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harryslittlefreakk · 5 months

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the pact

summary: you and harry made a childhood pact to marry if you were both still single when he reached 30. now that his big birthday is approaching, you find out whether your friendship (and your pact) have stood the test of time

warnings: mostly fluff, some smut :)

wordcount: 6k

a/n: i actually really like this one. it’s not proofread yet as i was so eager to get it up lol. hope you enjoy!

my masterlist can be found here! happy reading 🫶🏼

From the second you’d received the invitation, you were buzzing with a giddy nervousness. It had been years since you’d seen Harry, though Anne and Gemma were always so quick to share what he was up to. You’d followed his career silently for 13 years, still bumping into him every few years when Anne hosted Boxing Day, or he happened to be in town for your family’s annual summer barbecues. In your mind, he was still the cheeky, dimpled little lad you’d hide under the dining room table with, imagining you were explorers of far away lands.

But Harry wasn’t the young boy you’d chased after in your childhood anymore, the teenager you looked out for when you stuck your head over the garden fence to call your sister home. He wasn’t the handsome young man you’d spent countless hours swooning over with your friends in the bakery after school. Harry was a global sensation, the world’s sweetheart. You weren’t sure he’d even recognise you, a forgotten reminder of much simpler days.

Growing up next door to Harry hadn’t come without its challenges. You’d lost your childhood best friend seemingly overnight once One Direction formed, his life suddenly busy with meetings, tours and interviews. Anne still welcomed you with open arms, but her house felt a little too cold for you with his presence haunting the walls, memories etched into every surface of the house. You’d still hang out in his bedroom sometimes, his band posters and drawings left collecting dust in a lifeless room. When girls from school learned of your connection to him, they’d befriend you and treat you like the hottest new thing until you refused to give over any information. He was your Harry, your long-gone games and silly memories something you held close to your heart. It soon seemed easier to let him go altogether, move on to a new chapter, stop waiting for your best friend to appear again.

Still, you were glad to be able to support Gemma on one of her biggest days. She’d become such a regular feature in your household, she felt like family herself. Your parents had been more overjoyed at the news of her impending nuptials than any of yours or your sister’s recent achievements. They loved Gemma like their own, their ‘extra daughter’, as your dad called her. You knew this was as big a moment for them as it was for Anne, having watched Gemma grow from the tiny dark-haired girl your sister had raved about on her first day of school, to a woman about to become a wife.

Standing outside of the venue now, a beautiful old church overlooking the peaceful tides below, yours and Harry’s childhood pact suddenly hit you. You were laying on a blanket in your garden, tops of your heads pressed together as you made out shapes in the clouds above. “I will never get married,” you told Harry. Your parents had had their wedding album out that day, sharing stories with Anne and Robin. You squirmed and grimaced every time they spoke about it, never understanding how any girl would willingly share their life with a boy. “Yuck,” he squeaked from next to you. “Me either. I don’t ever want to live with a stinky girl!” You giggled together, the cool evening breeze washing over you. “Maybe, maybe I might one day though. When I’m really old and lonely.”

“Old like my parents?” you asked him. “Even olderer than that. Like 30.” You gasped, quickly trying to count on your fingers. “That’s really really old. Maybe we can be married when we’re 30.” Harry ran inside when you said this, leaving you chasing after him once again. He grabbed a napkin from the kitchen counter and scribbled on it in felt tip,

‘I ____ will marry Harry when we’re really super old’

“You have to put your name on that line or it’s not real,” Harry told you, handing the blue felt tip to you. You both signed your initials underneath, and proudly went to show your parents. They’d fallen about in laughter when you told them, promising to hold you to your pact. You hadn’t seen the napkin since that day, and you were sure it was long forgotten by everybody, especially Harry. You felt a small twinge in your chest at this, suddenly wishing you were anywhere but here.

“Hey Boo, you okay? Anne wants to get some pictures of us all together before the ceremony,” your dad told you, leading you through the crowd of guests. Boo was the only nickname that had ever stuck for you, starting when you and Harry decided to go as Boo and Sully from Monsters Inc. one Halloween. You’d originally wanted to be Mike, but with your big brown eyes shielded by little bangs and your signature pigtails, everyone persuaded you to be Boo. You’d outgrown almost everything else from childhood, but Boo was stuck with you for life.

“Oh Y/N, you look lovely darling,” Anne cooed as you came into her sight. She pulled you in for a hug, kissing your cheek as she pulled away. You had to admit, you did scrub up well. It was a long time since you’d really made the effort to look properly nice, still caught in the comfort of your pandemic wardrobe of leggings and sweatshirts. The olive-green maxi dress you’d settled on hugged your body in all the right places, a thick band of material draping over your chest and the tops of your arms, showcasing your toned shoulders. You’d always weirdly liked your shoulders and neck, an odd area to be proud of but it was by far your favourite part of your body. Your hair was scraped back in a sleek bun, tiny wisps framing your fresh face. “Gem and Sophia are still inside, they’ll be out in a minute. Gem’s so excited to see you, it’s been so long since we’ve all been together,” Anne gushed, running a hand up the outside of your arm.

She had such a delicate, warm presence, it was no wonder she’d raised two children as incredible as Harry and Gemma. Anne had been an extension of your own mum as you grew up, small traces of her as much as part of you as they were her own kids. She’d talked you through boys and heartbreaks, been there to wave you off to your school prom, one of the proudest faces in the crowd when you graduated university. She’d been stationed on the garden patio alongside your mum at every birthday party, the two women nattering away as they guarded the wine.

Gemma stepped out of the door, pulling you out of your daydream down memory lane. Your jaw went slack when you saw her, she was positively radiant. Her dress was a dainty satin, huge bishop sleeves adorning her arms and a beautiful full skirt, flowing around her petite frame in the gentle seaside breeze. Your mum rushed over to her first, smoothing a loving hand down the front of her skirt. “You look beautiful Gem,” she told her, tears glistening on her bottom eyelashes. Hugs and pleasantries were exchanged throughout the group, shoulders bumping gaily as you moved around. One thing was still missing though - Harry. You knew he’d never miss his sisters wedding, though he was absolutely nowhere to be seen. Just as you were about to ask, you saw him. With a deep brown suit jacket draped across his body, matching slacks hanging loose on his muscular thighs. A white vest hung low on his chest, his inked swallows sitting pretty on tanned skin.

You knew how good he looked these days, of course. Your tiktok had been full of videos of him performing, Anne’s house littered with framed photos. But seeing him in real life lit a fire in your belly. He’d always been pretty, green eyes and curls enough to charm any woman, but now he was hot. A great, big hunk of sexy man. He approached your parents first, laughing as your dad chose to forgo Harry’s outstretched hand, pulling him into a hug instead. “Here’s our not-so-little superstar,” he smiled, ruffling Harry’s messy curls. Harry pressed a kiss into your mums cheek, exchanging a quick but heartfelt hello. His eyes caught on yours as he glanced across the courtyard, your brown eyes still crinkled as you smiled, in exactly the same way they had when you were younger. “Little Boo!” he chuckled, striding towards you. His strong arms wrapped you into a firm cuddle, his musky scent spilling into your pores. “You look incredible,” he whispered into your ear, voice raspy and low. It wasn’t long before Anne was ushering you all into place to take some pictures, cutting yours and Harry’s catch up short. “Come and find me later,” he told you as you beamed for the camera.

—

With the ceremony long-finished, the party had spilled out of the church hall and onto the grounds outside. You’d danced, mingled and laughed for as long as you could before needing a minute of quiet. Brushing your hand across your mum’s back, you told her you were going for a little walk and would be back soon. You slipped out of the open doors, yanking your heels off in search of some quick relief. You spotted a little wooden bench overlooking the sea, a little way away from the other guests. A great oak tree shielded it from the warm evening sun, providing you just the right amount of peace.

“Thought you were gonna find me,” a voice suddenly came from behind you. You turned around to see Harry approaching your private spot, a sparkling glass in each hand. “Hey,” you smiled. “Just needed a little bit of quiet. Come sit,” you patted the bench beside you. Harry handed you one of the glasses as he sat down, murmuring, “saw you heading over here. Thought I’d bring you a little tipple.” You cheersed, the clinking of glasses cutting through a heavy silence. “How have you been?” he asked you, shifting his body slightly to face you.

“Been good, H. Thank you for asking. Work’s going well, was a bit slow with the pandemic and all but life’s been kind to me recently. I don’t really need to ask you, do I?” you laughed, suddenly shy in his presence. “No, I guess not,” he answered, smiling kindly at you. You settled back into an uncomfortable silence, not really sure how to talk to one another anymore.

“Mum told me you moved to London,” Harry said, seemingly desperate to pierce the awkwardness hanging over you both. “Yeah, I did,” you told him, explaining how Holmes Chapel had started to feel just a little too small, a little too cut off from the rest of the world. “I can understand that,” he told you, chuckling. You ran through the usual questions, telling him about your work as an illustrator, your little flat off of Finchley high road, the couple of girls from school you’d kept in touch with. “I can’t believe you live so close to me,” he gasped. “Mum could never remember what area you lived in, if I’d known you were only down the road we could have reconnected long before now,” Harry told you. You let out an involuntary scoff at this, telling him, “you know where to find me, H. You know your mum has my number, you know where I’ll be every Christmas and birthday. If you really wanted to reconnect it would have happened long before now.” Your words tumbled out, years of one-sided hurt and rejection suddenly pushing to the surface. Harry took a big sip of his drink, placing his hand over yours. “I’ve been shit, I know. Got caught up in everything and barely looked back. Wanted to reach out a long time before now but I couldn’t bring myself,” he told you. “Felt so bad for how I just disappeared and didn’t want to face it.”

You looked at him with sad eyes, searching his face for any sign of insincerity. “I get it, H. I’m really happy for you, I am. You had all your dreams come true, it’s amazing,” you set your glass down beside you and held your other hand over his. “Just feel sad that I lost my best friend overnight.” Your eyes welled up as you spoke, a combination of the free-flowing prosecco, the beautiful ceremony, and facing your hurt with the man who caused it. “Never had a friend who got me like you did,” you chuckled bitterly. Harry pulled his hands from yours and snaked an arm around your shoulder, pulling you close to his side. “I’m sorry, little Boo, I swear.”

The pair of you stayed that way for a while, soaking in each other’s words and the idyllic setting. Just being close to each other for the first time in almost a decade, having said what you both needed to, was bliss. “I thought about you a lot, y’know,” Harry told you suddenly, the words bursting out as if he’d been biting them back for a while. “Yeah?” you asked him, sitting up straighter to look at him again. He nodded, cheeks twinged slightly pink. You weren’t sure if it was the booze or his confession. “All my big moments, always wished you were there.”

“You know I would’ve been if I knew you wanted me to, Harry.”

“I know,” he mumbled, watching his own trainer-clad feet kicking little rocks around. “My mum and dad went to a few of your shows with Anne, watched the Brits and the Grammys every year you were nominated.” You swallowed thickly, before continuing, “I’m really proud of you, we all are.”

Harry turned his head slightly to the sound of music blaring from inside, before asking you, “dance with me?” He extended a hand to help you up, placing his glass down before wrapping an arm around your waist. You stepped together slowly, bodies moving in unison with your head rested softly against his chest. The skies had gotten gradually darker as you’d spoken, closing in around you until only a faint glow seeped out from the open church doors. Harry pushed you out, spinning you around before tugging you back into him. You smacked against his chest with a little ‘umph’, the wind knocked out of you. Your eyes met his, a little dazed, and all you could do was stare.

It felt like a betrayal of your childhood self to find him so attractive now. He was your best friend, your first friend, the only one to ever understand you fully. He’d guided you through your awkward pre-teen stage, the extra years he had on you put to good use when he showed you cool bands and songs to make boys like you. But now, you wanted him to be the boy that liked you. You were so flustered under his gaze, heat tearing through your body. “Let’s head back in,” you told Harry, words shaky. He kept an arm tight around your shoulder, shaking you about as you approached the church. ‘I’ve got my little Boo back’ he laughed in a sing-song tune. You could feel the happiness radiating off his body, knowing without even looking that his toothy grin would be firmly nestled between two deep dimples.

