile; sad and pitying, and the closest thing to the old you he’s seen in months. “Sorry it didn’t work out.”

It takes everything in him to remember how to breathe — how to try. “Me, too.”

[stylesonfilms]

ink & innocence - 17

word count: 9.2k

enjoy! a bit of a long one! i did noooot spell, grammar, or plot consistency check, i wrote the ending half asleep but i wanted to post for you guys haha! whats everyones favorite chapter so far??

Aspen set the thick packet down in front of her professor with shaky hands, forcing a tight smile that she hoped masked her inner turmoil. The weight of the exam lingered heavily on her shoulders, and her stomach churned with anxiety. This was her last midterm before finals, the final hurdle before a week-long break that she desperately needed. Yet, the moment she exited the classroom, the reality of her performance crashed over her like a wave.

Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes as her feet carried her hurriedly down the hallway. She sniffled quietly, swiping at the tip of her nose with her sleeve, trying to keep herself composed until she reached the sanctuary of the single bathrooms in the academic building. The door clicked shut behind her, and she quickly turned the lock.

The tears came fast and hard, pouring down her cheeks as her back pressed against the cool tiled wall. Her breaths were shallow and uneven, punctuated by small hiccups as she let herself unravel in private. Aspen slid her tote bag off her shoulder and onto the counter, gripping the edge tightly as she tried to ground herself.

She absolutely flunked that exam. She was sure of it. The professor had granted two hours to complete it, and even with every precious second of that time, she felt unprepared and overwhelmed. Her confidence wavered as she remembered how she stared blankly at questions that felt like a foreign language. She could still see the empty spaces on the answer sheet and the scribbled guesses she made out of sheer desperation. Aspen hated guessing—it wasn't like her. She thrived on preparation, on being in control. To leave the exam room knowing she hadn't done her best shattered her.

Her hands trembled as she reached into her tote bag, rummaging until she found her phone. She fumbled to unlock it, tears blurring her vision as she scrolled through her contacts. Harry's name stood out to her, and she hesitated for only a moment before pressing the call button.

He was at work, she knew that. He was likely busy with clients or sketches, but Aspen didn't care. She didn't need advice or solutions right now—she just needed to hear his voice, to feel tethered to something solid when she felt like she was free-falling.

"Come on," she whispered shakily, her thumb anxiously tapping against the edge of her phone. "Pick up, pick up..."

The taunting rings seemed to stretch on forever, each one amplifying her desperation, until finally, the line clicked.

"Hi, baby. What's up?"

Harry's voice was a soothing balm, warm and inviting, tinged with the faintest edge of curiosity. Aspen's lips parted as a breath of relief escaped her, but the sound wavered into a broken sob as her emotions surged forward uncontrollably.

"H-Harry," she managed to choke out, his name coming out as a quiet plea.

Aspen pressed the heel of her palm to her forehead, screwing her eyes shut as more tears spilled over. Her free hand clutched at the hem of her hoodie, twisting it nervously. She felt small and overwhelmed, embarrassed that she was falling apart over a test but unable to stop herself.

The concern in Harry's voice was immediate and palpable, even through the phone. The sound of the rolling wheels on his chair could be heard. "Asp? What's wrong, love? Are you okay?"

His tone softened further, wrapping her like a comforting embrace, and Aspen felt her knees weaken at how easily he could soothe her even without being there.

"I—I messed up," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I messed up so bad, Harry. I couldn't—I didn't know the answers, and I couldn't finish in time..."

Harry's brows furrowed as he listened intently, his heart aching at the sound of her distress. He could picture her so vividly, her cheeks streaked with tears, her doe eyes wide with worry, and her lip trembling in that way that always made him want to scoop her up and shield her from the world.

"Hey, hey," he murmured, his voice low and gentle, "slow down, baby. It's okay. Deep breath f'me, yeah? In through your nose, out through your mouth. Jus' like that."

Aspen tried to follow his instructions, her breath hitching but eventually evening out under his guidance. Harry waited patiently, letting her take her time before speaking again.

"Now, tell me what happened," he coaxed, his voice still soft but laced with a quiet determination to make her feel better.

Aspen bit her bottom lip, the familiar comfort of his voice easing some of the weight off her chest. "I... I just feel so stupid," she admitted in a small voice. "I studied so much, but when I sat down, it all just... disappeared. I'm pretty sure I failed, Harry."

"You're not stupid," Harry said firmly, his tone brooking no argument. "You're the furthest thing from stupid, Asp. You're brilliant, and hardworking, and the fact that y'even care this much says everything about the kind of person you are."

Aspen's chest tightened at his words, the lump in her throat growing larger. She sank onto the counter, her legs dangling as she held the phone close to her ear. "But what if I ruined everything? What if I can't—"

Harry interrupted her gently. "You didn't ruin anything, angel. One exam isn't going to define you, alright? And even if y'didn't do as well as you hoped, it's not the end of the world. You're allowed t'have bad days. You're allowed t'be human."

His words settled over her like a warm blanket, and Aspen sniffled again, this time out of gratitude rather than despair. Harry always knew what to say to make her feel better, to make her believe in herself even when she doubted everything.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice still shaky but steadier than before.

"Always, baby," Harry replied softly. "D'you want me to come pick you up? Take you out f'something sweet? I've got a break coming up, and I'll ditch these idiots for you in a heartbeat."

Aspen laughed lightly through her tears, the sound fragile but genuine. "No, I'm okay. I just... needed to hear your voice."

Harry smiled to himself, his chest warming at her honesty. "You can call me anytime, Asp. I mean that. I'm here, yeah?"

"Yeah," she breathed, her lips curling into a small smile despite everything.

As she ended the call, Aspen felt a sense of calm wash over her. The tears still lingered, and the ache in her chest hadn't fully subsided, but Harry's words echoed in her mind, steady and reassuring. She wasn't alone in this—she had him. And somehow, that made everything feel a little more manageable.

Harry leaned back in his chair at the shop, the soft glow of the afternoon sun spilling through the windows. The phone call with Aspen lingered in his mind, her quiet sobs and trembling voice still echoing in his ears. He rubbed a hand over his face, his heart twisting at the thought of her sitting alone, overwhelmed and upset. No amount of reassurances over the phone felt like enough. He glanced at the clock, then at the empty appointment book for the rest of the day. Decision made.

