#fluff and feelings

[honeeysagee]

𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘯? - sambucky drabble

sam doesn't notice the recent changes in his life until he looks up one day and sees them all standing in front of me.

𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐦 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐬. 𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐲. 𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐜 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞. 𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐡𝐞𝐞!

Sam Wilson didn't notice the change around his house. Sure, it needed a little cleaning, and the floors squeaked a little more these days, but he paid no mind to that. However, he didn't notice the extra pair of boots or the new coat that hung on the coat rack by the door. No, he barely even noticed the extra toothpaste in the bathroom.

He didn’t question the way the fridge stayed full or how the coffee never ran out. He didn’t pause when dinner started showing up in warm containers instead of takeout bags. And when he woke up to the sound of someone fixing the leaky faucet he’d meant to deal with three months ago, he just grunted a sleepy thanks and went back to bed.

It wasn’t that Sam was oblivious. He just… wasn’t looking too closely.

Not until he tripped over a pair of boots that weren’t his size and swore loud enough to wake the neighbors.

“Jesus, Buck—”

Bucky poked his head out of the kitchen, dishtowel slung over his shoulder like he lived there.

“You okay?” he asked, like he belonged.

Sam blinked. Then stared.

At the boots. At the towel. At the man in his kitchen.

"Yeah." He muttered and then left the conversation before he could register what he was seeing.

For the next couple of days, he noticed everything.

The way Bucky always left the sponge on the wrong side of the sink. The faint smell of Bucky’s cologne lingering on the couch cushion. The sound of the shower running even though Sam hadn’t turned it on. The quiet hum of someone else moving through his space like they’d always belonged.

He noticed the folded laundry that wasn’t his. The way his playlist had mysteriously gained three old rock songs he didn’t remember adding. The jacket draped over the back of his favorite chair. The half-read book on the coffee table with a metal bookmark tucked in neatly.

Everywhere he looked, there was Bucky.

And the thing was—it wasn’t unwelcome. Just… unsettling. Like finding a familiar rhythm in a song you didn’t realize you were humming.

It wasn’t until Thursday night, when Bucky was halfway through chopping garlic and asking if Sam wanted rice or potatoes, that Sam finally said it.

"When did you move in?"

Bucky didn’t look up right away. He scraped the garlic into the sizzling pan, the scent filling the space between them. It gave him just enough time to decide how honest he wanted to be.

“Couple weeks ago,” he said casually, like it was nothing. Like it was normal. “Give or take.”

Sam blinked. “A couple weeks? You didn't say anything.”

“Mmhm.” Bucky stirred the pan. “I didn’t wanna make a big deal out of it.”

Sam folded his arms. “You brought a coat rack.”

“It was on sale.”

“You reorganized my pantry.”

“You had cereal next to canned beans. That’s chaos.”

Sam tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “You brought oat milk.”

Bucky shrugged. “You were out, and I bought whole milk for myself.”

There was a pause. A long one.

Sam stared at him—at the man who was comfortably barefoot in his kitchen, wearing a T-shirt Sam was pretty sure used to be his, acting like he hadn’t just casually confessed to squatting in his house for two weeks without permission.

The part that rattled him wasn’t the fact that Bucky had moved in.

It was the fact that Sam hadn’t noticed. Hadn’t minded. Still didn’t.

He exhaled slowly. “You gonna keep doing this?”

Bucky looked over, brow raised. “Doing what?”

“This. Showing up. Making dinner. Sleeping in my bed.”

Bucky set the spoon down. “Do you want me to stop?”

Sam didn’t answer right away. The silence between them stretched—thick, warm, familiar.

Finally, he shook his head once. “No. I'm getting free food and things fixed around here. Stay forever if you like.”

And Bucky, eyes soft and hopeful, smiled like he’d already known that. Like maybe he’d just been waiting for Sam to say it out loud.