Your parents were sat around a table with Anne, Michal and Gemma still doing the rounds. You could tell they were drunk from a mile away - your dads cheeks stained red with merriment and Anne’s hands gesturing wildly as your mum roared with laughter. You’d missed this. You still went home as often as you could, never missing an opportunity to enjoy time with your loved ones, but before seeing Harry today it always felt different. Gemma, your sister, and Harry had all moved on, never fully present. But being the youngest, you were the one left behind. Harry pulled around two chairs for you both, plopping down between you and his mum. She draped her arms around his neck, pulling him in for a sloppy kiss. “My special boy, where have you been?” she slurred.

“Been catching up,” Harry told her, a blush creeping up his cheeks as she looked between the two of you before winking at him. She was far from subtle before getting wine drunk, so now her entire head moved with her wink. She highlighted it with a loud “wink, wink” in Harry’s direction. “Anne!” you spluttered, choking out a laugh. Your dad reached over to snatch the two empty glasses from in front of you and Harry, promising to fill them to the brim so you could ‘get on their bloody level’.

The evening continued like that, the 5 of you drinking and laughing, reminiscing on your younger days. Your parents and Anne managing to bring up enough embarrassing stories about you both to put you off ever speaking to them again. “I think it’s time we all go to bed,” Harry started, holding his hands up. “Because we’re all fucking PISSED!”, he continued, yelling at the table. You banged on the table in hysterics, eyes screwed up tight as you and Anne fell into each other in laughter. Most of the venue had cleared out by now, guests dropping by your table to congratulate Anne on their way out. You’d barely seen Gemma all night, so content in her little love bubble that she’d spent the majority of the evening alone with Michal, feeding each other cake and slow-dancing.

“Come on, you big lump,” you tugged at your dad’s wrists who in turn pulled at your mum to stand up. Your dad swung his arms around you both, Harry and Anne joining onto the end, and you stumbled towards the exit in a fit of laughter. Harry tried to start a can-can line, kicking one big foot up into the air, but the 5 of you put together had far less coordination than even one sober person, so the idea was quickly abandoned.

The church had a converted barn outside, with rooms purpose-built for immediate family and friends to stay in. You hugged and kissed your goodnights to your parents and Anne, making sure they all got into bed without mischief. Now it was only you and Harry left, buzzed but significantly less drunk than your elders. “Care for one last round?” Harry asked you, slipping a little hip flask out from his blazer pocket. You knew this was a bad idea, a drunken evening alone with the man you’d been lusting after all day. But you certainly wouldn’t make the first move, and you were almost sure he didn’t think of you as anything other than the little girl who used to run around with him.

You followed him into his room, laughing to drown out the alarm bells ringing in your head. Once you saw the empty bed in front of you, you couldn’t help but just flop down on it, suddenly needing to be as comfortable as you could. The room was aged and rustic, but the bed was far more comfortable than it looked. Harry sat against the pillows beside you, long legs stretched out before him as he took a swig from the flask.

For the first time that day, the silence around you was peaceful. Just two old friends enjoying each others presence. Harry watched you as you took the flask from him, grimacing as the liquor went down with a burn. His green eyes were studying every little line on your face, every freckle dotted across your bare shoulders. There was so much new about you, so many little details and marks you’d gained as you grew older, all the little telltale signs of the years he’d missed. What he’d said to you earlier was true, he’d missed you with his whole heart from the second he’d left you behind, spent so many lonely nights wishing he had you by his side. He thought he’d outgrown you, his new-found fame taking precedence over the little girl he’d shared his dreams and aspirations with. But sitting here now with you, he knew you’d grown with him, no matter how far removed your life had become from his. “‘M nearly 30, you know,” he drawled, voice hoarse from the singing and the sting of alcohol in his throat.

“Huh?” you turned to him confused. “I’m 30 next year,” he told you. “Yeah I know, H. What does that have to do with anything?” you laughed, poking at the side of his head. “Means we have to get married next year,” he grinned. You gasped, remembering the pact you’d thought about earlier in the day, “you didn’t forget!” you laughed, sitting up against the soft pillows.

“Can’t do it next year though, two weddings in a year would send our parents insane,” you told him. “‘M finished with my tour now. Got nothing on next year,” Harry shrugged, a familiar cheeky smirk sitting pretty between his dimpled cheeks. You felt something shift in the air as he spoke, and he seemed to feel it too, edging closer to you until his face was only centimetres away from yours. “Did I tell you how beautiful you look today?” he cooed, one hand coming up to cup your cheek. His touch shot electricity through your core, a tingling sensation starting where his fingers touched you before washing over your whole body. You shook your head lightly, eyes fixed on him. He leaned in at this, his parted lips meeting yours. The beginnings of a moustache tickled your upper lip, his hot breath flowing into your mouth with every lick of his tongue. You shifted your body towards him as the kiss deepened, four legs and the now-crumpled duvet tangling together as you rushed to close the distance between your bodies. Harry licked into your mouth with the passion of a million years of unspoken longing, his movements saying more than he ever could with words. It was the kind of kiss you’d expect from someone who’d loved you for a lifetime, who wanted to love you for a lifetime, your tongues working alongside each other like this was routine, like you’d done it a thousand times before.

“Harry,” you whispered, hands pushing his blazer from his shoulders. He let you pull it off him, then stroked a hand up your thigh as you admired his upper body. One arm was littered in patchwork tattoos, though all you could focus on was his muscles, illuminated beautifully in the evening light. “Let me get you out of this,” he rasped, twisting your shoulders around to access the zip running down the back of your dress. He smoothed his fingers down your waist and to your hips before unzipping you, your body dwarfed by his strong hands. Harry pressed a kiss into the top of your back, then kissed up and down your spine, hungry for a taste of you as he unveiled more of your skin. You stood up to help him pull your dress down, resting one hand on his shoulder to steady yourself as you stepped out of it, leaving it discarded on the floor. “Matches my eyes,” he smiled. His gaze trailed from your toes, up to your knees, to where your panties wrapped around your hips, and higher still. Up your tanned abdomen to your bare breasts where your rosebud nipples sat perky, to your neck, and finally his gaze rested on your eyes. “Y’so beautiful,” he groaned, running a soft touch along the curve of your neck.

Harry pulled his tank top over his head, stepping out of his slacks as they collapsed at his feet. His body was unbelievable. So tanned and toned, firm in all the right places yet soft in the best ones. You could see the outline of his hard shaft through the thin fabric of his boxers, an almost silent moan slipping out as you took in the sight before you.

He stepped closer to you, backing you up until the side of the bed hit the back of your knees, then held a hand to your back to guide you down onto it. His hot, drunken breath washed over you as he climbed on top of you, one hand balancing his body as the other explored you. His fingers groped your breast firmly, mouth finding the opposite nipple, sucking it into his lips in one quick movement. Your back arched off the bed, pleasure so built up that it only took one touch to send you into a frenzy. Harry licked a circle around your areola, chuckling against your skin as you writhed under his touch. “Barely even started yet, little Boo,” he drawled, moving upwards to kiss along your clenched jaw.

His fingers danced down your body, smoothing over your mound as you gasped and groaned. They slipped under the soft material of your panties, blissfully cold against the heat of your entrance. You were already soaked through, much to his surprise, so he swiped a finger through your folds to collect your juices before landing straight on your clit. Harry rubbed you in circles, the friction leaving you a panting mess under him, head jutting out to press open-mouthed kisses on his throat.

He pulled your panties down your thighs tenderly, kissing every inch of skin they passed over. In the dim light of the room, mouth moving up and down your body, he’d never looked so handsome. His cock brushed against you as he moved back up your body to focus again on your folds, your juices spread across your mound in a mess. Two long fingers dived straight in, his rings leaving a harsh chill against your sensitive skin. The stretch of his fingers alone had you panting, a familiar burning starting in your core. Harry found your sweet spot insanely fast, fingers moving in a perfect beckoning motion just as you liked. He navigated your body like you’d done this before, like the muscle memory just guided him to what he knew made you feel good. “I want more, want you inside of me,” you whined, hips bucking towards Harry’s groin as he silenced you with a deep kiss. “Got to get you ready for me first, Boo”, he told you. You winced as he used your nickname, knowing you’d never be able to hear your dad call you that without thinking of this night.

Harry’s mouth found your breast again, sucking deep purple bruises onto the gentle skin as you whimpered beneath him. He smacked at your pussy as your moans got louder, causing your eyes to shoot up to meet his. “Gotta keep the noise down, sweet girl.” You nodded in response, teeth clamping down on your bottom lip to keep yourself as quiet as you could be. The second his tongue found your nipple, you felt your orgasm bubbling up in your core. Harry noticed the way your head lulled back, slipping a third finger inside of you and using his thumb to brush against your clit. It was like the holy trinity of foreplay, his skilled tongue and fingers hitting your three most pleasurable zones at once. Your climax hit quickly, walls tightening around his digits as you clamped your forearm across your mouth, desperately trying not to scream his name. He peppered kisses down your throat as his fingers rode you through your high, only pulling them away when you went limp under him. Harry held his fingers to his mouth, tongue darting out to lick off every trace of your creamy come.

He backed off you to kick his boxers down his legs, stroking his erection as it oozed precum. He found his wallet, pulling out a condom and rolling it down the length of his cock. “How do you want me, sweet girl?” he asked you, cock twitching in his hand. “Wanna go on top,” you told him, suddenly eager to impress. If his cock was anywhere near as good to you as his hands and mouth had been, you couldn’t only have him once. You needed to show him how good your pretty pussy could take him, make him want to come back for more.

Harry rolled onto the centre of the bed, hands guiding your hips down over his groin. His hand cupped the back of your head, pulling you towards him for a sloppy kiss. His mouth tasted of you, the familiar tingle of juices on his tongue. You stroked his member up and down quickly, before lining it up with your entrance and pushing yourself down onto his tip. “Fuck, H. You’re so big,” you whined, thighs burning as you hovered above him. He used his hands to move you up, then down, down, down, helping you to take him fully. The burn was like nothing you’d experienced before, his girthy cock crammed into every corner of your pussy. You stilled for a moment, hands resting against his butterfly tattoo, chest rising and falling quickly as you tried to push past the ache. He held a thumb under your chin, tilting your head to look at him. “You ok, pet?” he asked, needing to be sure before you continued. You nodded, moving one arm to pull his finger into your mouth. You licked circles around his fingertip, sucking it in down to his knuckle before releasing with it a pop.

Harry’s hands guided your hips to grind against him, helping you until you found your rhythm. He pulled them away, one landing with a loud smack on your ass cheek as the other crept up the front of your body, resting at your throat. He squeezed lightly, the sensation only spurring you on to bounce up and down on him, the combination of your juices squelching as your cheeks slapped against his groin. It was the kind of hot, dirty sex you’d only ever dreamed of, and it had you falling apart on top of him. You cried out a strangled moan, expletives falling out of both of your mouths. “Feel so good around me,” Harry groaned, “so fucking wet. S’that all for me?”

“All for you, H. M’all yours,” you whimpered. His hips bucked against you as you told him you were his, fingers pulling away from your supple ass. He spat on them before dancing them back across your asscheek and smoothing the spit around your second hole, eyes fixed on your pussy bouncing on his cock. “Can I?” he asked you. “Please, H.”

He pushed a finger into your tightness, filling you up so well. You felt so full you could burst. His eyes were clouded over with lust, tiny hairs slick to his forehead with sweat. He looked feral, and you loved it. He repositioned his feet to where they were flat against the bed, hips knocking into you as you moved up and down his cock, his thrusts sending him deeper and deeper inside of you. You were both panting now, barely able to contain your highs for a second longer. “Come with me, come with me please,” you begged him, your second orgasm of the night starting to rise through your core. His thrusts got faster and sloppier, obscene sounds echoing around the room, a clear sign of what you were doing to anyone who could hear you right now. Your orgasm crept up on you quickly, thanks to Harry tightening his grip around your neck and pushing his finger further into your tight hole. Your head was thrown back as you came, back arched making his cock feel as though it could burst through your belly button. Harry moaned loudly, hips jutting one last time as he flooded the condom with his come. You collapsed in a sweaty heap, totally unable to hold yourself up any longer.