"Alright, that's it for me," Harry called out to Zayn and Niall, who were lounging near the counter with snacks in hand.

Zayn arched a brow. "Shop's not even closed yet, mate. What gives?"

Harry grabbed his jacket, slipping it on as he shot them a look. "Got somewhere I need to be."

Niall smirked knowingly, crunching into a crisp. "Let me guess. Aspen?"

Harry didn't bother denying it, his lips curling into a slight grin as he pocketed his keys. "Yeah, and if either of you tries to stop me, you're cleaning the entire shop tonight."

"Not a chance," Zayn said with a laugh, tossing a bag of crisps toward Harry. "Go be Prince Charming or whatever. Tell her we said hi."

Harry waved them off with a roll of his eyes, but his chest warmed at their teasing. He locked up the shop and headed out, his boots hitting the pavement with purpose. On his way, he made a quick stop at a frozen yogurt shop he knew Aspen loved. It didn't take him long to spot the cheesecake froyo on the menu—her favorite—and he added a handful of fresh strawberries and crushed graham crackers as toppings, just the way she liked it.

Balancing the froyo carefully, he climbed back into his car and made his way to her campus. The drive wasn't long, but it gave him time to think about how much Aspen had come to mean to him. She was a mix of strength and vulnerability, so stubbornly independent but also so willing to let him in when she needed it. He couldn't help but feel protective of her, wanting to be her safe place whenever she needed one.

Aspen, sitting in the library attempting to distract herself with her laptop, stared blankly at the screen, the words blurring together. The sound of her phone buzzing pulled her from her haze, and she swiped at the notification. Seeing Harry's name accompanied by the message, "Come outside, love. Got a surprise for you," made her heart stutter. She frowned in confusion, her fingers hovering over the screen before deciding to leave her response unread. Instead, she wiped her damp cheeks with the sleeve of her oversized hoodie, quickly gathered her bag, and made her way to the exit.

The late afternoon sunlight poured through the glass doors as she stepped outside, the cool air brushing against her flushed cheeks. Her eyes scanned the parking lot, and then she spotted him.

Harry was leaned casually against the side of his car, one ankle crossed over the other, his figure relaxed but effortlessly commanding. He wore a fitted black tee that clung perfectly to his broad shoulders and skinny jeans that accentuated his long legs. A pair of aviator sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose, hiding his expressive green eyes, but his smirk was unmistakable.

In his hands were two cups of frozen yogurt, the condensation from the chilled cups glistening in the sun. His tattooed arms flexed slightly as he adjusted his grip on them, his silver rings catching the light. The sharp line of his jaw and the faint scruff framing his chin added to the air of confidence he carried so naturally.

Aspen's breath hitched at the sight, her steps faltering as a fresh wave of emotion threatened to overwhelm her. He was such a stark contrast to the chaos she felt inside—calm, steady, and completely hers. Her heart squeezed painfully at the realization of how much she needed this, needed him.

Harry straightened slightly when he saw her, his lips pulling into a soft grin that reached even beneath the shades. He raised the froyo cups in a small salute. "Took you long enough, angel," he teased, his voice carrying over the lot as she made her way toward him.

Aspen swallowed the lump in her throat, forcing herself to focus on the warmth his presence brought rather than the lingering doubt and self-criticism from earlier. She stopped a few feet away, her gaze flicking from his smirk to the froyo in his hands.

"You didn't have to come all the way here," she said softly, her voice trembling slightly despite her effort to sound casual.

Harry cocked his head, lowering the sunglasses down his nose just enough for her to catch the sparkle in his green eyes. "Course I did," he said simply, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You sounded like y'needed cheering up. And who better than me to do it?"

Her lips twitched into the faintest smile, the tension in her chest loosening slightly as she stepped closer. The froyo was topped with crushed graham crackers and fresh strawberries, just the way she liked it. A tiny warmth bloomed in her chest at the thoughtful gesture, even as her fingers brushed his when she took the cup, sending a spark racing through her.

"You're ridiculous," she murmured, ducking her head to hide the grateful smile tugging at her lips.

"And yet, here you are, accepting froyo from a ridiculous man," Harry shot back, his grin widening.

For the first time all day, Aspen felt a tiny flicker of lightness creep in. It wasn't much, but with Harry, it was enough.

Harry opened the car door for her, gesturing for her to get in. "Come on. Let me kidnap you for a bit. I've got no plans 'cept making sure you're smiling by the end 'f the day."

Aspen hesitated for a moment, glancing back toward the library. But then she met Harry's gaze, warm and steady, and nodded. "Okay," she said quietly, slipping into the passenger seat.

The ride back to Harry's place was calm, filled with soft music playing in the background and the occasional sound of Aspen's spoon clinking against the froyo cup. Harry stole a glance at her every now and then, watching as the tension in her shoulders gradually eased.

When they arrived, Harry unlocked the door with a flourish and held it open, leaning against the frame with an exaggerated grin. "Welcome back to Casa Harry," he announced, his tone playful as he dipped into an exaggerated bow.

Aspen couldn't help the giggle that bubbled up at his antics, despite the lingering cloud of self-doubt from earlier. Shaking her head, she stepped inside, the warmth of his space immediately making her feel more at ease. The familiar scent of cedarwood and faint traces of his cologne wrapped around her like a comforting hug.

"You're such a dork," she teased, setting her bag down near the couch.

"Maybe," he replied, following her in and plopping down onto the couch with a dramatic sigh. He patted the cushion beside him and grinned up at her. "But I'm your dork, so that makes it acceptable."

Aspen's cheeks flushed, the endearing sincerity in his words making her chest tighten in the best way. He always had this effect on her—disarming her with his humor and charm, grounding her with his presence. She hesitated only a moment before sitting beside him, curling her legs under herself and holding the now-empty froyo cup in her lap.

Her fingers fidgeted with the plastic spoon as silence settled between them for a beat. "Thank you," she said softly, the sincerity in her voice cutting through the quiet.

Harry, who had leaned back against the couch with one arm draped casually along the backrest, glanced at her with a slight tilt of his head. "F'what?"

Aspen's gaze dropped to her hands, and she twisted the spoon between her fingers. "For coming to get me. For always knowing how to make me feel better," she murmured, her words tinted with a shy vulnerability that only he seemed to coax out of her.