[alarwynnwhispers]

🧡 ᴜɴᴘʟᴀɴɴᴇᴅ — ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 27: ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀᴅᴅᴏᴄᴋ ᴡʜɪꜱᴘᴇʀ 🧡

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ + ᴅʀᴀᴍᴀ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ᴏɴɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴍᴇᴅɪᴀ ᴀᴛᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴜʙʟɪᴄ ꜱᴄʀᴜᴛɪɴʏ

ᴘʀᴇɢɴᴀɴᴄʏ ɪɴ ʟᴀᴛᴇʀ ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ᴛʀɪᴍᴇꜱᴛᴇʀ (ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛᴡɪɴꜱ)

ᴍɪʟᴅ ᴘʜʏꜱɪᴄᴀʟ ᴅɪꜱᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴘʀᴇɢɴᴀɴᴄʏ (ᴋɪᴄᴋɪɴɢ, ᴛɪʀᴇᴅɴᴇꜱꜱ, ʟᴇɢ ᴇʟᴇᴠᴀᴛɪᴏɴ)

ᴅɪꜱᴄᴜꜱꜱɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴀᴛᴇʀɴᴀʟ ʜᴇᴀʟᴛʜ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴀʀᴇ ᴀᴄᴄᴏᴍᴍᴏᴅᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴠᴜʟɴᴇʀᴀʙɪʟɪᴛʏ (ᴀᴅᴊᴜꜱᴛɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴘᴜʙʟɪᴄ ᴠɪꜱɪʙɪʟɪᴛʏ, ᴡᴀʀᴍᴛʜ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛᴇᴀᴍ)

ɪɴᴛɪᴍᴀᴛᴇ ᴘʜʏꜱɪᴄᴀʟ ᴄᴏɴɴᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ (ᴘᴀʀᴛɴᴇʀ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢ ʙᴀʙʏ ᴋɪᴄᴋꜱ, ᴀꜰꜰᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴᴀᴛᴇ ɢᴇꜱᴛᴜʀᴇꜱ)

ᴘᴀᴘᴀʀᴀᴢᴢɪ ᴘʀᴇꜱᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜʙᴛʟᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴇɴᴛᴀʀʏ ᴏɴ ᴄᴇʟᴇʙʀɪᴛʏ ᴄᴜʟᴛᴜʀᴇ

Three weeks passed since Silverstone, but the impact still lingered like tire marks on the track.

Everywhere they went, someone was watching.

Whether it was the polite stares in hotel lobbies or the whispered gasps in airports, (Y/n) had grown used to the spotlight. It wasn’t just her anymore. It was the bump. The twins. The fact that she no longer trailed behind Lando unnoticed but stood right beside him, seen, acknowledged, and protected.

Austria arrived with a crisp alpine breeze and a sky so clear it almost felt curated. Red Bull Ring buzzed with energy. The hills around Spielberg were already alive with fans, flags, and fluttering papaya-orange shirts. But what surprised her most was how quickly the paddock had adjusted to her presence.

(Y/n) stepped out of the car, hand gently bracing her lower belly. Her bump was no longer a question. It was a statement.

Lando offered his arm instinctively, helping her down. “Take it slow.”

She gave him a soft smile. “I’m pregnant, not glass.”

“Pregnant with twins,” he reminded her.

Her reply was a smirk, but she didn’t argue.

Zak Brown met them at the McLaren motorhome entrance, his tone warmer than usual. “Room’s ready for you upstairs, couch, quiet corner, anything you need. And the chef knows your preferences this time.”

“Even the papaya juice?” she teased.

Zak chuckled. “Lando made sure it was non-negotiable.”

Inside, the team greeted her like one of their own. There was no awkwardness anymore, just warm familiarity. A few mechanics even offered her fist bumps, and one handed her a tiny McLaren onesie they’d customized during the break. (Y/n) laughed, touched beyond words.

Later that day, after the media rounds, Lando returned to the motorhome and found her curled up on the corner couch, sipping water, legs elevated as ordered.

“You okay?” he asked, brushing his knuckles against her knee.

She looked up at him, a soft glow behind tired eyes. “The babies are kicking a lot today. Think they’re ready for lights out and five red lights.”

“Already got the racer genes,” he grinned.

She rolled her eyes but reached for his hand, guiding it to the center of her bump.

A solid nudge. Then another.

He stilled, lips parting. “That was...”

“Both of them,” she whispered.