“Took me so well, angel girl,” Harry drawled as he pulled out of you, padding across the room to toss the condom and rinse his hands. You lay there in total bliss, comfortable in the knowledge that your friendship was long gone.

—

“Let me go first and you can come after,” you told Harry, holding a finger up to shush him when he started to laugh. “We’re grown adults, Y/N, it doesn’t matter if anyone sees us come out together.”

“I don’t write songs about sex and drugs. My body is still untouched in my parents eyes,” you told him, hand slipping from the doorknob as he pulled you in for another kiss. “Just don’t come until you hear me leaving.”

You crept out of the room as silently as you could, heels and dress bundled under one arm. You’d heard Anne, your parents and Gemma head out to the courtyard already, so there was no danger of being caught by prying eyes - or so you thought. As you were padding across the hallway to your room, Anne appeared round the corner. “I was just coming to see if you were awake,” she told you, eyes sparkling with glee. “No wonder your mum said your bed was untouched.” She knocked on Harry’s door with a tight-lipped smile lighting up her face. He opened the door wide-eyed as Anne pulled him into a firm hug, pressing a sticky lipgloss kiss to his cheek. “I always hoped you two would get together.” She disappeared back down the hall as quickly as she appeared, leaving you and Harry blushing.

You decided to make your way outside together, knowing it wouldn’t be long before your parents put two and two together anyway. Plus, you knew Anne wouldn’t be able to resist telling your mum and Gemma what she saw.

—

You decided to spend the day on the beach, you and Harry with your parents and Anne, since Gemma and Michal had already left for their honeymoon. It was a perfect summers day, the sun warm enough to enjoy but not hot enough to irritate you, the gentle sea breeze cooling you down as it washed over you. Your mum and Anne were sprawled across a linen blanket, two bottles of wine stood in the sand next to their feet. They called you over, instant dread washing over you as Anne excitedly shouted your name. “Do you have anything to tell us?” she asked you, and you were sure there would be mischief glinting in her eyes under her big sunglasses. They sat up and scooted over on their blanket, leaving space for you to slot in between. “Nothing that I’m sure you don’t already know,” you smirked, a deep blush creeping up your cheeks. Your mum looked between Anne and you, gasping as she swatted at your leg. “So it’s true! You dirty little minx.”

You held your head in your hands, mortified that your parents knew you’d slept with Harry. “Oh relax,” your mum told you. “It’s nothing we haven’t done before,” she smirked, throwing herself towards Anne as they howled in laughter. Anne stopped suddenly, her hand tapping at your mum’s thigh incessantly. “If they get married, we’ll be real family!” she gasped, face pink with joy. “Well, the pact is what got us there in the first place,” Harry told them, sitting down next to you and snaking a hand around your waist.

“I forgot all about that,” your mum’s jaw went slack. “Do you still have it?” she asked Anne. “Of course I do. Kept it safe to show them when they found their way back to each other, always knew this day would come.”

part two

taglist: @sleutherclaw @harrysolaf @slutforcoffein

#harry styles fluff #harry styles smut #harry edward styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #Harry styles #harry styles fic #harryslittlefreakk #harry styles masterlist

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syneilesis · 5 months

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[fic] if only for a moment

if only for a moment

Love and Deepspace | Rafayel (Qi Yu) x Main-Character!Reader | T | 3.6k words | ao3 link (with correct formatting)

Rafayel waits. And waits. And waits.

A/N: Another LaD fic!! This time it's Rafayel. Several elements of this fic are inspired by and loosely based on his story anecdotes and bond story, plus that Deep Sea card line backdrop. So more spoilers in this one, I'm afraid. I think you need to be aware of them in order to follow the flow of the fic. But if not, here's what you need to know: basically Rafayel accepts a visiting professorship at the University of Linkon to reunite with the MC/you. And the prose poetry interspersed are loosely situated in the Deep Sea card lineup setting (you can search in YouTube for the scenes. This one is a brief glimpse of the scene). That princess/knight(??) dynamic is yum yum.

If possible, please read the version on AO3. I formatted the prose poems there as if they're really prose poetry, so I'd appreciate it if you check that out. (Though there isn't too much difference between the formatting here and there, I did make the effort of coding a little 🥺)

Anyhoo, hope you enjoy, and I am sO STOKED FOR THE OFFICIAL RELEASE. rip my wallet 💸😭

JUST LOOK AT THIS MAN AND BELIEVE

There’s a type of berry in a distant land that produces a rare shade of ink that matches the color of your eyes. It takes a hundred of them to create the right hue and volume for the art that he wants to make. It comes to him in a dream: endless desert, then fireworks of verdant sparks that coalesce into stem, leaf, and, finally, fruit. Rafayel remembers that land, so much different from the iridescent blue of ocean underwater, and the acrid gold of the barren desert. His mouth filled with the succulent sweetness of the dream, the lingering sandpaper roughness of the berries on his fingers. He already knows the name of the artwork even before he’s begun—Waiting, Missing. The ache in his bones gaining form, an intangible thing taking flesh.

Under the ocean surface, time is muted, a deafening thickness that surrounds you with its ambiguity. On land, however, it is linear, and fast, and in a matter of blinks, Rafayel’s visiting professorship nearly wraps up.

He’s only glimpsed you once or twice. Thrice at most. The university is big, but not big enough to warrant a dearth of fateful encounters. The first time he saw you it was at a coffee shop: walking along with your friends outside, your voice mellifluous and festive wafting through the trellis of the café entrance. You were talking about him—well, about Lemuria to be specific, but these days any talk of Lemuria inevitably draws in his name.

He’s committed your schedule to memory, and yet it just seems impossible to capture a moment with you. Even just a brush of shoulders, or of sleeves—an asymptote of contact. Just navigating around your orbit, but never truly meeting.

What would it be like—finally talking to you? You in front of him, face to face? Rafayel imagines the ache of waiting fading into the background until it’s completely gone. He yearns for that feeling, the release of it. A conclusion—or maybe even a beginning.

i. take my hand, he told you under the glow of the lustrous moon, the only source of light that contoured the secretive valleys of his face. i want to show your highness something. there was a country, he said, beyond the undulating monochrome of the desert, blanketed by lush trees and shrubberies and flowers that buildings were made in betwixt and around them—a nation of trailing and winding architecture, a marriage of the natural and the manmade. you wanted to ask why he’d planned on taking you there, and the only answer you got was a curt turn of his head and the profile of a masked man layered by shadows and distance. it would have been nice, you thought, if the moon poured light upon his hooded gaze.

Eventually he begins to frequent the café. Twice a week at first—he doesn’t want to come off strong right away, of course—and then making his way up until he’s hanging out there more than his own studio. He schedules his visits around your classes, always during the ones when the probability of you dropping by the café is high and he can ‘coincidentally’ be around the same area. It’s gotten to a point that Thomas calls him out on it, and nags at him to focus more on his painting. The next exhibit is immediately after his visiting professorship after all.

“From where I’m standing,” Thomas says, “you’re not painting at all.”

Rafayel ignores him.

Five minutes later, he says, “Not painting is part of the painting process.”

Thomas rolls his eyes, but he leaves him to it.

At the café, Rafayel attracts curious looks. A few attempt to approach him, but he pretends not to see them. They linger around the periphery, like moths to flame.

And then something happens: the entrance door chimes, and you swan into the coffee shop, earphones and denim overall skirt, the kind of rosy-cheeked image Rafayel finds on teen magazines, wide-eyed and earnest. You fall in line and order when it’s your turn, and your eyes sweep across the packed café searching for a vacant seat until they finally land on him.

Rafayel’s heart stumbles.

Up close, the baby fat on your cheeks still gives you the appearance of being younger than you actually look. You turn a polite smile his way, and his heart stutters again—but this time it is taken as a warning.

“Hi,” you say, tentative. Any hint of recognition absent. “Do you mind if I sit here?”

ii. you're counting the steps of your inevitable parting. you're at the edge of the desert, far away from your home and its familiar scents, oriented towards a direction that promised a future sad memory, the gentle warmth of his hand, the downward denial of his gaze. this longing that grew out of your bones, aching during cold, aching during heat, aching when he looked at you with such tenderness he had to hide it through the sharp tug of your joined hands, the long strides that opened up a lonely distance. intimacy was dangerous, knowing was dangerous, the bowels of his heart like a solitary flower on a high peak. what would you do to such loneliness?

Memory isn't always an infallible thing. The human brain cannot hang on to every moment of your life, though Rafayel wishes it were so. But still—to think that you would forget him, and it hasn’t even been a century. You were like a phantom thief stealing his heart in the night—no recourse, no resolution.

To wait is to be in agony, the burn of yearning locked within the heart. Rafayel has been waiting for a long time, and the only memory scorched in his heart is fire, the blaze and its blinding, all-consuming want.

What would you do to such want?

You have a blurry childhood, Rafayel discovers. After the first Wanderer descended on Earth, the incident strummed your memories like a stringed instrument that tired of the same chord, over and over. It had bothered you at first—not being in control of your own memories—but eventually you had learned to live with it.

“Grandma and Caleb—my childhood friend—helped me through the process,” you tell him, stirring your iced mocha with its straw. “I owe them a lot.”

Eyes cast down, but still the melancholy shadows remain in your expression. Rafayel folds his arms on the table, and leans closer.

Around them only a few people occupy the coffee shop at this time. How fortunate for Rafayel to catch you during your break while every other student is trapped in class lectures.

“There’s no use in dwelling upon what's already happened. Even sharks have to give up when their prey escapes. When you remember, it will be all the more joyous, no?”

The smile you give him is crooked, disbelieving.

“If I remember.”

“You’ll remember.” Because there’s no other choice, for you and for him. Rafayel cannot bear being shelved in the history of your smile and happiness. Waiting can only be endurable if there’s an endpoint.

In his studio, Rafayel begins his next painting.

iii. the berries tasted sweet, with an edge of sourness that clung to the bottom of the tongue. it had the exact shade of your eyes, a detail that rafayel brought up the moment he plucked it from the shrub. raising it to align with your eyes, comparing them with his artist's meticulous gaze. maybe when this is all over, i'll go back here again to extract ink from these berries, and paint a portrait of your highness using these to color your eyes. he never showed you any of his paintings, merely mentioned them in passing, and you constructed a dream of him from the throwaway words that left his covered lips. i'm not used to sitting for so long, you reminded him, and he glanced at you, then at the berry between his fingers. my memory is enough, then handed you the fruit.

In the few weeks of meeting with you Rafayel forgets that his visiting professorship is ending soon and he has to give out his last lecture. Thomas had asked him what his topic would be. At that point Rafayel had no answer. But now he has.

“I’ve been hearing you talk about Lemuria every now and then with your friends.” He props his cheek on his hand, tilting his head slightly and giving you a charming smile. “Interested?”

You blink. “How did you know?”

“Oh, I’ve seen you a couple of times here, and I happened to hear your friends chat about my lecture. Your points were almost accurate, I’m in awe.”

“The visiting professor—that’s you?!”

Rafayel pauses, the slosh of his drink nearly spilling on his frozen hand.

“You didn’t know?”

Sheepish, you say, “Honestly, I didn’t make the connection. Is that why plenty of people have been glaring at me as of late?”

He releases a frustrated sigh, eyes rolling heavenward.

“In any case, my final lecture is on Friday next week. It’s titled “Memory and Meaning in Lemurian Art”. Why don’t you drop by and listen, and you can tell me what you think afterwards.”

You retrieve your bullet journal to check your schedule. It’s colorful, filled with stickers and doodles that Rafayel finds endearing. Then the excited moue on your face drops into a frown, and Rafayel can foresee the next words that will come out of your downturned lips.

“I’m sorry,” you say guiltily, “but I have a major test that day, and I need to get a high score in order to pass the course.”

Rafayel exhales, long and weary, but ultimately shrugs off the apology. “What a shame, but I forgive you. Just don’t fail your exam or else my magnanimity would be all for nothing.”