Harry's gaze softened, his green eyes studying her as warmth spread through his chest. The way she looked at him—with a mix of gratitude and trust—made him feel like the luckiest guy in the world. She didn't always let her guard down, but when she did, it felt like she was offering him pieces of herself she kept hidden from everyone else.

"I'll always come for you, Asp," he said, his voice low but steady, a quiet promise in the words. "Always. You're kind of my favorite person, y'know."

Aspen's heart fluttered at his confession, her cheeks burning as she ducked her head to avoid his gaze. She wasn't used to someone being so openly devoted to her, so unapologetic in their care. It was overwhelming in the best way, like discovering a part of herself she didn't know she needed.

Harry reached out, his calloused fingers brushing her cheek as he tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. The small, tender gesture sent a shiver down her spine. His touch was always warm, grounding her even when her thoughts threatened to spiral.

"Now," he said, his tone shifting to something lighter, "how about y'tell me what else I can do t'make your day better?"

Aspen looked up at him, the hint of a genuine smile breaking through her earlier gloom. His eyes, warm and full of affection, made it impossible not to feel safe. "Honestly? Just being here is enough," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper but carrying every ounce of truth she felt.

Harry chuckled softly, leaning in to press a kiss to her forehead. "Good," he murmured against her skin. "Because I don't plan on going anywhere."

The comfortable silence that followed was filled with unspoken gratitude and shared solace. Harry gave her knee a gentle squeeze, his lips quirking into a thoughtful smirk. "Y'know," he started, his tone casual but his gaze sly, "we should go out tonight."

Aspen blinked, caught off guard by the sudden suggestion. "Out? Where?"

Harry shrugged, leaning back and propping one ankle over his knee, the picture of nonchalant confidence. "Maybe Isobel's. I think being with the others might cheer you up. Could be a nice distraction."

Aspen hesitated, nibbling on her bottom lip. Social gatherings weren't exactly her forte, especially after the day she'd had. But before she could voice her reluctance, Harry added with a mischievous glint in his eye, "We could do karaoke."

Her eyes widened, a small laugh escaping her despite herself. "Karaoke? Harry, I'm not really one for singing in front of people."

"Ah, but you'd get to see me sing," he countered, his grin widening. "And 'm telling you now, baby, it's top-tier entertainment. You'll forget all 'bout that shitty exam."

Aspen couldn't help but imagine Harry up on stage, fully committing to some over-the-top performance with that cheeky charm he wielded so well. The thought alone had her lips twitching into a reluctant smile.

"Okay," she said softly, surprising even herself. "But only because seeing you make a fool of yourself sounds like the perfect distraction."

Harry laughed, his deep, rich tone filling the room like sunlight breaking through clouds. "You're in for a treat, then," he teased, his grin lopsided but brimming with affection. Beneath his playful exterior, he was already crafting a plan to lift Aspen's spirits—he wanted nothing more than to see her laugh and forget the weight of the day.

With a deliberate slowness, he reached out and took the empty froyo cups from her hands, setting them gently on the coffee table. The movement was simple, but it held the quiet intimacy that defined so much of their relationship—an unspoken understanding and care.

Sliding his hand over her knee, Harry let his fingers hook around the back of it, guiding her leg over his lap with a gentle tug. The action was natural, as if he'd done it a thousand times before, and it made Aspen's heart flutter in her chest. Harry leaned closer, his curls falling slightly into his face as he pressed a warm kiss to her forehead.

The contact was tender, grounding Aspen in the moment. She felt her shoulders relax, the tension she'd been carrying all day melting away under his touch.

"You're incredibly smart, Asp," Harry murmured, his voice low but steady, carrying a conviction that left no room for doubt. "Smart and beautiful and caring—and 'm so lucky to even know you, let alone be yours."

The weight of his words made Aspen's breath hitch, her eyes softening as they flickered up to meet his. She wasn't used to hearing such affirmations, especially not delivered with such earnestness. It made her chest swell with a warmth that was uniquely Harry.

"Don't ever forget that, okay?" he added, his hand sliding up to cradle her cheek. His thumb brushed tenderly across her smooth skin, the touch as comforting as it was electrifying.

Before Aspen could respond, Harry leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to her lips. The kiss wasn't rushed or demanding—it was soft, full of quiet devotion and reassurance. Aspen felt her heart stutter, her chest swelling with an emotion so intense it nearly brought tears to her eyes.

She sighed contentedly against his lips, leaning into his touch as if she could anchor herself to him entirely. In moments like these, it felt like all she needed was Harry. The way he made her feel—safe, cherished, adored—was unlike anything she'd ever known.

"Thank you," she mumbled shyly when they pulled apart, her voice barely above a whisper. She tucked her head against Harry's shoulder, letting his familiar scent envelop her.

Harry's lips curved into a small, satisfied grin as he wrapped his arm around her, holding her close. "Of course, love," he murmured, resting his chin lightly on the top of her head.

After a beat of silence, Aspen spoke again, her voice soft and laced with vulnerability. "Can we stay like this for a bit? Before we go to Isobel's?"

Harry chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against her. "To Isobel's, huh? Not back to yours?"

Aspen lifted her head, her nose scrunching in an endearing way that made his grin widen. She rested her hand on his shoulder and propped her chin on the top of her hand, gazing up at him with an expression that made his chest tighten.

"I would say that my home is wherever you are, Har," she admitted, her words barely above a whisper but carrying a shy sincerity that hit him like a punch to the gut. A faint blush crept up her neck, and she quickly ducked her gaze, as if second-guessing her vulnerability.

Harry's heart swelled, his grin softening into something tender. "Asp," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. He tilted her chin up gently with his fingers, ensuring her eyes met his. "You don't know how much tha' means t'me."

He pressed another kiss to her forehead, letting it linger as if to seal her words in his heart. "We can stay like this as long as y'want," he added, his voice a quiet promise. "You're my home, too."

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Harry and Aspen got back to Isobel's no later than six. Harry had texted Zayn and let him know to bring Niall, Louis, and Liam with him if he was going to come to karaoke night at Isobel and Aspen's house. The man got ready at his, swapping his black tee for a blue and red plaid flannel and pushed his curls back with a Green Bay Packer's hat that he wore backwards.

