#and like it clearly helps a bit with The Agonies but its soooo hard to get to sleep

[hobbinch]

I miss THC

[breathinginthevapor]

Rainy day

Summary: You get caught up in the rain with your best friend Harry, and it might just be your chance to tell each other how you really feel. This was requested by anon and I really think y’all should read it cause it’s hella cute.

A/N: Alright, this was soooo hard at the beginning but then it felt like I cracked the code and it just took off. It was requested as a blurb but I guess it got a little longer than I intended, but yeah, it’s really cute. I love best friend blurbs, and even though it was difficult to write about Harry at first, I hope I did alright. Please leave feedback, no matter what you think (I love constructive criticism almost as much as I love flattery lol) Also, I was sooo close to turning this into smut so there might be a few sexual undertones still, (I’ve got a dirty soul). just like y/n i can’t believe i’ve spent my whole life not kissing harry styles rip

masterlist

I don’t own the picture, it’s from Harry’s instagram

The sky, which was blue and cloudless just a few minutes ago, is now grey and stormy as the rain pours down on you. Your hair is soaked, sticking to your face, your yellow summer dress has darkened and clings to your every curve and when you look at your best friend, his face shows a whole new level of panic behind the once curly brown locks that’s now been flattened and painted a black-ish colour by the water.

“Not my new Gucci suit,” Harry cries out, his voice dripping with desperation and agony.

“Told you not to wear it today, you idiot,” you remind him and laugh.

“’m not an idiot, and ya know long I’ve waited to wear it, yeah?” he argues as you search through your purse for the keys to your apartment. Your hands scramble past lipsticks, band-aids, recipes and small notes, but no key yet.

“I know, Haz, I was just joking. You know I love the suit.” You nod approvingly at the flowery multi-colour suit, and he chuckles, leaning in close to you when you insert the key into the keyhole.

His breath is hot against your ear as he mutters with a low voice, “You’d love to take it off me, too, wouldn’t ya, love?”

You feel a blush creep on your cheeks, bowing your head down and acting like you’re all focused on unlocking the door. When you’ve pushed it open with your shoulder, you look at him and reason with a voice that’s much calmer than your heart beat, “actually, I’d prefer if you stripped yourself and didn’t act like a baby when we get inside. Wouldn’t want you to catch a cold, and you still got a drawer with clean clothes in my closet.”

He rolls his eyes, and you know he thinks your reaction at his sexual remark is funny.

“We’ll hang the suit up and try to save that, too,” you add, attempting to change the subject.

“Thank you, love.” His voice is back to normal, and the nickname is far from new, but there still runs a shiver down your spine at his words. It doesn’t make it better that his hand, although clammy, sends fiery sparks through your skin when he touches the swell of your back.

He doesn’t remove his hand before you’ve entered your apartment, and all the way up the stairs, it feels like a gentle guiding force, like he’s protecting you. It feels nice, but your skin feels just as cold and wet when his hand disappears.

“Go shower, darling, I’ll find some comfy clothes for you and make us some tea,” he offers, and your heart swells at how considerate he is.

However, you shake your head, instead grabbing his hand and smiling softly at him, “Nono, we both need to warm up. We’ll just shower together in our underwear.”

He looks taken back by your proposition, cheeks turning pink. Then he nods with a wide grin, squeezing your hand and leading the way to your bathroom. The air is thick as you strip, discarding your wet garments on the floor and making a mental note to yourself to hang it up later.

He carefully steps into the shower cabinet, looking back over his shoulder at you as if to check if you’re still on.

“Scooch over,” you order, and he laughs as he makes room for you, taking another step towards the shower head.

Neither your bathroom nor your shower cabinet are very commodious, and you realize that you didn’t really think this through. If you had, you would probably have realized that it wouldn’t be good for you to stand so close to him that your bare shoulder is touching his arm, and your legs almost bump into each other, especially because you’re only wearing underwear. If it wasn’t hard enough already, he also looks insanely good in those tight black Calvin Klein boxers that leave very little to your imagination, and you know you aren’t supposed to look, but it’s really hard not to.