He calls Thomas that night.

“I’ll disappear for a while once the professorship is over.”

“Hey, wait, what do you me—”

“You’ll be happy to know that this is for my next painting.”

A beat. “Okay … but for how long?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?”

Then he hangs up.

He’s trying, he really does. The lecture ends to a resounding applause, and it’s mechanical how he answers the questions posed by the audience. But he’s trying, he’s trying. There’s no specter of you in the sea of faces in the auditorium. You’re at the other end of the university compound, sweating your way through your exam. He genuinely hopes you’d pass, for your sake.

Thomas had booked his flight to another country, where he’ll traverse to a land that he’d visited many times in his dreams and had woken up with a filmy, sweet-sour tang at the roof of his mouth. He’ll leave the morning after the closing dinner party the faculty has prepared for him. There isn’t time to pack much, and no time to tell you goodbye.

Rafayel guesses that it’s only fair: how would you feel waiting for him at that café, the chair across you empty, only the sunlight pooling from the window as your companion?

iv. parting, somebody once said, is such a sweet sorrow. much like those berries in that ever-green nation, a lingering sourness remained underneath, the sting of it reminding you every now and then. he was already mourned for even before he left. tell me what it's like—the ocean. he was elusive, untouchable in his grief. you'd heard through whispers, the story of his migration, the drowning before the drying, the unwanted journey. grief brought him to you and grief would steal him away from you, you knew, down to the cells of your body and the hopelessness in your blood. —and yet. and yet you wanted to have a taste of it, anyway.

The ever-green land is no longer green, or lush, or alive. Time corroded it into memory, sepia-faded, wizened. Past. The berries he’s searching for don’t grow here anymore. Everything here is empty, barren, helplessly so.

Rafayel hasn’t accounted for such development, but he should have known. Disappointment stings at his chest, and bitterly he turns away and stays at the next town over. At a family-run restaurant situated near the outskirts, he looks over the wide windows, across the highway road, beyond the jagged horizon. The painting won’t be finished, then. Another tragedy, pressed flat next to the forgetting, to the waiting, and his home.

The chef personally serves him his order and, after a shuffle of hesitation, brings up a question.

“Young man, you came from the direction of the old country, yeah?”

Rafayel meets his inquisitive gaze. “Yes, why?”

“It’s been a while since we had someone visiting that place. There’s nothing in there anymore, it’s been that way for years. Why did you go there?”

Rafayel is reluctant to say, but at the guileless set of the older man’s face, he concedes.

“I was looking for berries. The ones native there. They produce a shade that I need for my painting.”

At the mention of the fruit, the chef’s expression lights up. “Oh! I see, I see. You’re in luck, son. We grow them here at the farm. Plenty of those for everyone. How about I give you some? It’s rare meeting someone who still remembers the old country, it’s almost fate. How many did you say you need?”

Fate. Just like the time of your first meeting, as if the universe had gifted you to him. Just like the time of your parting, of your forgetting, of his waiting. Fate as a connection from you to him, red and burning brightly.

He doesn’t want to seem eager, but he knows he’s failed from the way the chef toothily grins at him.

“A hundred or so.”

The chef falters at that, jerking slightly back. But he accepts it with a nod, an avuncular smile making its way across his kind, powdery features.

“That sure is a huge number, but I think we can work something out.”

His painting takes a month to complete, inclusive of the time spent making the ink from the acquired berries. Sometimes, Thomas watches him paint, quiet in the background. His stays usually don’t last—a quick flash that Rafayel nearly misses, or deliberately ignores. But during the final stages of the painting process, Thomas hands him the exhibit details.

“I’m just thankful you’re on time for this one.” He sighs, relieved, then leaves.

Alone, Rafayel creates. Brushstroke after careful brushstroke, each varying by pressure and angle. He lets each layer of paint dry before moving onto the next. The berry ink—the color of your eyes—the solely different element of this painting. Center, central. The focal point. The beating heart. The years and years of waiting and longing. The form and the flesh. Alive.

This, too, is an endpoint.

v. can i see your face, just this once? your hands grazed his mask like a ghost wanting to touch. rafayel stayed still beneath your desirous fingers, observing, waiting, his own fingers twitching towards his dagger. even in the parting he could not let go of this distance. hopeless, hopeless. your highness would get nothing out of seeing my face. he's wrong, his eyes never left your face, and he's wrong. he didn't stop you from your grasping of his mask, and him—finally—bare and beautiful yet a little sad. you're wrong, you said, tracing his slightly parted lips with a trembling finger, you're wrong. it is everything to me.

The gallery is packed. No surprise there. It’s almost boring, in a way. Waiting, Missing hangs at the farthest hall in the floor, special and intimate as it should be. Thomas knows him well; otherwise, Rafayel would have whined at him to hell and back just so he could be granted this demand that is in reality a mandate.

He’s hiding from the throngs of journalists and art critics alike and sequesters himself in a corner that has a clear view of the painting. Loosening his collar and tie, Rafayel breathes and closes his eyes, leans tiredly against the wall. A few more minutes, and he’ll slink out of the building, reputation be damned.

He melts into the shadows whenever somebody passes by. He has neither time nor energy interacting with people today. Watching them through half-mast eyes, Rafayel stays in his secret place and studies with weightless detachment the people looking at the painting.

He’s made a bet with himself about the opinions of his followers and admirers. Who thinks what and why. It makes for great entertainment. The last time, a fresh-faced critic praised Rafayel’s technique as “innovative and a soul-rending reflection of the prodigy’s character.” He had laughed and laughed for hours until he couldn’t breathe any longer.

Another walks by, and before Rafayel retreats further into the corner, he glimpses a familiar gait and a familiar face.

His heartbeat races. He’s never told you that he’s holding an exhibit today. After the professorship Rafayel failed to maintain communication with you, convincing himself that it’s for the best that he protect you from afar that day onwards. It didn’t help that he had to leave as well. At the same time, you never made an effort of reaching out, and Rafayel thought that it was back to square one again, that waiting, that yearning.

But here you are right now, elegantly dressed, like someone gliding out of a dream. Rafayel swallows, his hands shake. You do not have someone else with you, and your eyes are brightly focused on Waiting, Missing, and for a fleeting moment your expression flickers into longing, strange and old and battered and sad, that it compels Rafayel to take a step forward—to you.

“Hey.”

The curious look vanishes; left no traces in your delighted face, as if it wasn’t there in the first place. “Rafayel!” you exclaim. “Long time no see! Congratulations on the exhibit; these are all beautiful.”

Outwardly he smirks, belying the torrential emotions he’s currently going through. He cants his head a little, works his charm on you. “Impressed? No need to hold back your compliments.”

Laughter, prismatic and crystalline. “Yes, yes. Especially this one—Waiting, Missing. What an interesting title. At the center, what paint did you use?”

Ah. Rafayel inhales before answering. “It’s actually ink. I had to make it from a hundred berries. It was a tedious process, but I wouldn’t use anything else. It has to be this, you see.”

“Whoa, no wonder you’d been radio silent all this time. You were creating this masterpiece.”

He hums, afraid that, if he speaks, he’d reveal too much.

“Well …” You throw a playful glance at him. “Shouldn’t we celebrate your success?”

His breath catches. “I—”

Before he manages to finish the sentence, a journalist calls out to him and that summons plenty more, swarming him with no chance of escape. It pushes you out of his peripheral vision, and Rafayel wants to shout your name, but you smile and gesture at him to entertain them first. You mouth, I’ll be back, and wander around other paintings some more.

When he finally succeeds in shaking the journalists off, he seeks you out and stumbles upon you near the exit, where there’s fewer people to pile on him.

“Excellent,” he says, sidling up beside you. You turn to him and smile, and there’s that lightning-flash of something again. For one unbelievably surreal instant, Rafayel thinks that despite your hazy memories, maybe you’d been waiting for him all this time, too.

And that thought emboldens him, moving closer and closer until your bodies almost touch. An asymptote of contact. But this time, he has mustered the courage to close that unbridgeable gap.

Rafayel offers you his hand. “Let’s get out of here?”

You stare at his hand then at his face, his eyes, and a meaningful moment stretches between you and him. But even before the idea of retracting enters his mind, you grab his hand joyfully, grinning ear to ear. His heart warms, full with everything.

You squeeze his hand, ready to go. “Lead the way, then!”

vi. a kiss is a greeting and a goodbye, and rafayel tasted of ferocious tides even if you'd seen them only in dreams. his eyes closed, as though savoring his last moments with you, guarded till the bitter end. would that i could ask you to stay—with me. but he shook his head—a final rejection. maybe in another life. there was nobody to watch you cry, in the after.

Rafayel is working on a new painting—a portrait this time. The model squirms on his couch, obvious about the discomfort of posing for too long. He huffs a laugh to himself, hidden by the canvas strategically placed between them.

“I heard that,” you grumble.

“Shush, you’re breaking my concentration.”

“If that already breaks your focus then I pity the rest of the art community.” A beat, then: “Is it done?”

“Patience, my dear muse. You need endure it a little more.”

“Hmph, fine. But after this you’re treating me to an all-you-can-eat buffet.”

“All right, all right.” He shakes his head, fond. “My muse, so demanding.”

Something sweet touches the edge of his tongue, succulent with a hint of tartness. Like longing. Except now, it’s layered with something new and exciting. Something like a new beginning.

In the far distance, the sea murmurs, lit fire by the setting sun.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace fic #lad rafayel #lad qi yu #love and deepspace rafayel #love and deepspace qi yu #fic #my fic #rafayel x reader #qi yu x reader #lad rafayel x reader #lad qi yu x reader #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace spoilers #it's near midnight again i shall now sleep

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thelastpuppyboygirl · 2 months

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YES !! YES !!!!!! AHAHAAAA YESSSS !!!!

my personal headcannons for the loveliest of lovely little guys <3333

extra info + flags!!

randy: (pan and agender)

-fibromyalgia for sure, trauma does shit things

-probably needs a cane or something similar to aleviate pain (doesn't think he's ill enough to need one, absolutely is)

-if he gets high please treat him like a fish in an aquarium, probably would hate the lack of control

-flushes really easily, and constantly clammy

-if you put a blanket on his head he'll fall asleep

-narcolepsy

-loves the feeling of a nice, heafty, soft quilt and a hot cocoa on a cold afternoon...

oliver: (trans, gay and demiromantic!)

-has a stuffed animal collection 100%

-probably picks up a million different projects only to put them down, a new hyperfixation every week kinda guy

-him being a stoner is basically cannon but, in specifics he seems like a bong or joint guy to me, would let u smoke the first hit (bc he's nice)

-rollerskate date :]

-glasses to at least semi help his shit 'eye' (optical sensor) and lack of depth perception (they can only do so much though)

karen: (nonbinary, lesbian)

-doesn't particularly care about gender as a concept

-has a bunch of tassles and cords in her house she has braided

-can't keep a plant alive to save her life, has mourned at least 20 house plants, has a fake one (somehow dies too)

-mitski.

-the biggest sweet tooth out of the group

-will lock herself away for hours and hours, sometimes an entire day or two, just creating. only to come out of a hole haggard and exhuasted with her New Horse Drawing.

-hEDS, uses a walker to get around!

Norm: (questioning/bi ?)

-writer (how the hell else wouldn't he go absolutely bonkers all alone, other than having a goal and spite i guess)

-uses coffee to live, but definitely enjoys tea in his free time

-probably learned archery at some point

-whittles little sculptures to pass the time (made karen a little wooden horse sculpture once)

-randomly schedules cook outs/junctions when he's feeling lonely and isolated

-he would absolutely take the will graham route and end up with 20 fucking stray dogs out of a deep empathy and then wake up one day and realize the mess he got himself into.

-grilldad. (duh)

phonegingi: (genderfluid, polyamorous, pan)

-gender? yes.

-sexuality? yes.