When Aspen got back, she wanted to clean herself up a bit so she tasked Harry with helping Isobel clean up the living room and set out drinks and snacks. She ran upstairs and stripped from her clothes she wore to campus, already feeling more cheerful than she did. Aspen reached the consensus that worrying about her grade wouldn't change it and would just make her night spoiled. So, she took a breath and thought about being with Harry and all the heavy weight was lost.

She stood in front of her vanity upstairs, carefully laying out her outfit. The lingering heaviness from earlier in the day had lifted, replaced by the warmth of Harry’s comfort and her decision to let go of her worries for the night. Worrying about what her grade was would not change it, it would just push her into a deeper sulk. The girl decided she'd much rather spend time with her friends and Harry. 

The girl pulled on a black mini skirt that just skimmed the tops of her thighs over a pair of sheer black tights, both clinging well to her frame. Pairing it with a navy blue knitted crewneck, the soft fabric brushed against her skin and provided a cozy contrast to the slight edge of the skirt.

Sliding on a pair of frilly black socks, Aspen smiled at the reflection in her mirror. The playful combination of casual and chic suited her mood—light and free. Aspen was never one to 'sexualize' herself, but since that day at the shop with Harry, she was more keen to her figure.  

Her brown eyes skimmed over her frame, cinching at her waist and becoming more full at the hips under her crewneck. When she turned to the side, the hem of the crewneck rested above the generous curve of her ass. It wasn't like she had the best body, but it definitely made her smile a shy one to herself at the sight. She added a swipe of sheer deep red lip stain that gave her a touch of glam and brushed through her curls, now soft waves, before spritzing on her favorite perfume. With one final look, she decided she was good to go.

When she finally descended the stairs, the scent of chips and dip greeted her along with the faint clinking of bottles. Harry stood by the fridge, rummaging through its contents while Isobel poured a bag of chips into a plastic bowl.

“Is there any juice? Asp will want juice,” Harry asked, glancing over his shoulder at Isobel.

“I don’t think so,” Isobel replied, shrugging. “But I texted Zayn to grab some on his way.”

Harry hummed, closing the fridge with a small thud. He set the chilled bottles of brandy and vodka on the counter, his eyes flicking toward the sound of Aspen’s soft footsteps approaching from the hall. They never went unnoticed by him, no matter how quiet.

His gaze landed on her, and his lips curled into an easy grin. "Hi, beautiful," he murmured, holding out an arm until she stepped close enough for him to rest his hand lightly on the small of her back.

The warmth of his touch sent a pleasant shiver through Aspen, and she tilted her face up to meet his eyes. Harry’s gaze roamed over her, lingering briefly on the exposed skin of her thighs before returning to her flushed cheeks.

“You look good,” he said, his voice dipping lower with an appreciative edge.

Aspen ducked her head shyly, her lips curving into a soft smile. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

Harry pressed a lingering kiss to her temple, his breath warm against her skin. “They’re just about here. ‘M going to use the restroom, yeah?” he said softly, reluctantly pulling away.

Aspen nodded, her heart fluttering as he stepped back. The sound of the doorbell chiming echoed just as Harry disappeared down the hall, and Aspen turned toward the door, her pulse quickening with anticipation.

She opened it to see Zayn standing there, holding a bag full of juice boxes, flanked by Louis, Niall, and Liam, all grinning like they were ready for trouble.

"Hello, ladies!" Louis greeted, stepping inside with exaggerated enthusiasm. He gave Aspen a quick hug, followed by warm greetings from the rest of the group.

Isobel joined them moments later, and the room quickly filled with laughter and the hum of excited chatter. Harry emerged from the bathroom, his flannel sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and took the bag of juice boxes from Zayn with a nod of thanks.

“Alright,” Louis announced, pulling a bottle of vodka from the counter. “I propose a toast—or a shot, rather—to celebrate our newest and cutest couple!”

Harry chuckled softly as he tore into the pack of juice boxes, the plastic crinkling under his hands. He carefully pulled one out, pressing the straw through the foil with a precision that made it look almost comical. His grin spread wider as he turned, holding it out to Aspen with a flourish.

"Just for you," he said, his voice warm and teasing.

Aspen smiled shyly, reaching out to take it. Her fingers brushed against his, a small, fleeting touch that sent a familiar warmth coursing through her. “Thank you,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

As she took a sip, her eyes drifted to the bottle Louis had placed on the counter, its glossy label catching the kitchen light. She hesitated, her brow furrowing slightly before she glanced back up at Harry. “Are you... um, are you going to drink tonight?”

Harry tilted his head, his hazel eyes softening as he considered her question. He could sense the slight nervousness in her tone, and it made his heart ache in the best way—she cared. “I was thinking about it,” he said honestly, studying her expression. “You okay with that?”

Aspen hesitated, biting her lip as she considered her answer. She didn’t want to ruin the mood or make him feel like he couldn’t have fun, but she also couldn’t shake the small worry that lingered in the back of her mind. Finally, she nodded, meeting his gaze. “Yeah, just... not too much, okay?”

Harry smiled, his chest tightening at the vulnerability in her voice. He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Promise,” he said simply, his voice low and steady.

Louis clapped his hands together, breaking the moment. “Alright, lovebirds! Time for a toast!” He reached for the vodka bottle with one hand and grabbed a set of shot glasses with the other, his grin mischievous.

The group gathered around the counter, the energy in the room buzzing with anticipation. Harry poured out the shots, his movements smooth and deliberate, while Zayn and Isobel grabbed their drinks.

“C’mon, Aspen,” Louis said with a wink, holding up his shot glass. “We can’t toast without you!”

Harry handed Aspen her juice box with a knowing smile. “She’s got her drink,” he said, nodding toward the bright yellow carton.

Aspen laughed softly, holding up the juice box, the straw sticking out at an odd angle. “It’s not exactly vodka, but it works,” she joked, her cheeks warming under the attention.

Louis leaned over, clinking his glass gently against her juice box with a laugh. “Perfect. Cheers to Aspen for being the responsible one here!”

Everyone laughed, raising their glasses—or juice box—in unison. The clinking sound echoed through the kitchen, light and cheerful. Aspen smiled, feeling a flicker of warmth in her chest at the inclusion.

As the others downed their shots, Aspen took a sip from her juice box, her lips curving into a contented smile. Harry glanced at her from the corner of his eye, his grin softening as he watched her.

He could tell she felt a little out of her element, but she was trying—she always tried. And that was one of the things he admired most about her.