He turns on the shower, the cold water hitting your skin and making goose bumps appear. Luckily, though, it only takes a few second before the water heats up and you close your eyes, letting the pleasure run through your veins.

“Please don’t make that face, darling,” Harry begs with a hoarse voice that does something to your body you don’t want to admit. You open your eyes again and notice his eyes are fixated on the tiles on the wall, teeth clenched and a painful expression on his face.

“What do you mean? What’s the matter?”

Have you done anything wrong? Overstepped? Crossed his boundaries? The last you want to do is make him uncomfortable just because you’ve got these stupid feelings for him.

“It does… things to me,” he admits, still not meeting your eyes.

“What- Oh.” You only realise what he’s talking about when you look down. And then you laugh, because the whole situation just feels peculiar.

“Don’t laugh,” Harry poutingly mutters, and you can’t help but embrace him in a hug.

“‘m sorry, Harry.” You smile widely and look into his eyes until he can’t help laughing as well.

“Do you need to have a couple minutes by yourself? I’d offer to help you out but ‘m really tired.” As if to emphasize your point, you yawn and he chuckles once more, but his cheeks are pink and there’s a weird and thick tension.

“A couple minutes would be nice,” he whispers, clearly not comfortable enough to speak loudly. You nod, stepping out of the shower and grabbing two towels, laying one of them on the closed toilet seat for Harry to use when he’s done and wrapping the other one around your wet hair after quickly drying your body.

“See you in a bit.” You give him a little wave and then close the bathroom door behind you.

You make two cups of tea, (his favourite with strawberry) and then you find some chocolate in your fridge and break into smaller pieces in a cute little pink bowl you got from Harry’s mum a couple years ago.

After putting the snacks on your bedside table, you rid yourself of your wet underwear and quickly find a pair a new set and a of sweatpants and a loose t-shirt in your drawer. You throw on the dry clothing and then slip under the duvet, waiting for Harry to come back and help you decide on which movie you want to watch.

He walks in a couple minutes later, curls a wet frazzle and only a towel covering his lower body.

“Where’s that drawer you were talking ‘bout, love?” he asks nonchalantly, voice void of the tension from before.

“Third on your left.” He opens the drawer you described and picks up what appears to be some worn grey sweatpants and a pair of blue boxers, letting his towel fall down and putting on the underwear, leaving you a complete sight of his naked butt.

When he’s clad in both boxers and sweatpants, he turns around and looks at you through the strands of hair that clings to his forehead, “‘s okay if don’t put on a shirt? Not really in the mood.”

Your eyes fixate on the small droplets of water that’s spread across his shoulders. You bite your lip and swallow a lump, your tone low and scratchy when you assure him, “sure, I don’t mind.” You clear your throat, with a stronger voice, “Just dry your hair, don’t want my pillow getting all wet because of your stupid ass.”

He chuckles, picking up his discarded towel. “The only thing in that bed getting wet tonight is your panties, love,” he states and wink.

You pick up an extra pillow and throw at him, causing him to curse at you when he’s thrown off balance for a few seconds.

“That’s a really weird thing to say after you just jerked off in my shower.” He laughs once more and then does as you told him to, quickly drying his hair with the towel before hanging it over the backrest of a chair.

He only needs to take two steps (it’s so unfair how long legs he’s got) before he can crawl into bed beside you, pulling you against him with a tired whine. You get what he wants and moves so you’re placed between his legs, your head laying on his damp chest and ear just below his heart, letting you hear its every beat.

“I can hear your heart beating,” you state. He hums, and you easily feel the vibration of his deep voice. He doesn’t say anything, though, just draws small patterns on your hip beneath your shirt.

You lay there in silence for a while, your eyes closed and enjoying the sound of his breath.

Then he speaks up, voice raspy and deep, sounding sleepy, “Do ya think we have a weird friendship?” Your heart skips a beat and your stomach churns when he mentions the word ‘friendship’. Not because you aren’t proud and happy to be his friend, his best friend, but because you feel guilty that the word also sends little arrows of sadness into your heart.

Before you can answer his question, he elaborates, “Like, we shower together and ya give me a hard on and have no problem with me jerking off in your shower and ya even offer to help me out and then I come in here and cuddle you without a shirt on. ‘S that weird?”