-will consume your clothes if you are not careful with your gingi Care instructions. (taking little nibbles is okay as a treat)

-if weed is consumed it basically acts as a horrifically strong catnip, and it will get the zoomies and make it everyone's problem

-purrs

-pays really good attention to detail stuff, and its brain is basically a filing cabinet. but big events are basically a blur

-gets SUPER !! fluffy during the winter and there's an awful period where it's shedding and it's...super patchy and silly lookin

-me and the bitches i pulled by being HORRIFYING and lovely,,,,

bigfoot: (aroace. i don't take criticism.)

-banana,,,

-genuinely pretty attentive and smart

-becomes a painter because he is INSPIRED ! by his friend karen

-absolutely splendid lad

-i wanna live in a world where one of his passions is making and wearing silly hats, please, PLEASE

-karen showed him mitski,,,god help him he's sad now

-knitting,,,he knit giant banana,,,,

#dialtown fanart #randy jade #oliver swift #karen dunn #norm allen #phonegingi #bigfoot dialtown #dialtown #dialtown hc

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rosainta · 1 month

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Team Fortress 2: 12 Flash Fiction Excerpts

('ms pauling' by makani on DeviantArt: https://www.deviantart.com/makani/art/ms-pauling-208768568)

(Author's Notes (A/N) at the end. For now, enjoy these slices of TF2 writing cake, baked with the batter of my mind!) * * *

1 "The Runner's a Fool."

[Written 10-3-2024]

Scout’s heart was bursting as he ran through the underbrush.

He didn’t look back; he couldn’t. Not after what he saw. If he had known sooner, he might not have spent so much energy trying to woo her...

Maybe he wouldn’t have made such a fool of himself.

2 "Player of The Heart."

[Written 10-3-2024]

“Fine, one more time”, he grumbled.

Pauling gleamed as she turned to the tape player. Changing the song to something more romantic, she hummed along and placed herself into his arms. They began to sway with the music.

Sniper felt his heart racing, but his thoughts raced quicker.

He wondered: would the one he really loved be into this too?

3 "Long Overdue."

[Written 10-3-2024]

Spy knew what he had to do.

He sat down next to the crying boy, gently putting a hand on his back. “Screw off!” the younger yelled, pushing him away.

Seeing him like this broke him; it did every time. But he took a deep breath and said what he should have all those years ago:

“I am sorry, Scout.”

4 "What Happens if You Feed the Machine? (Or In This Case, Water It?)"

[Written 10-3-2024]

“Yer no fun, lad!”

“Come on now, you know how I’ve been goin’ dry...”

“What’s one bottle a’ scrumpy goin’ to do to you?”

“Well, let’s see here. How many eyeballs o’ yours do my teleporters teleport per use?”

“Er, one.”

“Well, expect that to be one less the next time ‘round, pardner.”

He chuckled, and in an instant, he gulped it all down.

5 "Soldier's Solace."

[Written 11-3-2024]

Soldier stared at the grand moon from the roof of the base.

After the day’s fighting and bread teleporting, the other mercenaries were off to bed. But Soldier remained, smiling contentedly from under his helmet without another care in the world.

Somehow, he knew that right then and for as long as he dreamed, everything would be alright.

6 "Буквы говорят о любви."

[Written 12-3-2024]

If Heavy learned one thing in all his years of studying Russian literature, it was that writing wasn’t something you did; it was something you became.

So, picking up the ink pen, he let his hand go and embodied with all he had what meant most to him.

“It is time I tell you, Doktor.”

7 "Like The Warmth of a Fireplace."

[Written 13-3-2024]

Pyro looked at Engineer as a child does a Mall Santa, clapping. “Huddah, huddah!”

“Okay, one more, just for you.”

The technician took a deep breath and began to strum on the old guitar, his low voice singing a song of pink skies. Pyro swayed to the beat in bliss.

And, with every hum, the two grew closer.

8 "A Smile Means A Million Words, That Is Until You Speak."

[Written 14-3-2024]

Scout liked sketching.

While words weren’t his forte, art allowed him to express what he felt but could never say. He licked his lips, furrowed his eyebrows, and furiously scratched at the page with a pencil. Every detail, every form-- they had to be perfect.

When he was done, he proudly smiled at his creation.

And it smiled back.

BONUS!

As he admired his creation, he didn’t notice Sniper approaching him.

“And just what are you scribblin' off today, mate?”

Scout snapped around, flustered. He wasn't expecting company, and especially not from him.

“A-ah, hey, Snipes!", he blurted out. "It's nothing, really. Just another drawing of Spy screwin’ those... stupid French bread swords, whatever ya' call 'em.”

As he stammered an excuse, his face slowly turning red, he didn’t realize that his creation's rough, sketched face-- a picture of the marksman himself!-- was peaking through the corner of the sketchbook in the crook of his arm. Sniper paused for a moment as he stared at the work in awe, its own happily gazing back at him. Then, snapping out of his trance, he wordlessly turned back to smile at the younger man.

“You’ve got some talent, kid," he said, softly. "Please, don’t waste it.”

Then, quick as he came, he ambled away.

Scout was left standing, bewildered, and admittedly a bit confused, and he slowly turned back to look back at his drawing.

He traced the rough face of the man, looking wistfully with a tinge of giddiness in his eyes.

“If only you knew...", he whispered to himself without thinking. "Maybe then I could draw you like one of my French girls.”

Then, upon realizing the stupidity of his own remark (and of its disgusting, Spy-related... Frenchness), he immediately gagged.

“Ew, crap, no!”

Somewhere in the distance, Spy instinctively rolled his eyes.

9 "I Feel Olive!"

[Written 15-3-2024]

Medic pinched his nose, a low groan rumbling from him.

"What is wrong, Doktor? You seem stressed", Heavy asked, concernedly lifting his nose from his book.

Medic turned to him, tired eyes smiling weakly. "Ah, it iz nothing. Just... ze dull, useless legal documents. You know, as per usual."

"Well, if it makes Medic feel any better, Heavy ran out of olive for sandvich, so eating it was practically useless! I could not even digest it without big frown", he said, frowning in turn.

He grumbled, continuing, "What Heavy means to say is... you are not alone in your troubles."

Medic paused for a bit, before laughing and grinning back at the giant. He was grateful for this goofy big old man.

"Oh, you alvays know what to say, Heavy. Come on, let us escape this prison of an office and find you that olive. I am getting quite hungry and ze papers can wait, after all!"

10 "Off-Target."

[Written 29-3-2024]

Scout's mind just. couldn't. think.

His head was jumbled, a puzzle with the pieces too lost in the messy maze of his brain ever to solve. He wished he could crack open his skull like he did the BLUs on the field; maybe that would knock some sense into him.

He really needed to focus. Sniper always did.

So, why couldn't he?

11 "Our Paths Shall Cross Again."

[Written 4-4-2024]

It pained him to see her like this.

So, for the first time in his life, he put his pride aside and took one last glance at the sleeping lady before leaving the room.

Scout wished he could stay all night and marvel at her familiar, sheer beauty, even as she slept so frail. But he knew what she needed most was not him, but help.

Who knew what she went through those 2 years?

He resigned himself to the couch, closing his eyes. His affections for Miss Pauling would have to wait, as they always did, but he was fine with that.

She was safe, and that’s what mattered most to him.

12 "Guess Who's Up For Surgery?"

[Written 6-4-2024]

Medic was practically laughing with joy! Or, in his peculiar case, cackling maniacally.

Ah, it was of no matter— the doctor was filled to the brim with inspiration! So many projects to start and bodies to stitch; oh, what a wonderful feeling!

Heavy smiled as he watched the doctor go about his merry way.

Sure, when he was in this mood, that likely meant imminent danger for all those around him (they’d be his newest experiment, no doubt), but seeing him happy always made Heavy’s heart feel a little lighter.

So, as the doctor bounced up to him with his newest rambling, he didn’t protest!

* * *

Author's Notes: Over the past weeks, I've been working on being more spontaneous in my writing—no planning, just writing with the flow! And what better way to do that than to write flash fiction about my favourite fandom? (Plus, I have been practically absent here (post-wise) for, what, months? So why not use this as an excuse to share them with you? Ehehe... Okay, let's forget I said anything; moving on!) Flash fiction, with its creative liberties and curt nature, is an excellent medium (not forgetting to mention the fact it's a disgracefully UNDERRATED form of media!) that inspires me to write because it sort of... brutally invalidates any excuse of author's block I have... since it is literally spilling the words from your conscience into text WITHOUT the worry of length (ah! My greatest enemies...). Plus, it is... sort of, maybe, kinda addicting because it's just so freakishly simple, and the more you do it, the more productive you'll be and feel! Isn't that wonderful? (It could even be a drug! Er, well, a good one... wait, is there even a thing as a good drug? Ah- nevermind.) Anyway, if you're struggling with author's block, I'd heavily recommend trying it. Of course, it may not work for everyone (and I am not here to legally endorse this like a paid sponsor!) but it's still worth a shot if you haven't yet already. And hey, if it doesn't, you can feel free to blame me for the waste of time! Don't worry, I won't mind. Before we go on, I have to take this moment now to thank the one sweet old woman (whom I've unfortunately forgotten the name of) who first taught me about it a few years back during a summer writing course. She taught me much about what I know and love today, so I owe this and much of my writing happiness and technique to her! Thank you, lady. May you continue to write on!! Anyhow, to give you more context, these are all excerpts taken from a private account (but not a secret one! It's out there... somewhere...) of mine, edited for quality purposes and also because a few of the original excerpts bugged me due to their... well, innate cringiness. Hopefully, there's less of it now, but I wouldn't count on my eradicating it as it seems that cringe is just a part of my habitual writing style (I am sorry to disappoint, unnamed woman from the course... I have failed you). I hope that at least is is bearable enough for you to read. However, if not, I offer you my greatest condolences. If you'd like some bleach for your eyes, I have that too. You can also tell by the number of Speeding Bullet and Red Oktoberfest excerpts that I was... in quite the shipping mood for some of them. So, if that doesn't bug you, feel free to indulge yourselves in these characters as I obsessively have over the course of writing these!! It would be my pleasure to offer that liberty to you (and perhaps, shamelessly to myself as well, ahaha..), so please, go ahead. Anyway, that's all of the random blurbs I have to ramble on about today. Thank you for reading- or skimming, at the very least- and please have a marvellous day, pally~!

~ Rosain Quivan

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codexcracked · 5 months

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Hollowhead Designs

I guess I forgot to post these??? Well, here they are now. The hollowheads from Animator Vs Animation!

Coloring is hard but I think they came together pretty well! I really like the concept of the 'hollowhead' being a halo rather than a literal hollow head... I'm just not fully sure how i'd draw that 😅

Musing on their designs and closeups are under the cut~

Chosen was supposed to look like that one guy with the scarf and sword from that flipnote animation. I originally wanted to give them a cape, but I couldn't make that look good... so scarf it is! As well as anime protagonist hair :D The export really did those flames dirty... They look WAY better in my at program. ah well.

Dark Lord looks pretty cool Imo. The suit jacket is VERY much their style, as is the triangular hairdo. The bracers aren't perfect, but they add to the whole 'angular' look. I wanted to give a nod to the virabots without literal extra legs, so I added some webbing to the inside of the jacket! I'm pretty happy with the colors here, good mix of light and darks that feel 'cohesive' to me.

Second Coming was supposed to look... pretty normal, all things considered. Friendly boi. I couldn't figure out a good hairdo, so I ended up just not giving them one, and honestly I like it better that way! They carry trinkets from all their friends in their sweater pockets :D

AURAAAAA I was adding the aura (shape of which was inspired by a Flight Rising cosmetic) and realized I could totally light the halo on fire too. They go a little apeshit, as a treat <3 Pose could have been better here, but 'aura' chosen doesn't really move around much in the animation anyways? Just sorta hovers there. Which this kinda conveys. I really enjoy how the green contrasts with the orange :D

The evilest lad! I loved AVA V so much. Victim is physically much shorter and appears to be weaker than the other hollowheads- and of course they would look like that, they actually are weaker! This design was made before AVA The Box, so I didn't add any of the 'editing' things- and besides, those arent Victim's anyways. I made Vic appear a little bit fem as a treat, and gave them a gun- gotta girlboss :D

#animation vs animator #animator vs animation #ava #ava art #ava the chosen one #ava the dark lord #ava the second coming #ava victim #the chosen one #the dark lord #the second coming #victim #art #my art #wanna design the mercenaries next!