With the toast done, Isobel and Zayn set about hooking up the karaoke machine, their chatter filling the air. Meanwhile, the rest of the boys plopped down on the couch, their focus shifting to Aspen as they started asking her lighthearted questions and pulling her further into the group’s dynamic.

Harry leaned against the counter, content to watch the scene unfold, his heart swelling at how seamlessly Aspen was beginning to fit in. He was beyond thrilled that the sad look in her eyes were replaced with her usual shy, happy ones.

The boys sprawled out on the couch in various positions, the atmosphere lively but easygoing. Aspen found herself seated in one of the armchairs, her hands clasping the juice box Harry had handed her earlier. She twirled the straw absently, her eyes flitting between the faces of Harry’s friends as they all looked at her with a mix of curiosity and amusement.

“So, Aspen,” Louis began, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. His mischievous grin was impossible to ignore. “What’s it like putting up with our Harry over here? I imagine he’s quite the handful.”

Aspen laughed softly, the sound light and genuine. She felt her cheeks heat up under their attentive gazes, but she managed to hold her own. “He’s not so bad,” she said, glancing at Harry. “Most of the time.”

The group erupted into laughter, and Harry, who had just returned from the kitchen with a beer in one hand and another juice box in the other, shook his head with a mock look of betrayal. “Ouch, love,” he teased, moving to perch himself on the arm of the chair next to her.

The proximity made Aspen’s heart skip a beat, but it also felt grounding. As he settled beside her, his arm brushed lightly against her shoulder, and she found herself subconsciously leaning a little closer to him.

“Careful what you say,” Harry warned with a grin, holding out the second juice box to her. “Or I might just keep this for myself.”

Aspen took it with a soft laugh, her fingers brushing his as she did. “Thanks,” she murmured, tucking it beside her for later.

“Alright, alright, next question!” Niall interjected, his blue eyes sparkling with interest. “Aspen, what do you study? Harry mentioned something about you being a genius, but he’s never given us the full story.”

Aspen’s cheeks flushed deeper, and she glanced down at her lap, fiddling with the hem of her sweater. “I’m a psychology major,” she said quietly, her voice steady despite her shyness. “With a focus on child development.”

“That’s incredible,” Liam said, his tone warm and sincere. “And Harry’s not wrong—you must be brilliant to tackle something like that.”

Aspen offered a small smile, her fingers fidgeting with the juice box straw again. “Thank you,” she replied softly.

Louis wasn’t done, though, his grin growing wider as he leaned back against the couch. “So, what’s the verdict on our boy Harry here? Is he a good boyfriend, or do we need to have a chat with him?”

Aspen blinked, caught off guard by the directness of the question. Her eyes darted to Harry, who was watching her with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. She hesitated, but when she spoke, her words came from the heart.

“He’s... he’s amazing,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “He’s patient and kind and always knows how to make me feel better, even when I don’t say anything.”

The room fell quiet for a moment, her words hanging in the air. Harry’s expression softened, his lips curving into a gentle smile. He reached out, brushing his fingers lightly over hers.

“She’s too good for me, really,” Harry said, breaking the silence with a self-deprecating chuckle.

“Damn right she is,” Zayn quipped, earning a round of laughter from everyone.

Aspen felt herself relax as the boys continued to ask her questions—what her favorite book was, what hobbies she enjoyed, and even a playful interrogation about whether or not Harry was good at sharing his food (to which she answered with a laugh and a resounding “No, absolutely not”).

To her surprise, the more they talked, the more comfortable she became. The boys’ teasing was lighthearted and friendly, and their genuine interest in getting to know her warmed her heart. She realized she wasn’t as shy or reserved as she’d feared she would be, and she chalked that up to Harry’s reassuring presence at her side.

At one point, she leaned closer to him without even realizing it, her shoulder pressing lightly against his leg as he rested his arm along the back of her chair. Harry noticed the small movement, his grin widening as he glanced down at her.

“You’re doing great, love,” he murmured quietly, just for her to hear.

Aspen looked up at him, her lips curving into a shy but genuine smile. “Thanks,” she whispered back, her chest swelling with a quiet confidence she hadn’t felt in a while.

The lively atmosphere buzzed as Niall clapped his hands together, his grin as wide as ever. “Alright, lads, I think it’s time for another shot! Who’s in?”

A chorus of playful groans and cheers filled the room. Aspen sipped her juice quietly, watching as Niall got to his feet and made his way to the kitchen to gather glasses. Harry glanced down at her, his hand resting casually on her shoulder now, giving a gentle squeeze.

“You’re sticking with the juice, yeah?” he asked, his voice low and warm.

Aspen nodded with a small smile. “I think I’ll leave the hard stuff to you guys.”

He chuckled, reaching for his beer and taking a slow sip. “Smart move, love.”

As Niall returned with a tray of glasses and the bottle of vodka, Louis leaned back in his seat, stretching his arms behind his head. “While we’re waiting, I might as well fill you in on what I’ve been up to, yeah?” he said, his tone light but tinged with a hint of pride.

“Go on, Lou,” Harry encouraged, tipping his beer bottle in Louis’ direction. “Tell ’em all about it.”

Louis smirked, shifting forward in his seat. “Well, the music’s going great. I’ve been working on some new tracks, collaborating with a few cool artists. It’s been a dream, really,” he said, his grin softening. “But, I’ll admit, there are days I miss being at the shop. You know, working with my hands, the banter with clients—it’s not the same.”

Aspen tilted her head, intrigued. “What kind of music do you make?”

Louis’ grin widened. “A bit of everything, really—some indie rock, a bit of folk. I like experimenting with sounds. It’s been a journey figuring out what feels most ‘me,’ but I think I’m getting there.”

“That’s so cool,” Aspen said earnestly, her eyes lighting up with genuine interest. “I’d love to hear your stuff sometime.”

“I’ll send you a playlist,” Louis promised with a wink. Then, as if he couldn’t resist, he added, “You know, Harry’s the one who got me into music in the first place.”

Aspen’s brows lifted in surprise, her gaze shifting to Harry. “Really?”

Harry shrugged, the corner of his mouth quirking into a sheepish smile. “Don’t let him fool you. He’s the talented one.”

“Don’t be modest, mate,” Liam cut in, leaning forward with a grin. “Aspen, you should hear him sing. He’s got this voice—deep, soulful—makes you stop in your tracks.”