He knelt beside her and pressed a kiss to her stomach, right where he felt the movement. “Hey, easy in there, yeah? We’ve got time.”

Outside, a few camera flashes popped from the far end of the paddock, long lenses trying to catch a glimpse of the woman who had somehow softened the grid’s most unpredictable driver. But inside, all was still.

She was his calm. And now, their twins were part of the noise too.

And Austria was just beginning.

To be continued... 🧡

🧡 ᴜɴᴘʟᴀɴɴᴇᴅ — ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 28: ꜱʜᴀᴅᴏᴡꜱ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴜʀᴠᴇ 🧡

📝 Note from the Author: Sixth and final post for today, I know, I’ve spoiled you all. But this Austria chapter just felt too warm, too soft not to share before logging off. (Y/n) being embraced by the team? A custom McLaren onesie?? And the twins kicking during race week? That’s legacy in motion 🧡

Lando kneeling at her bump like it’s the most sacred thing in the world? Yeah, I cried writing that. Don’t look at me.

Thank you for being here through every post today. We’re just getting started with this arc, and I already can’t wait to show you what comes next. For now… Rest well, stay soft, and keep loving loudly.

With love, me 🧡

[annaofthenorthernlights]

shameless, freaky, smutty

For frozen smut week 2024 @kristanna-days

Lustrous - established relationship

[some-sick-deja-vu]

Chapters: 2/4 Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Loki (TV 2021) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Loki/Mobius M. Mobius Characters: Loki (Marvel), Mobius M. Mobius Additional Tags: Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Insecure Loki (Marvel), Adoring Mobius, Vulnerable Loki (Marvel), Romantic Fluff, Flirting, Getting Together, Love Confessions, Jealous Loki (Marvel), Possessive Loki (Marvel), Soft Mobius M. Mobius, Top Mobius M. Mobius, Bottom Loki (Marvel), First Kiss, First Time, Eventual Smut, Shameless Smut, Mobius M. Mobius Loves Loki, Loki Loves Mobius M. Mobius, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Protective Mobius M. Mobius, Post-Loki (TV 2021) Season 2, Loki stays at the TVA and has more adventures au, Praise Kink, Inner Dialogue, Misunderstandings, Resolved Sexual Tension, Jealous Mobius M. Mobius, Happy Ending, Light Dom/sub Series: Part 1 of Lokius fluff and smut 💚🕰️😍🍰 Summary:

Look. First of all, Loki is just fine, okay? Is he in love with his best friend and terrified to lose him by saying so? Yes, but that is manageable. It has to be. All he needs to do is keep his unruly and passionate longing in check until he's positive that Mobius feels the same way. This ingenious approach will ensure that he won't lose Mobius by confessing his love!

So, Loki decides to drop a series of hints to Mobius about his feelings. Is Mobius going to pick up on these clues and take the lead? Otherwise...Loki just might explode from desperate and frustrated yearning.

[color-ns]

Sometimes tweeter people know their stuff- this is the right kind of toxic angst I want to read.

[xoxojisu]

CRASHOUT CENTRAL!

synopsis: katsuki has no idea if you like him or not

notes: bubbly + affectionate reader. umm implied hetero girl i think? but could also apply to not hetero i have no idea im sorry im just writing. idk if men crashout the way girls do but i like to think so. a lot of excessive unnecessary swearing bc it's katsuki. this is so ooc bc lets be fr when does katsuki talk abt *puke* feelings

he’s pacing.

shirtless. agitated. hair all mussed from his own frustrated hands.

kirishima’s lying on his bed with his hands behind his head, watching his best friend spiral for what has to be the third time this week.

“she said i smelled good,” katsuki huffs, whirling around. “who says that? who just..! says that to someone?”

“people who think you smell good?” kirishima offers helpfully.

katsuki glares at him like he’s the dumbest person alive. “she said it while huggin' me. and she said it in that sweet fuckin' singsongy voice.”

“right.”

“and then laughed when i didn’t say anything back. all fuckin' giggly and stupid.”

“you like when she’s giggly and stupid,” kirishima points out.

katsuki makes a noise in his throat. “not when i’m trying to figure out if she’s in love with me or just likes everyone.”

kirishima hums. “well. she is kind of a naturally affectionate person.”