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givemequeen · 1 year

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Slow Hands: Pedro Pascal x reader (smut)

request: Hey dear! Could you write a history with daddy pascal? Maybe with a lot dirty talk + spoon position and pedro just going slowwww… 🫠🫣🤤 thank you! If you dont feel comfortable to write this I’ll understand ☺️ a/n: do y’all watch The Mandalorian? i was like wtf with that new character in the new episode. like totally did not expect that! pairing: Pedro Pascal x reader summary: Pedro coming back from a boy’s night out with a little (large) something down his pants. warnings: sexy time! slow sexy time (not a warning, just letting you know). unprotected sex (remember to wrap it before you tap it, lads). word count: 1,000

The bed dipped behind you under the weight of your lover. You hummed in delight as you stretched the sleep out of your limbs. He climbed into bed and slipped under the covers, pulling you against him. He had stripped down to his underwear, his clothes long forgotten on the apartment’s floor.

“Well hello to you too.” you mumbled tiredly as his erection pressed against your ass.

“Sorry.” He laughed, not sorry at all. “I missed you so much, sorry I got back late.” he kissed your neck, burying his face in your hair.

“It’s fine...” you sighed. “You enjoyed your boys night out?” you giggled, his moustache tickling you.

“Yeah, it was nice but I missed you like crazy.” he pressed his hips against you.

You wiggled your butt against him, feeling arousal flood your senses. You reached for his hand and placed it between your legs. Pedro complied, getting his fingers to work, doing what he knew so well to do. You hummed happily against the feeling, pressing yourself against him.

His fingers circled your clit through your pyjama shorts before slipping under your shorts. You hummed as his experienced fingers touched you, squeezing your thighs at the sensation. Pedro hooked his leg around yours, pulling them apart to get better access. You complied, eager to feel more.

Pedro’s pace quickened, sending jolts of pleasure through you. You curled your toes, gripping the sheet and pressing against him. Your mouth fell open in silent moans, his name filling the quiet room.

“You like that, mi amor?” he groaned, pressing himself harder against you.

You nodded in response, reaching behind you to kiss him. Your tongue licked his lower lip, taking it between your teeth and tugging. You slipped your tongue inside his mouth, sliding it over his and moaning into his mouth as he quickened his pace.

You turned back around, shutting your thighs so we would stop moving. You could tell you were close and wanted to feel him in you. You slipped your shorts down to your knees and, reaching behind you, pulled his cock out of his pyjama shorts. He pushed his own shorts down to his knees and flattened his hand against your lower stomach, pulling you flush against him.

You stroked him twice before lining him up with yourself. Unanimously, you let out a sigh of content as he slid into you. Once he was fully inside of you, he stilled. Pedro buried his face in your hair, taking in your sweet scent. Patiently, you waited for him to move and when he didn’t, you clenched your insides.

“Alright, alright.” he chuckled before sliding out of you and slowly sliding back in. “You want me to fuck you like this? Nice and slow?”

“Yes daddy, fuck me, please.” You sighed again, feeling at ease as he leisurely slid in and out of into you. Each time he slid back in, he slammed his hips against you, making you jolt and gasp. His hand that had been resting on your stomach smoothly glided down between your legs, his fingers immediately found that one spot that made you moan and whine.

“Daddy...” you whimpered.

“Mhmm, good girl.” he said, slamming harder into you - your body jolting upwards and tits bouncing - and fingers starting to draw small circles, each movement inciting a moan from you. “Moan louder for me.”

His other hand snaked around your body to find your breasts, squeezing in time with his hip thrusts, his fingers pinching your nipples, mirroring his movements as he played with your clit.

“You like it when I fuck you?” he hummed. You whined in response and his movements slowed. “Your tits are perfect.” he groaned, voice low and hot.

“Yes daddy, you fuck me so well.” you moaned.

He rolled his hips against you, his motions slow-paced and relaxed, like he had all the time in the world. He continued playing with your body, making you moan and shudder in pleasure.

“I think I’m close.” you mumbled, your mind fogging up as you got closer.

“Come for me, let me feel you. I want to fill you up with my cum, is that okay baby? Is that what you want?”

“Yes- yes, fuck, yes, daddy, yes.” you whimpered.

Pedro slowed his pace, his thrusts becoming more defined and with greater force. You gasped as he slammed into you and felt pleasure roll over your body like waves. You gripped his arm, digging your fingers into his flesh, and felt him cum inside of you.

Panting, you both came down from the high and laid there, his cock still inside you. You clenched your thighs, making him wince and making you giggle. You pressed your sweaty back against his firm chest, wanting to feel his warmth against you.

“That was good.” you breathed softly, his arms had collapsed over you and you had started drawing shapes over them.

“You were perfect.” he brushed away your hair that had fallen over your shoulder and kissed the sweaty skin there. “Mmm you taste nice.” he grumbled.

You whined as he began moving, his cock slipping out of you. He pulled the covers off from you, a gentle breeze hardening your nipples. You groaned and stretched, feeling exposed in the best way possible.

“Fuck, you are perfect.” he positioned himself at your knees, pulling your hips towards him. His cock was beginning to harden again and you felt the anticipation build inside you.

“Daddy come back.” you said, staring at him as he lowered himself between your legs.

“Look at my cum drip out of you, you are fucking perfect.” He scooped the cum that had began dripping down your thighs and shoved two fingers inside of you, pushing everything back in.

You giggled as he started crawling back over you, a cheeky, lazy smile you knew meant dirty things plastered on his face, and lined himself against you. You were in for a long, slow night...

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal fluff #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x reader smut #pedro pascal x reader fluff #pedro pascal x reader fanfic

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saintsenara · 1 month

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Heyy, just came back from reading your analysis for remadora and snupin, and I just wanted to say THANK YOU for speaking the truth no one else seems to aknowledge.

First of all, Tonks is a queen and neither Remus or Sirius held a candle against her. I agree that their relationship wasn't at all perfect, that there were many topics to be discussed and explored there, and let's be honest, Remus isn't exactly healthy boyfriend material, regardless of his age.

Which takes me to my point. I love some fluffy snupin fic with a sweet and regretful Remus as much as the next person, mostly because it feeds my joy on seeing him actually beating himself for his mistakes and how he was as much of a bully to Severus as the rest of them. I want Severus's pain and the role Remus played in it to be acknowledged in their relationship.

However, I also want to see some good canon compliant snupin fic where Remus Lupin is presented as the low-key cruel and dark asshole we know he is. I don't buy that he only remained with the marauders because he didn't want to be alone, hell nah, that was Peter. Remus enjoyed their shenanigans and the pranks just as much, and I bet he was the mastermind behind a lot of them. I believe he was the only one who had some guilty conscience afterwards, but it wasn't nearly enough to make him re-consider.

I want some snupin fic where their dynamic follows the one we see in canon. Severus being terrified of Lupin and traumatized after what happened in the Shack, I want Lupin to low-key get off his fear because it makes him feel superior to the usually composed and indiferent Snape. I want Lupin to have been weirdly fixated with Severus since their school years and that's why he never stopped the pranks, because he enjoyed seeing the other boy under their mercy. I want Lupin to "hunt" him as both a teenager and as they're both professors in Hogwarts. Back when i read the books, I always thought his behaviour with Severus, both when they interacted and when Lupin talked about him with others, was kinda fruity. Like, what's up with than enthusiasm to see him wearing woman's clothes? How come he's the only one who refers to him "Severus" when everyone else, except for Dumbledore, calls him Snape? Yeah, it always felt weird to me.

In short, I simply think their canon compliant dynamic would be much more interesting if taken in consideration for fanfics. I love the whole "prey/predator" dynamic they could have.

ahh, thank you so much, anon! i'm delighted that you enjoyed my thoughts on both snupin and remadora - there are dozens of us!

[and i'd like to also draw your attention to this excellent addendum to the remadora point by @evesaintyves - i think it's really important for all of us remadora fans to be vigilant about challenging a tone which is far too prevalent in our conversations that to think about tonks - and lupin - as queer devalues them and their relationship within a canon-coherent setting.]

and yes - absolutely - i love seeing the messiness and thorniness of lupin explored - in snupin or otherwise - by stories which engage with the ruthlessness which lurks beneath his mask of benign affability. bring me the story which really gets into lupin describing his midnight jaunts with the lads in full werewolf form as "the best times of my life" - and clearly never being anywhere near as sorry about the risk he was running as he makes out in prisoner of azkaban...

[and also the fact that it doesn't seem quite as clear to me as i once thought it did that he didn't know anything about the werewolf prank...]

and i think there's an enormous amount of potential in using the longstanding cruelty which is tangible in snape and lupin's dynamic as a vehicle to bring down the mask behind which he lives - and that his relationship with his own sexuality is a really interesting example of that.

there's a homophobic undercurrent to a lot of the marauders' bullying of snape - the nickname "snivellus", for example, is based in the idea of snape being improperly masculine - which endures into the adult lupin and sirius' relationship with him [sirius' comment about snape being lucius malfoy's "lapdog" is him insinuating a sexual relationship between them in which snape is implied to be the receptive partner; lupin obviously thinks that snape would regard being made to cross-dress as humiliating and emasculating].

and while i love the portrayal of the wizarding world in fics as some sort of queer utopia - because i love the escapism of it - the evidence we have from canon is that this is... a pretty far-fetched thing to say about a society which is so obsessed with blood and lineage and the continuation of both of these things.

someone like lupin, who already depends so much on maintaining a mask of "civility" and conformity because of the precarious status his lycanthropy confers upon him in the eyes of the state strikes me as someone who would really struggle to acknowledge himself as queer in any way without thinking of that queerness as deviant and as dangerous to him.

[which is such an underrated remadora premise - tonks is clearly much more comfortable with being experimental and explorative in how she engages with the world. you could have so much fun with the impact tonks' relationship to her own queerness would have on lupin's relationship to his.]

lupin discovering snape is queer - and the combined fear and desire this might inspire in him, and how this would be received by snape, who is still so hung up on being afraid of and humiliated by him - could be a really complex and tangled premise for a story.

which i think you may have just offered to write...

#asks answered #asenora's opinions on ships #snupin #remus lupin #severus snape

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sysig · 9 months

Photo

Things discovered: Charm is stupid amounts of fun to draw in the WOY style (Patreon)

Bonus:

Spider bites are already round and soft-shaped!

#Doodles #Villainsona #Just Desserts #So here's a fact for funsies: I gave this style a go once and then set it down for a couple days 'cause I thought it didn't work for Charm #But I simply hadn't experimented enough yet! What a fool I was!#The first four - well really three but the eyes-touching was a later attempt lol - kinda put me off my attempt #But not completely :3c ♪#It was actually going back and looking at Princess Demurra's eyes that were the final piece of the puzzle #The eye shape for sure but mostly the fact that she has those big blue irises as well as big pupils - that's it that's what I needed lol #Like Charm's cute with just the large pupils but that extra circle makes all the difference in actually wanting to keep drawing her lol #And I super do! This style is like?? Shockingly perfect for her I super didn't expect it #Reminds me a lot of that time I ran her through the Lalaloopsy filter haha just missing the button eyes similar proportions #I based her body quite a lot on the Fleas with I guess? Binglebop legs?? haha just a tiny little lad!#She's very proportionally fun because she's basically a parallelogram with a big head and nub arms lol ♪#I eventually opted to drop her fingers altogether but I don't mind if they show up every once in a while lol #I also think candy people would fit the WOY aesthetic fairly well :D I especially like how her swirls turned out haha very defined shapes #I also gave her fluffy hair 'cause while I very much enjoy the rounded fluff shapes I'm not very good at them yet :') Sylvia in point lol #It's only particularly obvious in her TVAU form! Her classic hair shape is very fitting! Haha #Too bad this opened the floodgates to more TVAU ideas in that case hehehe ♪#She looks hecka-cute however :)#Oh and Spider bites of course! I haven't drawn Spider Bites in this style but hhrnn it's tempting!