You grab the hand that isn’t caressing your skin and tangle your fingers together, giving his hand a squeeze. You don’t like hearing him so self-conscious and insecure, but you’re well aware he has always cared a little too much about what other people think of him for his own good.

“Not necessarily. Like, yeah, I know that most friends don’t act like us, but that doesn’t mean that our friendship isn’t just as good as theirs. You get me?”

He makes an agreeing noise, but you can tell he’s not entirely convinced. That’s one of the perks of being friends for as long as you and Harry have. Although it does make it nearly impossible to surprise each other with birthday gifts or surprise parties.

“And if I had the choice between all those normal people and friendships, I would still choose you, Harry, you know that. I don’t believe in soulmates or anything, but if I did, I’d say you were mine.” You turn around so you lay on your stomach with your hands on his chest, looking him in the eyes and smiling at him.

He smiles back at you and licks his lips, green orbs glistening in the light of your fairy lights. Then he reaches out and gently cups your face with his palm.

“And you’d be mine,” he promises, dimples appearing on his cheeks. “Can I tell ya something?” he then asks, putting a strand of hair that has escaped the towel back in, his fingertips gently touching your forehead.

You nod, “of course, Harry, you know you can tell me everything.”

He takes a deep breath, the rise of his chest making you rise with it as you lay on top of him. It seems like he’s debating whether to say something or not, but you know better than to pressure him. He’ll tell you when he’s ready.

“I think our friendship might be different because it’s more than friendship to me.”

You feel your mouth dry out, not sure if he’s saying what you think he is. You really hope he is, though. “What do you mean?”

“Like, I want to kiss ya in the rain and hear ya laugh about how stupid I am for wearing a suit worth thousands of dollars when the forecast said it’d be raining and I want to get in the shower with ya and not having to keep our underwear on because we’ll just drop ‘em and have sex either way, and I want to sleep over like I always do but not having to explain it to my friends afterwards because there’s nothing weird in us sleeping together since we’re dating,” he rambles, not once pausing to breathe. Then, after a few seconds of silence, he adds, “jus’ want the whole package, yeah?”

He looks expectantly and nervously down at you, biting his lip. His green eyes seem larger than usual, you realize, almost looking like a little kid scared of a horror movie.

“The whole package sounds nice,” you whisper, heart racing in your chest.

His lips break into a hesitant smile, clearly not daring to believe you completely. He must be just as scared of getting hurt or rejected as you are.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, really nice, Harry,” you smile, feeling a warmth spread all through your body.

He presses his lips against yours, almost desperately, and then he parts his lips and kisses you with an open mouth, breathing warmly into your mouth. He tastes like coffee and the piece of chocolate he just ate, and it feels nice and cosy and like you should have done this a long time ago. Honestly, you can’t believe you wasted your whole life not kissing Harry Styles.

Not breaking the kiss, you change your position so you’re sitting on his lap and with your legs on each side of him, leaning down and supporting your body with your hands on the mattress beside him.

“Finally,” he breathes against your mouth, “Been trying to seduce ya for months.”

“Really? How?” Between and after your words, you give him a little peck on his lips. After a whole lifetime of not kissing him, you’re determined not to spend too long without his mouth on yours.

“Like, ten minutes I said your panties were going to get wet tonight and I’m pretty sure I made a remark about ya undressing me when ya were unlocking the door,” he reminds you, and you feel a blush creep onto your cheeks.

“Oh yeah, I see it now.”

“Has anyone ever told ya you’re really oblivious?” His voice is teasing but his eyes are loving and there’s no doubt in your mind that this is more right than anything you’ve ever done in your life.

“Just shup and kiss me, Harry Styles,” you demand, leaning down so your nose touches his. And as the good fella he is, he gently caresses your cheek with his thumb and kisses you, tongue exploring your mouth and teeth sinking into your lower lip. You can feel his damp hair against your forehead and the hand that isn’t on your cheek traveling down your back, stopping at your butt and giving it a gently squeeze, causing you to smile against his lips.

Life has never been better.