“exactly!” katsuki snaps, flinging his arms out. “what if i’m just one of her little fuckin'.. plushies she likes huggin' or some shit? what if she’s going around being all sweet and smiley with everyone and i’m here thinking she wants to marry me? like, seriously. i've seen her cuddle with fuckin' pinky and round cheeks too, and she's always so.. giggly! and when i think she's flirting, she says it so fuckin' casual. like it's nothing. and i must be fuckin' delusional to think that it's anything more.”

kirishima snorts. “well, ashido and uraraka are both girls. and she doesn’t cuddle me the way she cuddles you.”

katsuki freezes.

“…you think?”

“bro, she lies on top of you like you’re a mattress. more than that, she like really curls in to you. no one does that platonically. that's just not a thing.”

katsuki makes another miserable groaning sound and throws himself down into the beanbag chair like he’s been wounded. he drags his hands down his face, muffling a scream into his palms.

“i don’t know anymore,” he mutters. “she calls me ‘kats’ like it’s just a nickname but then she’ll say it in that soft fuckin' voice like it’s something else. she’s always touching me and smiling and calling me cute but she does it so casually, like it’s just her being her. i don’t know what’s real. i don’t know if i’m hallucinating. i think i’m losing my goddamn mind. like, it's the tone. she goes all 'aweee, thanks kats!' in that stupid fuckin' sing-songy tone. i hate it! fucking..!” kirishima has no idea what katsuki's trying to punch to death. the air, maybe?

after watching him flop around like a dying fish for a moment, he offered gently, “why don’t you just ask her how she feels?”

katsuki sits up. furious.

he says nothing, but kirishima can tell what he's trying to say just from his look.

“well then,” kirishima shrugs. “guess you’ll just have to keep suffering.”

and katsuki does. every time you brush your fingers over his knuckles or play with his hoodie strings or grin at him from across the room with that stupid sweet look in your eyes, he suffers. quietly. dramatically.

because he wants you to mean it so badly.

but he has no idea if you do.

masterlist

[hellishattempt]

gojo's undercut this, gojo's undercut that

why is nobody talking about nanami's undercut

PLEASE SIR I JUST NEED FIVE MINUTES

[deathofacupid]

gojo's relationship with sleep was… complicated. he seemed to view it as an optional activity, like flossing or paying taxes. you, on the other hand, considered sleep a sacred ritual, and dragging him to bed felt like trying to convince a hyperactive hummingbird to take a nap.

"psst," he whispered, loud enough to be heard in the next apartment. "hey."

you groaned, pretending to be a particularly heavy sleeper.

"hey," he repeated, poking your shoulder. you swatted his hand away, a silent leave me alone conveyed through the power of sleepy aggression.

"sweetheart. darling. my bestest friend. my favorite person in the entire universe. sugar-plum. chickadee. kitten-kins. schnukapussy."

"what?" you mumbled, your voice thick with sleep.

"do you want to play a game? like, a card game or something?"

"what?" you repeated, your brain still trying to process the concept of coherent sentences. "it's the middle of the night. why are you awake?"

"i'm bored. my brain won't shut up. it's like a radio stuck between stations."

"and you thought waking me up would fix that? now we're both going to be miserable," you grumbled, turning over.

"…so, about that game?" he asked, sounding genuinely hopeful.

you stared at him, resisting the urge to express your frustration with a well-placed pillow. "this is what happens when you eat a whole bag of candy before bed. you turn into a nocturnal gremlin."

he shrugged. "oops."

"don't 'oops' me. i'm trying to sleep."

"but you're awake now," he pointed out, with infuriating logic.

"that's not the point!" you sighed, pulling the covers over your head.

he gave you a look that said, "please? with a cherry on top?" and, against your better judgment, you caved. you sighed, pulling him closer. "fine. no games. but i'll do the hair thing. the one that makes you sleepy."

he settled against you, all warm and impossibly comfortable. "until i'm asleep?"