Louis nodded in agreement, his expression earnest now. “He’s not just a singer, either. Harry writes, plays guitar, even dabbles in piano. The man’s a bloody genius when it comes to music. He just pretends not to be.”

Aspen’s cheeks flushed, and she turned to Harry, her curiosity piqued. “You never told me that,” she said softly, her tone more amazed than accusatory.

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, his green eyes glinting with a mix of humility and embarrassment. “Didn’t think it was that big of a deal.”

“It is,” Aspen insisted, her voice gentle but firm. “I want to hear you sing sometime.”

Harry chuckled, leaning a little closer to her. “Maybe tonight, if you’re lucky,” he teased, his grin playful but his eyes warm.

Aspen’s stomach fluttered, and she bit her lip to hide her growing smile. The idea of seeing Harry sing—of hearing the passion in his voice that his friends were so adamant about—sent a thrill of excitement through her.

Niall returned just then, setting the tray of glasses on the coffee table and filling them up with precise care. “Alright, everyone, grab a glass! And Aspen, you can clink with your juice box. No one’s getting left out.”

Aspen laughed softly as the group cheered and reached for their drinks, Harry passing her juice box back into her hands. She held it up alongside the others, her gaze meeting Harry’s as their glasses and juice clinked together.

“To good music and good friends!” Louis toasted, his voice carrying a playful sincerity that made everyone laugh and cheer again.

As they downed their shots and Aspen took another sip of her juice, she couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of belonging. These boys, with their easy banter and genuine warmth, were becoming more than just Harry’s friends—they were quickly becoming her friends too.

Isobel wandered over, her movements a little less steady than usual, her cheeks flushed pink from the secret shot she’d taken with Zayn in the kitchen. She grinned lazily and plopped herself right into Aspen’s lap without so much as a warning.

“Isobel!” Aspen exclaimed, laughing as she instinctively steadied her friend by holding onto her waist. “You’re such a lightweight, you know that?”

Isobel shrugged, leaning her head against Aspen’s shoulder. “Maybe,” she said, her words slightly slurred but still coherent. “But it’s a party, and I’m having so much fun.”

Aspen chuckled, her earlier anxiety melting away in the warmth of Isobel’s cheerful demeanor. “I can tell. How many shots have you had?”

Isobel smirked, her finger pressing to her lips in a mock ‘shh’ motion. “Just... two? Maybe three. But don’t tell Harry; he’ll get all big brother-y on me.”

Aspen shook her head with a soft laugh. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

They sat there for a moment, Isobel twirling a strand of Aspen’s hair absentmindedly before asking, “How was your day? I mean, before this fun chaos?”

Aspen’s smile faltered for a moment as she thought about her exam. “It was okay, I guess. My midterm was rough. I think I really messed it up.”

Isobel sat up a little straighter, her expression growing more serious despite her tipsiness. “Hey, hey. None of that,” she said, poking Aspen’s nose lightly. “You’re the smartest person I know, Asp. And even if it didn’t go perfectly, one test doesn’t define you, okay?”

Aspen nodded, her throat tightening slightly at her friend’s earnestness. “I’m trying to keep that in mind. I just... I hate feeling like I didn’t do my best.”

Isobel’s eyes softened, and she cupped Aspen’s cheeks dramatically, her hands cool against Aspen’s warm skin. “You’re amazing, Aspen. Brilliant, kind, gorgeous—and anyone who says otherwise is wrong. Got it?”

Aspen couldn’t help but laugh, her spirits lifting. “Got it.”

“Good,” Isobel declared before leaning in and planting a quick, playful kiss on Aspen’s cheek. Then, without another word, she bounced up and rushed over to Zayn, who was already fiddling with the karaoke machine.

Aspen shook her head, smiling to herself as Harry leaned closer, his elbow resting on the arm of the chair. “She’s something else,” he said, his voice low and full of affection for the whirlwind that was Isobel.

“She really is,” Aspen agreed, her voice soft, as she sipped from her juice box again.

Harry straightened up and nudged her knee gently with his hand. “Come on. Let’s go raid the kitchen for some chips before she comes back and steals your lap again.”

Aspen laughed, setting her juice box down and taking Harry’s outstretched hand. His fingers curled around hers warmly, and he gave her a small squeeze as he led her toward the kitchen.

The noise of Zayn and Isobel arguing over song selections grew louder behind them, but Aspen felt herself relax as she stepped into the quieter space of the kitchen with Harry. The soft lighting contrasted with the vibrant energy of the living room, and for a moment, it was just the two of them.

Harry released her hand to open a cabinet, pulling down a couple of bags of chips. “What’re you in the mood for? Classic or something cheesy?”

Aspen leaned against the counter, watching him with a fond smile. “Cheesy, definitely.”

“Good choice,” Harry said with a grin as he grabbed the nacho-flavored chips. Then, without missing a beat, he turned back to her, his expression softening. “You holding up okay?”

Aspen nodded, her heart swelling at the quiet concern in his voice. “Yeah. I think I needed this. It’s been a good distraction.”

Harry stepped closer, setting the chips on the counter beside her. “I’m glad,” he said, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. “You deserve a good night, Asp.”

She smiled up at him, feeling the familiar warmth his presence always seemed to bring. “Thanks for being here.”

“Always,” he murmured, leaning down to press a soft kiss to her forehead. His lips trailed down to her temple, then cheek, and finally a small kiss to her lips. "I really like your outfit tonight. Really 's doing you wonders," Harry cheekily grinned. To that, she tilted her head.

Taking another sip of his beer and pulling a chip out, he shrugged. "Forgive me for my mouth, but your ass looks..." He puffed out a dramatic sound of air, eyes widening playfully before he fell into a chuckle at how the red rose up to her cheeks. "Phenomenal is the word I'd use. Feel's like it too," he smirked, taking another swig of his beer.

It wasn't like he was lying. No where near that. She did look great, she always did. The leggings she had wore the other day at the shop really proved it to him, too. But what could he say? He was a man after all. Harry loved every part of her,  he was sure of it. And god, it drove him crazy to have felt her ass in his hands; how soft it was, how his hands weren't big enough to even begin to cover it. 

Aspen swatted his chest and shushed him, looking back to check no one heard but she giggled nonetheless. "Harry!" He only shrugged his shoulders, setting his beer down to reach over and steal her juice box. "What's so good 'bout these, hm?" 