[thethespacecoyote]

He remembers, with spit on his fangs and bile in his throat, the old crone who had called to him, crouching beside the thorny bush where he’d taken refuge to coax him out with crooked finger and soothing tone. He feels anger at his own pitiful trust as he’d crept out from under the brush and into her warm chest.

There had been nothing but pain after that fleeting moment. The witch had a hut deep, deep within the forest where light could barely shine, its walls decorated with skulls and small bones and tufts of fur and strange, glowing vials. A rusted cage became Jack’s new home, despite his desperate cries as he was thrown inside. He remembered how he had wailed, claws clanging against the bars, the metal warming with his smoke until she had struck him on the muzzle.

Soooo I wrote a thing about dragon!Jack’s really sad backstory D:

Warnings for: animal abuse/child abuse, gore, violence, torture....yeah. 

Dragons have very good memories.

It’s one of those things he hasn’t really told Rhys. There’s no reason to worry a kid who already worries his ass off about every little thing with respect to their kittens—are they getting enough to eat? Are they too cold? Too warm? The human honestly needed to take a breather every once and awhile from fretting about the kittens.

Which is why he hasn’t mentioned to Rhys that the kittens will mostly likely remember everything that is happening to them.

Jack knows this, because he remembers.

He remembers his mother very clearly. His father, more distantly, but both have at least the presence of warmth and security in his mind. He can nearly feeling the way his mother licked his face, the way she nudged him along as he struggled to take his first few steps, the way she tucked him into the warmth of her side.

He doesn’t quite recall the moment he had lost sight of his parents and the rest of his clutch out into the open forest around their lair. He can still feel the fear that pumped through his little chest as he had charged through the underbrush, letting out terrified little squeaks as he had searched for his family to little avail, finding nothing but torn up grass and frightened game that darted away from the frantic kitten’s claws and sad puffs of smoke.

He remembers, with spit on his fangs and bile in his throat, the old crone who had called to him, crouching beside the thorny bush where he’d taken refuge to coax him out with crooked finger and soothing tone. He feels anger at his own pitiful trust as he’d crept out from under the brush and into her warm chest.

There had been nothing but pain after that fleeting moment. The witch had a hut deep, deep within the forest where light could barely shine, its walls decorated with skulls and small bones and tufts of fur and strange, glowing vials. A rusted cage became Jack’s new home, despite his desperate cries as he was thrown inside. He remembered how he had wailed, claws clanging against the bars, the metal warming with his smoke until she had struck him on the muzzle. His teeth had been too soft and small to properly bite her, and she had hit him and hit him until he was whimpering, curled around himself in a corner of the cage.

He had tried to break free while she slept, thrashing against the cage and eventually screaming for his mother until his throat was hoarse. The witch had woken up in a flurry of anger and beat him so hard that he had passed out on the floor of his cage. When he had come to his flank and mouth had been hurting, several scales and fangs yanked from his body to join foul-smelling herbs and offal in the witch’s cauldron. He’d whimpered softly, body laying limp on the floor of his cage, not daring to move out of fear of angering the witch again.

Every few days the witch would fill the vials hanging from her walls and leave him with a scrap of food and water inside of his cage. He’d spend the entire time not sleeping trying to escape, gnawing at the bars until his gum bled, bashing against the iron until his soft skin split along his skull. Inevitably, he would stay locked in the cage until the witch would return, and she would reach into his cage with those wicked, gnarls hands and a terrifying pair of rusted pincers, ignoring his screeching and thrashing as she ripped more scales from his flank.

Day by day, more dried blood had streaked the floor of his cage. His stomach had rumbled through his whole body, desperate for more food, but she had kept him starving and weak, too weak to fight back as she’d plundered his body for his scales, his teeth, even his blood and saliva.

And it had only gotten worse the day he figured out he could change into a human.

It had happened while the witch was gone, Jack still struggling to recover from the latest scavenging of his body. His right flank had been aching and streaked with blood, regrowing teeth poking painfully through his gums as he’d sat up and stared at his hands, only to find fleshy pink fingers instead of claws. He’d grabbed at his body, his face, whimpering in distress at the new flesh that graced his touch. His animal mewls turned to soft, questioning moans as he grasped his strange claws at the bars, rattling them as he thrashed his phantom tail.