"yes," you said, keeping you eyes trained on him. "until you're asleep."

as you ran your hands through his white locks, he was out in minutes, snoring softly. you smiled, finally feeling yourself drift off.

then, just as you were about to fall asleep, your brain decided to stage a revolt. wide awake. you stared at the ceiling, wondering if you could convince gojo to share his ability to function on zero sleep. to say the least, this would be a long night.

[criiitter]

sonic and his kitty cat

(@blue-blurrrr is this accurate?)

[cloudyluun]

Soft Spot

Summary: Harry Styles is the world’s most effortlessly cocky bastard in public. But behind closed doors? He’s soft for one person, her. Their love is private, sacred, the only thing that’s ever truly been his. But the internet is relentless, the rumors won’t stop, and she starts to wonder if she’ll ever fit into his world. Just when she’s about to pull away, Harry makes sure she never doubts it again. AKA: Soft (but also possessive) boyfriend Harry? Check. Jealous, protective, doesn’t-take-shit Harry? Also check. A public declaration, viral paparazzi moments, and one very necessary smut scene? You already know.

A/N: This fic is based on two requests (this one and this one from @dipmeinhoneyh) that fit so perfectly together I had no choice but to make it a full story. I hope you love it, I hope it makes you feral, and I hope you leave this feeling at least 10% more in love with Harry Styles than you already were. Also, if you ever see a man carrying all your bags through an airport while wearing your shirt?? Marry him immediately.

Word Count: 6k

Warnings: 

Smut (obviously)—possessive, praise-heavy, SOFT but also FILTHY

Harry being the most protective, doting, airport-sherpa boyfriend alive

Jealousy and minor confrontation (because someone was dumb enough to question her worth)

Public scrutiny and social media toxicity (but don’t worry, he shuts that shit down)

Excessive amounts of boyfriend fluff (back rubs, forehead kisses, and “mine” moments galore)

Did I mention the smut? Because THE SMUT.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Harry Styles was a menace.

Everyone knew it—especially the media. He wasn’t just the biggest name in music, he was also a nightmare to interview. He had little patience for industry bullshit, answered questions with nothing but a smirk or a sip of his drink, and rarely—if ever—gave the press what they wanted.

At this point, journalists had learned to come prepared when sitting across from him. They needed strategy, a solid game plan, and maybe even a shot of whiskey beforehand. Because Harry? Harry made it difficult.

And God, did he enjoy it.

The first clip that went viral was from a BBC interview.

The journalist was older, seasoned. She’d been in the game for decades and knew how to handle difficult personalities. Or at least, she thought she did.

The interview had been going fine—as fine as an interview with Harry Styles could be. He’d leaned back in his chair, one arm draped over the backrest, looking like he owned the place. Dressed in a half-unbuttoned silk shirt and tailored trousers, he was a picture of effortless arrogance.

Then she asked, “Do you think you’re difficult?”

Harry blinked. Didn’t move for a second. Then—slowly, deliberately—he picked up his drink, took a long sip, and held eye contact the entire time.

The silence stretched.

And stretched.

The journalist swallowed.

Finally, Harry licked his lips, tilted his head, and asked, “D’you think I care?”

The second clip was worse.

A different interview, a different day, same energy.

Harry was sitting in front of a panel of radio hosts, arms crossed, tattoos peeking out from under the loose sleeves of his sweater. The conversation had been moving along at a leisurely pace, touching on his tour, his latest album, the usual surface-level stuff.

Then one of the hosts leaned forward, smug, thinking he had the upper hand.

“So, tell us, Harry. What’s the song ‘Soft Spot’ about?”

Harry, who had been absentmindedly fiddling with one of his rings, paused. He exhaled through his nose, the barest hint of amusement curling at the corners of his mouth.

Then—without hesitation—he shrugged. “Dunno. Just a song.”

The hosts groaned in frustration.

The internet? Ate it up.

Edits of him smirking, of him dodging questions with effortless ease, flooded Twitter and TikTok. People captioned them with things like “This man is impossible” and “Certified menace behavior”.

The general consensus?

Harry Styles didn’t answer questions unless he wanted to.

Until someone asked about her.

It happened during a late-night talk show appearance.