The man wrapped his lips around the straw, and Aspen looked a longer than she would admit. He hummed in approval, nodding his head. "Definitely tastes better than vodka, I'll tell you that," he laughed. 

Aspen rolled her eyes, though her smile betrayed her amusement. “Alright, alright. Give it back.,” she said, reaching for her juice box, but Harry held it just out of her reach with a mischievous grin.

“Oh? Or what?” he teased, leaning slightly against the counter as he took another exaggerated sip.

Aspen stepped closer, crossing her arms and giving him a mock glare. “It was mine first. Give it."

Harry chuckled, lowering the juice box but holding it out of reach again just as she made a grab for it. “Only if you say, ‘Harry, you’re the best boyfriend ever.’”

Aspen let out an exasperated laugh, shaking her head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously great,” he corrected, winking at her.

“Fine,” Aspen said, rolling her eyes again. “Harry, you’re the best boyfriend ever. Happy?”

Harry’s grin widened as he finally handed her the juice box. “Ecstatic,” he said, leaning down to press a quick kiss to her forehead. Though, he ended up reaching behind him to get a box of his own. He'd rather babysit a juice box than a beer.

Aspen took a sip, watching him over the rim of the box as he picked up his juice again and leaned back against the counter, casual and self-assured. The soft glow of the kitchen lights caught in his curls beneath the backward cap, and the way he cradled the box in one hand with his other shoved into the pocket of his flannel made him look effortlessly cool.

She tilted her head slightly, taking in the scene, and an idea popped into her head. Her fingers itched for her phone, and she couldn’t help but smirk at the thought.

“Stay just like that,” she said suddenly, pulling her phone from her pocket.

Harry raised a brow, his lips curving into a curious smile. “Why? You gonna take a picture of your handsome boyfriend?”

Aspen nodded, biting her lip to suppress her own grin. “Exactly. You look too good right now not to document it.”

Harry chuckled, adjusting his stance slightly, clearly playing it up for her. “Alright, snap away, love. I’m ready for my close-up.”

She rolled her eyes at his theatrics but couldn’t help the soft laugh that escaped her as she angled her phone. The camera captured the way his hat framed his face, his relaxed yet confident posture, and the mischievous glint in his eyes.

After snapping a few shots, Aspen glanced at her screen, satisfied with how the photo turned out. “Perfect,” she said softly, almost to herself.

“Lemme see,” Harry said, leaning closer to peek at the screen.

Aspen turned it toward him, and he let out a low whistle. “Not bad. You’ve got a good eye, Asp.”

She smiled, a small blush creeping onto her cheeks. “I might post it,” she admitted shyly.

Harry’s grin grew. “Oh, you’re posting me to the ‘Gram now? That’s big, Asp. I feel honored.”

Aspen giggled, shrugging. “I just... I like this side of you. It’s nice to share.”

Harry set his juice down and pulled her gently into his side, his arm draping over her shoulders. “Well, I’m glad you want to. Just make sure you tag me so I can brag about my gorgeous girlfriend.” He kept his eyes on her fiddling thumbs on the screen. Aspen laughed, leaning into him as she fiddled with her phone, already drafting a caption in her head.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

It was Harry's turn on the microphone now. He stood with Zayn, both of which near stumbled up to grab the mics and choose a song. 

"This goes out to our lovely ladies, and I guess Aspen and Isobel, too." Zayn laughed out, pointing at each person in the "crowd". The sultry melody of 'Careless Whisper' began to play through the speakers, and Aspen sat up in excitement. She was so ready to hear Harry sing and she was kind of shocked, not taking him as someone who listened to this kind of music. He lifted the beer in his hand and started off, dramatically closing his eyes and tilting his body up.

Aspen giggled softly, looking over at Isobel who was already making fun of them. Zayn soon chimed in to the next verse, and they swapped before Harry came to begin the catchy chorus himself. His voice was kept low, dripping with his accent but he carried the words out so thick and heavenly that Aspen swore would make her whip her head around if she wasn't already watching.

"Tonight the music seems so loud, I wish that we could lose this crowd," Harry sang out, his finger lifting off the neck of the beer bottle to point at Aspen with his lopsided grin and a wink before he continued. Her face flushed and she rolled her eyes, tucking the pillow in her lap further against her while she took in the show in front of her.

He really was a good singer and performer, she thought. There was absolutely nothing Harry was bad at. The man seemed to take phenomenal photos, had an angelic voice, and brought life behind the microphone and tattoo gun with ease. That was her Harry.

The uproar of clapping and laughter filled the room when they closed out their song and bowed dramatically. Zayn blew kisses to the crowd and pretended to catch flowers before they both stumbled back to their partners. Harry took his seat next to Aspen now, Isobel having scurried off to Zayn. 

The girl grinned as she looked up at her very tipsy boyfriend, her hand coming up to brush his cheek lightly. "That was incredible, H. Who would've thought?"

Harry only chuckled, taking her hand on his face into his after leaning into her touch a few moments. He pressed a series of kisses over her knuckles. His eyes were slightly red, noticeably droopy but also slightly puffy. "Thank you, my darling dearest." He poshed his accent up which only drew giggles from the both of them. Harry took a look around the occupied room, everyone deep in their own conversations four shots in. His eyes slowly met Aspen's again, and his hand gently dropped to rest on her knee. His thumb worked small patterns over the sheer material which sent a shiver down Aspen's spine. 

"Come sit in m'lap," Harry's voice drew low in her ear. She looked around shyly, nodding but still raising the question. "My skirt, H..." She blushed, fiddling with the end of it. The only reason she needed the pillow in her lap in the first place was due to its revealing length when she sat down. It wasn't drastic, but it wasn't anything she was used to.

"It's okay, I'll cover you. Please?" Harry muttered his plea against her ear, his nose brushing through her soft hair. His lips turned into a smile once she gave in and he sat further back, taking her hand to guide her carefully onto his thigh. Harry hummed in approval, pulling the pillow back to sit up against the back of Aspen, in case her skirt rose. He set another small pillow in her lap and secured his arm around her, making sure it was okay. When she nodded, he pressed a lazy kiss to her shoulder and thanked her softly, just enough for her to hear. 