Once she saw him, the witch had flown into a rage, screeching at the poor boy as she’d yanked a weapon from the wall—a long, gnarled wooden handle lashed on one end to a wickedly sharp, blood-stained flurry of metal teeth. He’d screamed in agony as she’d flayed the weapon into his now-soft flesh, splitting the skin wide open. She’d beat him until he had had no choice but to change, scales hardening against her blows as he’d molted back into his dragon form, toddler shrieking shrinking to baleful mewls as he’d cowered against his cage.

Jack remembers all this, all the pain and torture at the hands of the crone. When he looks at his own kittens, playing and cuddling with Rhys, his heart throbs at the thought of them ever having to endure such horror.

The day he killed her had been the greatest day of his live, ’till the birth of his own kittens. Despite being starved and beaten, he had grown—his scales had hardened with the harshness of her blows, his fangs replaced with longer, sharper ones every time she had stolen one from him. His hatred had continued to burn brighter and brighter in his eyes until he kept her up at night with their piercing glow. She had tried to keep him chained inside her cage, even tried to lace his body with constricting charms, but all the wild his own magic had been growing, filled with murderous fury at his captor.

He had changed into his human form, one morning, anticipating her arrival back to the hut with a fiery gleam in his eyes. He had stood up, chains clacking against each other as he’d stared at her, watch her desperately grasp for the hateful axe in one thin, quavering hand. With a furious shriek she had swung it upon him, but Jack had grown quick as she had grown weak, and in one firm hand he’s caught the brittle wood of her axe and ripped it from her grasp. Before she had had any time to react with spell or incantation he had swung the axe at the cage and shorn straight through the bars, before snapping it in half and tossing it to the ground.

Years and years of torture and abuse had fallen away as Jack had leapt upon her, his bulk knocking her on his back as his clawed hands had found her throat. It had almost passed too quickly, and to date one of Jack’s few regrets has been that he didn’t take more time watching the light drain from her eyes before he snapped her neck like a twig.

Freedom was something his own kittens need not ever worry about. Jack ruled the skies, and as long as he still lived they could fly as high and as far as they could ever want without fear. Freedom flowed in their veins, would never come to them like rain to a parched desert, as it had when Jack had stood outside that shack, bare and bloody to the first glimmer of sunlight he’d seen in years.

He had tried, in his long life since that day, to understand humans. He had given them chance after chance after chance to prove themselves as more than cruel, selfish creatures scurrying on the earth for a whisper of a moment before death claimed them.

Jack had shared with them his strength, his knowledge—he had aided them in their time of need and helped them to treasures beyond their wildest dreams. He had tried to forget the phantoms of pain in his scales as he’d learned their ways and led them to untold power.

And one by one, they had all betrayed him.

An earl that had offered him shelter, turned traitor. A former lover. A fire witch who had left him, screaming in agony in the dark dark dark dark caverns deep within mountains flushed with ancient energy. His face burned and scarred, the sight bleached from his eye.

And so, Jack had finally come to hate humans.

Rhys, he knows what happened to the other humans that Jack had brought back to his lair, but the dragon has spared him the details. Rhys knows that Jack had them all killed, had seared and consumed their flesh before leaving their bones to bleach on the mountainside. But he knows nothing about the days of intervening torture, the way Jack pulled errant knights and stolen princesses apart limb from limb, their screams humming in the scar on his face and the memory pains in his scales as he laughed. The way Jack roasted them alive in their suits of armor, the way he cut their tongues from their mouths and let them choke on their blood. He knows nothing of the fact that, had he not been carrying Jack’s clutch in his belly, then the dragon would have torn his arm from its socket and slit him crotch to collar and felt nothing.

Rhys doesn’t need to know about any of that, because as much as Jack hates humans he now cannot bear to hate Rhys.

So he merely watches as the young prince tends to their kittens, wrapping them up in soft blankets and holding them close, feeding them bits of meat and stroking their silky little heads, and enjoys the gentle promise of his young.