The studio was dimly lit, the crowd buzzing with anticipation. Harry was perched on the couch, one leg crossed over the other, fingers playing absentmindedly with the chain around his neck. He was half-paying attention, answering questions with his usual brand of casual indifference.

Then the host, a sharp-eyed comedian known for catching celebrities off guard, grinned. “Alright, Harry. I have a question I think the people really want to know.”

Harry didn’t react much. Just arched a slow, lazy brow. “Yeah?”

“You’ve been seen with the same girl a lot lately…”

For the first time all night, something shifted.

Subtly. Almost imperceptibly.

But it was there, the way his fingers paused against the metal of his chain, the way his shoulders tensed, just slightly, the way his mouth twitched, like he was already biting back a smirk.

The audience leaned forward.

The internet, watching from their screens, held their breath.

Harry tilted his head, slowly. His lips parted, there it was. That signature smirk, the one that sent fans into a frenzy.

“Yeah?”

The host grinned, seeing the shift. “Care to comment?”

There was a beat of silence.

Then—Harry grinned. Not his usual mocking, I’m-so-over-this smirk. A real grin. The kind that made his dimples crease, the kind that softened his otherwise sharp edges.

His fingers tapped once, twice against his thigh.

Then, he looked directly into the camera, his voice dropping just a fraction.

“She’s great.”

The studio lost it.

The audience roared—cheers, gasps, the works. Twitter exploded before the show even finished airing. Within minutes, #ShesGreat was trending worldwide.

Fans analyzed the clip from every angle:

The way his face softened.

The way his body language changed.

The fact that he—HARRY STYLES, NOTORIOUS MENACE—HAD ACTUALLY ANSWERED.

He didn’t say her name. Didn’t confirm anything outright. But the shift in him? The softness in his voice?

That was all people needed.

It was real.

And the world wasn’t ready.

Y/N wasn’t famous.

She wasn’t an actress, a model, a singer, or an influencer. There was no glamorous past, no viral moment that put her on the map. No high-profile connections, no childhood dream of Hollywood stardom.

She was just a girl with a normal life—one that, up until a year ago, had been blissfully simple.

Her days had always followed a rhythm.

Morning coffee at her favorite little café, tucked into a corner booth with a book. Work, which she genuinely enjoyed—something steady, something real, something that felt like hers. Drinks with friends on Fridays, lazy Sundays spent in oversized sweaters, grocery shopping in peace without having to worry about cameras or strangers whispering her name.

She had a routine. A quiet, predictable world.

Then Harry Styles had walked into it.

And ruined everything.

She still didn’t know how it had happened.

It was easy to pinpoint the beginning—the first time their paths had crossed, the first time she’d realized that Harry fucking Styles wasn’t just a name on a magazine cover, but a person with thoughts and moods and an irritatingly sharp wit.

But she never expected it to go anywhere.

At first, he was just a guy who flirted too much.

Then he was a guy who made her laugh.

Then he was the guy she couldn’t stop thinking about.

And somehow—without her even noticing—he became hers.

It had been over a year now. Twelve whole months of him.

Twelve months of stolen moments, whispered conversations in the dark, secret rendezvous that always ended with his lips on her skin and his voice murmuring, “Just us, love. That’s all that matters.”

Twelve months of hiding.

Because Harry? Harry was obsessed with keeping her safe.

"It’s our life, not theirs," he told her once. "You don’t owe them shit."

She’d been curled up in his lap when he said it, her fingers tracing lazy patterns over the tattoos on his arm.

She had been scared that night—really, truly scared.

Her phone had blown up with messages from friends, all linking her to articles and Twitter threads dissecting her existence. Speculation had spread like wildfire after one blurry photo of them together made it online. Nothing too obvious—just a candid shot of her walking ahead of him, their fingers barely brushing.

But it was enough.

Enough for people to start digging.

Within hours, her social media had been flooded. Comments, theories, strangers demanding to know who the hell she was and why she thought she deserved him.

She had wanted to throw her phone into the ocean.

Instead, she had buried her face into the curve of Harry’s neck, inhaling the scent of him—warm skin and expensive cologne and something inherently his. Something safe.

“I don’t think I can do this,” she had admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Harry’s grip on her had tightened immediately. Protective. Possessive.