Harry's other hand curled around the back of the pillow and rested on her hip, securing the pillow to her frame. He gently tapped his fingers and ran his fingers along the hem of her skirt where it met her sheer tight-covered thighs. Harry gently lifted the material only for it to snap back into place. The small motion was definitely not noticeable but it still made Aspen blush intensely. 

Her arm came to wrap around his firm and broad shoulders, and Harry responded by leaning into her with ease. The comfort she brought him, especially while being intoxicated, was the best kind of overwhelming feeling. The man took his lip ring between his teeth while his chipped-nail polish fingers tapped along her thigh while they tuned in and participated in multiple conversations through the night.

Somewhere along the end of the night, Aspen had offered their home to the far drunk men, and Isobel. Zayn would obviously bunk with Isobel and Harry with Aspen, so that left plenty of room for the other three to crash. She kissed Harry's cheek softly before bidding him a temporary goodbye to grab blankets for the crew. 

It only took about twenty minutes to tidy up their night-- toss the cups and bottles, put away the machine, and fix up the snacks. Harry trailed behind her, more sober than the rest but still tipsy, and offered helping hands which definitely brought Aspen relief. She in no way intended to wake up to deal with hangovers and a messy apartment. The girl set a bottle of Advil on the kitchen counter along with a note saying there was water in the fridge while everyone began to groan and slug around to find comfortable spots. 

When Aspen and Harry got up to her room and she slipped out of her skirt, her crewneck still covering her, he scattered her face in kisses. She giggled and held his wrists, taking in each of his wet and sloppy kisses to her face and mouth. 

"Alright, alright! Get in bed. I just have to change and I'll come snuggle." She ruffled Harrys curls after placing his hat neatly on the stand and handed him a pair of sweatpants she pulled from Isobel's clump of clothes in her room. 

"These are Zayns, I'm pretty sure. Isobel has a bad habit of keeping all her junk in my room."

Harry sat up, taking the sweats with his droopy eyes on Aspen still. "You know," he started, slightly slurred but not the annoying kind, "you don't need pants. Jus' come lay down. I promise I'll behave," Harry flashed his lopsided grin. In his defense, she never slept well with pants on anyways. So who was he to stop her routine to feel comfortable?

Aspen debated, but it only took two seconds as she was bound to remove any pants she slipped into anyways. She nodded, picking up one of the oversized shirts she had and made her way to the bathroom to change into that and remove her makeup.

When the girl came back out, Harry was cuddled up with her pillow, his jeans discarded on the floor and the sweats clung low on his hips, which made her smile softly. The girl shut off the light in the bedroom and closed her bedroom door, making her way back into her bed. Finally. All she needed today was her bed and Harry, and now she had both.

Harry wasted no time and wrapped an arm around the girls waist to immediately pull her against his chest. She rolled and giggled softly, snuggling into him nonetheless. "You turn into a big baby when you drink, you know?" 

The man peeped one eye open to look down at her and closed them again with a grumble, snuggling into her and burying his nose into the sweet scent of her hair. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever, baby." Aspen hummed, the harsh thump sound of his heartbeat filling her ears before it gradually slowed and his breathing became more shallow.

Harry was long gone and fast asleep, and Aspen followed quickly behind. 

---

fun fact, 'darling dearest' is the name of a fanfiction i wanted to write about italy!harry :p

[revelboo]

Looking at you with my big ol eyes to politely ask for more Skids whenever you feel in the mood to write for him. That first part was just so gooood I keep thinking about it ;u;

Sure

Hysteria

IDW Skids x Reader

• Cringing and almost dropping you as you slump against his servos, still making that awful gagging sound as he runs up the ramp while the others cover him. Looking down, he shudders. “I know you’re really stressed, but if you don’t stop purging, I’m going to be doing it, too. Nobody wants that,” he mutters trying to find someone to hand you off to as the last bot makes it back aboard and Rodimus runs for the bridge. Seeing him staring at them hopefully, everyone backs away from him and you. Wanting nothing to do with the mess or the smell. Awkwardly rubbing a servo against your spine, he roughly clears his vents. “Please, stop? Anyone know how to fix this?”

• Throat raw, you lay your cheek against the giant robots hand and cut your eyes up at him. Because you’d been able to understand him. At least you can ask him what he’s going to do to you, those other aliens either couldn’t understand you or didn’t care. They definitely hadn’t been as gentle as he is. Feeling him rub your back and the unhappy worry in his voice eases some of the terror. He wouldn’t care that you’re upset if he was just going to hurt you, right? “I want to go home.”

• Now Tailgate and Trailbreaker, the only two not driven off by your purging take the opportunity to bail on him, knowing you’re going to have to be told that you can’t go home and wanting no part of it. Cowards. And you can’t go home, at least, not yet and that’s not going to go over well. Glaring at their retreating backs, he uses a servo to nudge your hair away from your face and his servo lingers seeing a nasty yellow bruise on your neck. Is that a bite?Venting softly, he wishes he’d shot more of them. Those tired eyes stare up at him, much calmer. No, resigned. Though he’s pretty sure that’s about to change. “So, about that? We’re on a mission and far from Earth, but I promise I’ll try to get you back.” Eventually. Not wanting to tell you it might be years before that happens.

• Eyes closing, you refuse to start bawling. What good would that do? All you can do is hope his promise is worth something. That he’s kinder than your last captors had been. “You’ve been to Earth. Understand my language.” Not really a question, but if there were giant, alien robots on Earth, wouldn’t you have heard about it? That would have definitely made the news unless it was covered up by the government, which wouldn’t really surprise you. “What are you going to do with me?”

• “You’re safe here, there’s other humans onboard. Er, rescues like you. I guess you’ll stay with me for now. I’m Skids.” Not sure how he feels about having a human to care for as you just look up at him, shockingly calm considering the excitement and terror you’d just gone through. But as your eyes stay closed, still not lifting your head from his hand, he hopes that maybe you’re just too exhausted to be scared. There’s no telling what those aliens had done to you before he’d found you or how long they’d had you. Those coverings you’re wearing don’t look like what little he knows of human fashion. Making him wonder if you’re normally this docile or if you’d been broken. “You’re going to be okay. I promise.”

• Tired down to your bones, you just lay against his servos. Wanting to believe him. Wanting to be safe, not scared anymore. Not hurt. And more than anything else, wanting to sleep. To forget the pain. Curling yourself into his warm hand, he starts stroking your back again as he walks and even though you hate it, you start softly crying.

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