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seasidemew · 3 months

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What would the cast look like if shiny swapped?

Ooh following that you could do silly color swap design challenge? Syn with Sixs pinks would still be the sexiest lad around

And if they were all different Pokemon what do you think they would be/what pokemon would they want to be instead

Huzzah! All of them, plus bonus pre-stone Syn AKA Torra since I figured someone might ask (;

Lilith and Eve are so pale their change is really only obvious in their lineart. Shiny mew's eyes are the same iirc, but I still changed theirs just a tad. Syn doesn't change much, either. If I used the same method for him as the others, he'd turn out a sandy color. It's really pretty, but I think that would ruin the point of the whole "stone draining his color" bit.

AS FOR THE OTHER QUESTIONS..... which I definitely did not draw for, but could be tempted if they were asked again? Mayhaps?

I might try a color swap in the future. At least Syn's natural colors kind of count? Kind of?

That other one is an interesting question. If I was SUPER lazy, I'd just pick their fusion crosses. BUT! I AM A BETTER MAN THAN THAT! I held myself to not picking legendaries.

I think I'd make M1 an Alakazam for... lore reasons.

It's a pretty cheap shot, but Syn would probably be a Torracat. He wouldn't want to evolve into Incineroar, but would probably be forced to once he was sold to the ring.

Six would be a Lucario. Yes, I am biased.

Lilith would be a Mightyena.

Eve is harder to decide, but I might make her a Scream Tail?? Idk, I just think it would be funny. I'm definitely open to other suggestions?

Anyway, enjoy! Normal versions too, just for kicks.

#seaside art #lilith #sixteen #eve #m1 #syn #mewtwo #newtwo #mew #shadow mewtwo #ancient mew #that is. a lot of tags #answered asks

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kinaesthetiqueer · 10 days

Text

The First Bite

At long, long, long last, here we are! The climax of her pulse in my throat's first arc! ID in alt text, as always. bonus behind the scenes and screaming under the cut.

some alt versions:

Y'ALL MIND IF I JUST SCREAM BECAUSE AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH

this is the point at which i knew i was doomed. this is the fucking scene that did me in. this is the one that made me go: ah fuck lads, it's goin in the wip folder

"because i think it would be funny" GIRL (GENDER NEUTRAL) IT'S TOO LATE YOU'RE DOOMED BY THE SIREN CALL OF THE AU

a day later i said "the brainworms are strong with this one. outline is 4k and ten chapters and counting"

four days later i started drawing this scene. pretty much immediately got side tracked by school though.

(the 10 hours was mostly the background, because i had forgotten foreshortening and perspective and had to relearn) but the first time i was off both work and school? slammed down caffeine and finished it.

anyways i've had this drawing done since late november of 2023, so i need you to understand how UNWELL i've been furiously writing to get to this point and i am SO fucking stoked. i've neither drawn nor written this much in years and i am having SO much fun. sjfdnsfjknsfj

thank you for enjoying this timeline of my descent into ssvau madness. :D see you in ch 21!

#nordic winter #nora valkyrie #weiss schnee #rwby #rwby fic #rwby art #kina draws #snowstorm vampire au #gods im unwell im SO unwell about them this fucking scene is everything to me #at least for this arc. every arc has That One Scene #although V1.Arc II has like four but i digress #im so fuckign happy with this godssssss #please don't repost; feel free to reblog

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fili-urzudel · 5 months

Note

If you don't mind #9 and #7 with Thorin and Dwalin.

7. Sleeping in a dog pile

9. Forehead touches

I was quite honestly immediately inspired by this one, it was just bridging the gaps between every flash of inspiration I had lol. It felt nice to write something platonic, and I hope that this was close to what you had in mind, or if it wasn't, it's still something you enjoy. <3

Word count: 1.1 k

Warnings: Might getcha in your feels idk, old man dwarf Balin POV

Pebbles - Platonic Balin, Thorin, and Dwalin

Dwalin could hardly keep still, hands fidgeting with the head of the wooden axe Adad had gifted him some months ago. "Will you let us stay up as late as we want?"

"No," Balin answered sternly, still feeling a bit strange, entrusted with all this authority. "You will go to sleep when Amad and Her Highness said you need to go to sleep. And you'll eat your dinner."

"I thought brothers were supposed to be fun."

"I thought sons of the advisor to the king were supposed to be well behaved," Balin said, before ruffling his brother's dark hair. He hadn't quite gotten the hang of braiding it yet, so he decided to leave it all out, and it stuck out quite impressively from his head. "And you can have fun, just be mindful. It's not your house. And be gentle with Dis, she's just a little'un."

"Aye, aye," he waved him off.

The older dwarf hoisted his school bag over his shoulder again before knocking on the door to the common quarters of the royal family. "Come in!" The princess's voice rang through, and Balin took a deep breath as he pulled the door open.

"Dwalin!" Thorin jumped up from whatever it was he was doing at the table to all but tackle his little brother, initiating their special handshake that always ended in a headbutt.

He had taught them it.

"And what am I? Chopped liver?" As he spoke, Frerin and Dis came running up, sticking to either side of him and forcing him to drop his bag of schoolbooks on the floor. "Ah, at least someone cares," he joked, a hand on each of their backs.

"Thank you for showing up early, we're about ready to leave," the princess told him with a genuine smile. She was always so warm. "I know you'll all have so much fun!"

"Not too much," Prince Thrain reminded them.

"Of course not, sir."

"I know you're a good lad, Balin," Thrain reassured him. "I'm sure we'll return to clean plates, clean rugs, clean clothes, and no damaged art, right?" He asked, pointedly turning to his eldest son and his best friend, who seemed to be tuning him out.

"Yes, da."

"Yes, sir!" They said at the same time.

After a round of goodbye and another set of reminders for Thorin and Dwalin, the pair were off, and Balin could get started on his homework. Right?

"Dis, you've got to finish your vegetables," Balin encouraged her, though he knew the words would have irked him when he was her age.

"But I don't like green food," she pouted, blue eyes welling with on-demand tears.

"Thattagirl," Dwalin praised, and Balin shot him a look that had him shrinking in his seat.

"They're good, I prom—Frerin, that had better not be drawing clay," he warned as he saw the pebble nearing the wall with a suspiciously clenched fist. "I may not be your ma but I won't let you color the walls either."

After redirecting Frerin's creative energy to parchment, Balin cleaned up after dinner.

It wasn't much easier after.

"Boys, no wrestling on the furniture," he said exasperatedly, still trying in vain to do his schoolwork at the dinner table. He moved his papers and books haphazardly in his arms to the table in the sitting room, hoping to dissuade them from trying again.

They continued amusing themselves with tasks of varying volume, and Balin was almost done with his essay on the First Age when it went quiet. Too quiet.

"Boys?"

"Quick, pick it up!"

"Why weren't you watching her?"

"She's your sister!"

"She's your sister too!"

"You're older!"

By that point, Balin had made it to the room at the end of the hall—the master bedroom. Someplace none of them should be.

The scene was simple enough to decipher. A vase of some sort lay on the ground, formerly perched on a table that Dis must've walked into and knocked over. Surprisingly, the noise was not enough to make her cry, but enough to make the other pebbles start panicking.

It wasn't a big deal. Honestly, if it was anyone's fault, it was Balin's, something he would readily admit to when the prince and princess returned.

But the pebbles thought they were in big trouble, with enough anxious energy to keep them up all night.

"Why, you little goats!" He roared, and the pebbles perked up almost instantly. "You'd better run!"

Dis shrieked and toddled away, the others in hot pursuit. Balin chased them around tables and the kitchen island, catching them and earning more screams every time they hid behind a bed or chair.

He let them get ahead of him just enough to confer among themselves, and when he caught up, they attacked.

"Get him!" Dis cried in her small voice, and Balin couldn't hide his smile.

Frerin and Thorin each took an arm, and Dwalin bowled them back onto the couch. "My own brother, betraying me!" he shouted, closing his eyes in defeat.

The couch was wide, wide enough for the five of them to spread out as they wished. Dwalin lay on his chest, his untamed hair tickling Balin's chin.

Thorin laid his head on his stomach, his baby sister in his arms and his little brother laid out on his legs.

And finally, they could rest, Balin thought as not-so-quiet snores filled the room.

"Balin?" A small voice asked, and it took a moment for him to realize it was Dwalin's. It had been a while since he sounded so... little.

"Yeah, nadad?"

"I'm sorry for not being better tonight."

"You were just having fun," he assured him. "It's alright."

"Are you sure?"

Balin touched his forehead to his brother's briefly, patting his back. "Yeah. Go to sleep, nadad."

His brother snuggled back up to his side.

He would clean up the vase later. He would tell the prince and princess when they got home and apologize profusely for not watching them more closely.

But right now, it was nice being right where he was.

My, where did time go?

It had been a long time since then, Balin reminisced. A lot had changed. They were charging to recover the mountain he had lived most of his life in. He had a couple hundred more grey hairs, and all the pebbles had full beards now. The ones that were still alive, at least. Dis had pebbles of her own, and they were on the quest.

He wasn't sure, but he did know one thing. It was an absolute fact, actually, as Thorin and Dwalin lay snoring on each arm.

Some things didn't change much at all.

#lotr fanfic #lotr #lotr fandom #the hobbit #lotr headcanons #the hobbit headcanons #balin the dwarf #balin the hobbit #balin lotr #thorin x dwalin platonic #dwalin fundinson #thorin oakenshield #balin fundinson #balin and dwalin #platonic lotr #platonic fanfiction

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spicybylerpolls · 2 months

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Well, unknown hero agent man / pen symbolism anon, i hope you're reading this, cos you hit the nail on the head! this kind of symbolic storytelling is not only a fine art of cinema (being lost these days a little sadly, what with the whole netflix speedy turnover etc), but exactly what (good) films of the horror genre aim to do.

horror has long been a way to creatively tell 'normal' dramatic stories through subtext and symbolism. not sure if this is still a way around traditional censorship but im sure it began that way. films like the exorcist, the shining, rosemary's baby... all classics that are filled with subtext. its also an exciting way to talk about things that might seem trite or too bleak when portrayed as a 'straight' drama (this is the term meaning 'non-genre based' or 'non-musical' lmao). So you could say that ST is NOT straight, in more ways than one 😉

but much of this will go over casual viewers heads, so its finding the balance between making a story believable on the surface (another dimension exists! scary government men trying to kill us!) and subtextually (the UD as a metaphor for trauma/AIDS/closeted homosexuality/abuse etc) if viewers are clever enough to see/feel it. i say feel because much of storyviewing is instinctive instead of analytical.

so ST incorporates both - not just metaphorical, vague storytelling, but also real issues too. but it goes one step further, and actually has characters talk explicitly about reading deeper into stuff (murray's behind the curtain speech). it's a very meta show, even for a genre piece, which is why it astounds me that some people think it's not that deep lol. and some people think that only literature can be deep, but never tv or movies - which is an insult to anyone who has ever been passionate about cinema tbh. It's a statement that would probably rip the heart out of the duffers' chests and stomp on it. these guys are super nerds who have dedicated their adult lives to this passion project. as finn said, 'most people make it then just cash in - im so glad they still care'.

I'm sorry you don't feel comfortable talking about the beauty of this storytelling on your main. it really does surprise me that the fandom is so censorship obsessed because sexual metaphors have long existed in visual media, and especially in horror films. there used to be a long post about byler and a potential sex scene at lover's lake on here, but the user disappeared and the post went missing. it was about all the sexual imagery in ST, with a focus on byler in s4. i especially loved how they mentioned mike's introduction, where he was just in underwear: it is both appropriate for the setting, but also gets the audience used to him as a growing lad with a body and draws attention to those uncomfortable, potentially sexual aspects of being a teen. i mean, he was in tiny pants for god's sake. did we need to see that? why did we see it? etc etc

hilariously, they also referenced the always sunny in philadelphia scene where a character is in a therapist office talking about a pen being a dick. he then puts it in his mouth and chews the pen lmoao

i think you'd enjoy @therainscene's rod symbolism post too. I'm personally hoping for some explicit sex scenes with byler, because the show so far has arguably been telling that story metaphorically already for 4 seasons, and bringing it out of the subtext could be a storytelling device in itself. bringing byler's secrets into the light. after all, this is a period piece that aims to shed light on a bygone era. its not a propaganda piece that needs to remain coded; the reasons for staying secretive still exist for mike and will in the 80s, but times have changed since then for us as a global audience, and more importantly, the aspirational message has changed. what message would the duffs want to send to viewers that are still bigoted? clearly one of the beauty of homosexuality, seeing as will, our fav gay boy, has been the darling sympathetic victim of the show since s1e1. the show needs to remain true to both the 80s while also having a strong message for this decade in order for modern audiences to be able to gain something from watching this story; in order for there to be a reason the show exists at all.

so to answer your question, i had never picked up on the pen symbolism until now, but i immediately agree, not least because 1) it must have a meaning that connects to byler's conversation otherwise why does it just interrupt them with no reason? (from a storytelling pov), and 2) because of the always sunny scene lolllll

thanks for the discourse! if you stick around into s5, im sure we will be able to start discussing this on our mains. it'll be a new era and there might even be gifs/pics of byler to accompany our 'spicy' discourse haha!

Amazing/fascinating points! Thanks for adding to the discussion!

#byler #spicy byler #will byers #mike wheeler #no poll

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written-in-flowers · 2 years

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Hi! I’d like to request something with Aemond x older!reader (non-highborn), where reader is insecure of her age and being older than him but he reassures her it doesn’t matter to him. Fluff and/or smut up to you ☺️ love your work!

Thank you so much! I really appreciate it! <3

Sweet Summer Prince

You never understood his interest. Many pretty young ladies served in Harrenhal. You saw them walking around, being eyed and bedded by the soldiers now occupying the ancient stronghold. Aemond, being a prince and their commander, could have his pick of any of them. Yet, he'd picked you, the woman twice his age, widowed with two children of her own. You'd been the head of house when the prince showed up with his army and enormous dragon. They seized the castle within a day, slaying all the queen's loyalists inside, but leaving the servants alive. Who will cook their meals if they killed the entire household?

You'd expected one of the other serving girls to become the prince's bed mate. Naturally, they all dreaded the idea of catching his eye (he's only got the one), and having to 'serve' him personally. However, it'd been you he chose. One night, he sent one of his knights to bring you to him in his chambers. You were not a naïve woman. You'd been in Harrenhal since your childhood; your mother a scullery maid and your father the kennel master. You'd seen many women be taken from the kitchens or common rooms, and brought before whichever lord owned the stronghold at the time. You walked to the prince's quarters with your head up high. You refused to let these invaders see you fearful or weeping as you were brought before the young prince.

Prince Aemond lost his left eye many years ago, but you'd seen worse. Broad and leggy, he had the silver hair and blue eyes of the Targaryen line. You assumed he must be a strong lad if he could ride the ancient Vhagar and seize a stronghold like Harrenhal all by himself. He didn't wear his eyepatch that night, so instead he looked at you with the gleaming sapphire he put in place of the missing eye. You'd assumed he'd ask you to do some mundane task for him or complain to you about one the servers under your charge. You worried it might even be about your twins; they'd broken into the armory or gotten too close to his dragon or some other childish thing that might've upset him. But, instead he asked:

"Would you like some wine?"

Never turning down a cup of anything, you agreed. He'd gotten a plate of cheese, bread, grapes and a pitcher of wine on his table, and sat by the firelight to avoid the chill in the air. You remember looking over his sharp features, and realizing his appearance matched the coldness underneath. You tried to keep things easy, not showing any fear or dread in his presence. He asked you questions about yourself, your role at Harrenhal, and your background. He gave you snippets of his own life: being the second son of the late King Viserys, brother to the new king Aegon II, and rider of Vhagar, the oldest and largest of dragons. You found him quite fascinating. He was well-read, having studied history and philosophy. He enjoyed poetry and books just as much as sword and shield. You nearly asked why they hadn't made him the king. He appeared capable of it. But, Aemond seemed to respect the line of succession, and what the hell did you know? You're only a long-time servant.

The prince's real intentions became clear a few nights later, when he asked you to draw him a bath, then asked you to join him in it. You laughed that you aren't what he wants. He needed a supple, lithe beauty whom he can lift around like a rag doll. Aemond only smirked at you, then said he didn't want a little girl. He wanted a woman. It'd been many years since a man approached you in such a way. Your husband died of a fever years before, and you'd never taken up another lover since then. But, you could not refuse a prince, especially one like Aemond. You'd disrobed in front of him, seeing his eye scanning your naked figure, before you stepped into the warm waters with him. Your naked bodies touching, you forced yourself to keep control as the young, handsome, strong man began running his hands over you. You never expected a man as young as Aemond to know a woman's body, but yes, he did. Very well. In minutes, the boy had you trembling and panting against his body as he fingers pumped between your thighs.

Since then, you and Aemond spent every night together. You did not always make love, but the nights you did felt special. Always gentle. Always careful. You'll admit, he made you feel young. He brought an exciting light into your life, and him being fond of your twins only made you like him more. They'd been most pleased when he carefully introduced Dian to Vhagar after the boy expressed an interest in dragons. Dia asked you if you'd marry Prince Aemond, so she may be a princess. You laughed. You told her only noble ladies became princesses. But, this comment did make you think:

Why did he want you?

You stood in his bed chamber at night, preparing his bed for his nightly routine and putting a fresh basin and jug of water for him. You glanced across the room to see Flora, a shapely blonde girl ten years younger than you. She'd become popular amongst the men in Harrenhal. Aemond should have her. She is better suited, not an old crone like you, even though you were only five-and-thirty.

Aemond appeared in the room some time later, sending Flora away at once. You recognized the glint in his eye once she disappeared. It surveyed you from afar, and you couldn't help but blush. He had a way of making you feel like a young maiden again. This was why he should have Flora. She is young. Never married with no children, the signs of having bore a child did not stretch or weigh down her body like you. She'd be tighter, and more pliable than you.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his soft-spoken voice louder in the quiet room.

"Nothing, my prince," you insisted, turning your back and moving things around on a table even though you didn't need to. "Did you enjoy your dinner tonight? I'm afraid Horace has trouble finding proper meat these days. He says your dragon's presence scares away all the good game."

"Dinner was acceptable enough, but that's not what concerns me right now." You heard him coming up behind you. You flinched for a moment as large hands went around your wide hips. "Something's upset you. I wish to know what it is."

"Nothing's upset me."

"You don't need to hide things from me," he assured you, hands going up your sides and bringing you to his chest. Warm lips brushed against your ear as he whispered, "Please, tell me."

"You should bed Flora," you whispered back. You looked anywhere but at him. You couldn't stand it if you caught his eyes. "She's pretty, young, and new. She's never known a man, as far as I know, so her maidenhood can be yours. You shouldn't be with an old woman like me."

"I don't want Flora," he said. "She doesn't excite me like you do."

You laughed, "Excite you?"

"Yes," he pressed himself into you, "Excite me. Your age doesn't matter to me, Y/N. It never has. It's your heart I care for most."

"That and you have an appetite for old crones."

He chuckled softly, hands going to your back and unlacing your underbust. "I might," he said, tossing it aside once he'd finished, and slowly pulling your chemise from your shoulders. "You bring me comfort," he continued, kissing from your neck to your shoulder, "And peace in this place. Enemies stand all around me, wanting to kill me and take my brother's crown away. They want to take my birthright from me. I have so few people I trust in this life." He slipped your chemise down from your breasts, heavy and hanging from birthing children. You gasped once his hands cupped them, giving them a gentle squeeze, "I wish for you to be one of them."

Smiling, you turned around to face him. Carefully, you removed his eyepatch to see his sapphire eye. Your thumb traced over the jagged scar that ran from above the eyebrow to his cheek. Thin lips curled into a faint smirk before finally leaning to capture yours. He stoked a fire inside you that never went out. The kiss deepened as you both removed the rest of each other's clothes, falling back onto his bed. Your bodies became one piece, limbs sliding until you locked together in a passionate embrace. You tossed your head back, he dotted kisses along your collarbone and down to your breasts. You spread your thighs to let him slide between them, and began grinding your hips into his. You felt his exact length laying over your sex, which only added fuel to the fire inside you. Your clit brushed over his shaft each time you moved, and when he matched your movements, he growled against your breasts. Nipples peaked hard, his slid his tongue around and over it before giving a soft suckle. You whimpered.

“My prince...” you sighed, your hands sliding through his hair while he sunk down your body.

His head between your thighs, his tongue languidly slipped over each of your folds before touching the very center. He continued this for a while: teasing dragging the tip of his tongue on each side before rapidly flicking over the clit up top. He used his tongue to massage the space just underneath, as he licking the underside right above your entrance. A strong arm kept you pinned to the bed so he could explore every crevasse of your sex, licking up the juices dripping out. Your hands grabbing tufts of hair, you pushed his face further into you so he tongue slipped through your entrance. Grabbing the outside of your thighs, he kept still as you grinded into his face. He growled and it sent light vibrations through your body, making you quiver. He replaced his tongue with his fingers, the long digits massaging your walls and curling inside you. It made you ache for more, for him. You never felt more complete than when Aemond filled you to the hilt. A young man very eager to please you, he kept working his fingers into you until you slid away from him. In your heat, you reached down to the young prince and rolled him onto his back.

Lips crashing together, he had no complaints when he entered you. Your slick still on your lips, you licked it off as you began rocking on top of him. He groaned deeply, grasping onto your hips tightly and guiding you along his length. Your walls squeezed him with each stroke. Tenderness could be saved for the morning. Right then, you needed him. You needed him to assure you that you are being ridiculous; that he truly loved you. You’d met so many men who gave proclamations of love, only to walk away once you’d given them what they wanted. Even your late husband proved to be the same; he only stayed because he’d gotten you pregnant, and forced into matrimony. Aemond filled you completely, not too large or small. You certainly felt his girth stretch you. His hands never left you. His lips left tiny stings of pain with each lick or bite at your flesh. The hunger in each of you burned hot like dragon fire, your pace beginning to pick up and release drawing closer.

Moments later, your climaxes burst through your bodies. You shuddered, stiffened and pulsated in each wave. Aemond kept his hand around your throat to keep you in place, riding out his orgasm right after yours. Pure ecstasy made you feel dizzy, the combination of his hand and his cock bringing you further over the edge before it’d passed. A familiar warmth filled you once Aemond’s climax subsided. You’d brew a pot of moontea later.

Or perhaps you might not. Perhaps you keep his seed inside you. You weren’t so old. You could have another child...a beautiful one with a sharp nose, blue eyes and silver hair.

Once you’d both finished, you rolled away from Aemond onto your back. You let the draft coming from the window cool your heated skin. You both laid in silence for a brief moment to catch your breath. Neither of you said anything as you slowly came together underneath the sheets. He did not have to. It was in the kisses, and gentle touches he gave. He truly desired you, if anything. You snuggled closer to him, feeling his heart beat in time with yours, and slowly drifted to sleep.

****

Aemond died a few months later at The God’s Eye, fighting on his dragon against his uncle, Daemon Targaryen. You’d never felt such a strong heartbreak before. The person who’d breathed life back into you no longer walked the world. He’d gone somewhere far, where you could not touch or kiss him. You’d lost everything. The only thing you had left of Aemond was the son he gave you.

A silver-haired boy you named Cedric. You knew people at Harrenhal whispered about what happened between you and Aemond. Anyone who looked at Cedric knew it. You didn’t care. He often reminded you of Aemond at times: reserved, quiet, but strong and intelligent. You thought he might be a knight or a soldier one day.

Foolishly, he might even be a king.

***

A/N: thank you so much for this! I’d love to do something similar sometime but with highborn, since age mattered more in court than in common people. But, I enjoyed this so much, I hope you did too! <3

#aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond the kinslayer #aemond x reader #aemond x you #aemond stannies #house of the dragon #hotd #hotd drabbles #hotd imagines

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