“You don’t have to,” he’d murmured. “Not like that. Not the way they want.”

And that was how they lived. No red carpets. No public declarations. No letting the world in. Just them, in their little bubble—hidden away in hotel rooms and dimly lit apartments, in long drives with the windows down, in whispered confessions at three in the morning.

It was beautiful. It was safe.

But Y/N knew—deep down, in the quiet moments when she was alone with her thoughts—that the world wouldn’t stop trying to tear it apart.

Because it wasn’t just them anymore. It hadn’t been for a while.

And no matter how fiercely Harry tried to protect her from it, the outside world was still watching.

Still waiting.

Still hungry for cracks in the foundation.

They didn’t understand him.

The world saw one version of Harry Styles.

The public version. The one who didn’t give a single shit what anyone thought of him. The one who strolled into interviews with that lazy, half-lidded smirk, sprawled out in his chair like he had all the time in the world, deliberately giving them nothing just to piss them off.

“Harry, is it true you walked out of your last meeting with the label?”

He barely blinked. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Is it also true that you—”

A slow sip of his drink. A deliberate pause.

Then, just for fun, a cocked eyebrow. “Dunno. You tell me.”

Click. Click. Click. Cameras flashing. Headlines already writing themselves.

Harry Styles: Rock’s Most Arrogant Asshole.

Harry Styles—Too Famous To Care?

Harry Styles Gives Zero Fucks About Literally Everything.

It was a game. One he didn’t mind playing.

Because the more they focused on the persona, the less they looked too closely at what really mattered.

The less they dug into his real life.

The less they found her.

Because private Harry?

A completely different person.

Private Harry sent texts like, “be home in 5”, because he knew she worried. Because he knew she’d never say it out loud, but if he was running late, she’d start pacing the kitchen, chewing at her bottom lip, imagining the worst.

Private Harry stole her hand cream and chapstick just to smell like her when she wasn’t around.

Private Harry carried her bags through airports like they weighed nothing, insisting every time, “Not letting you lift a damn thing, love.”

Private Harry curled around her in his sleep, face buried against the curve of her neck, his fingers tracing absentminded patterns along her spine until he drifted off—breathing easier when she was there.

No one saw that Harry.

And he preferred it that way.

But every once in a while, the world got a glimpse.

And when they did, it fucking broke the internet.

One moment in particular had gone insanely viral.

It had been a bad day—one of those relentless, aggressive paparazzi swarms outside a studio in L.A.

Harry had already been in a foul mood—late for a meeting, running on three hours of sleep, coming off a night of back-to-back phone calls that had left him rubbing his temples in frustration.

The cameras had been waiting for him the second he stepped out the door.

“Harry! Over here!”

“Harry, how’s the new album?”

“Harry, what’s the deal with the tour delay?”

He ignored them. Didn’t even look up.

Then someone got too close—flashed a camera right in his face, nearly knocking into him.

And that was it.

He snapped.

“Fuck off, yeah?” Sharp, cutting, the words slicing through the air like a whip. His jaw locked, his body tense.

Paparazzi shuffled back, startled.

They knew his reputation.

They’d seen him do this before.

They thought that was the whole show.

Until Y/N appeared.

She had been standing a few feet behind him, waiting.

The second he turned and saw her, everything about him changed.

His scowl softened. His hands, which had been clenched into fists? Relaxed.

And in front of dozens of cameras, in front of the very people he’d just been spitting fire at, Harry immediately reached for her—a steadying touch to her back, a soft tilt of his head. “Y’alright, love?”

Quiet. Gentle. Intimate.

As if nothing else existed in that moment but her.

The paparazzi?

Fucking shook.

The clip blew up online within hours.

Side-by-side comparisons flooded Twitter:

🚨 Harry Styles telling the press to fuck off vs. Harry Styles turning into the softest human alive the second his girlfriend walks into frame. ���

Memes. Reactions. Fans dissecting the exact millisecond his demeanor changed.

WHO IS SHE?!

HOW DOES SHE HAVE HIM WRAPPED AROUND HER FINGER LIKE THAT?!

The discourse was endless.

And Harry?

Didn’t say a damn word about it.

Because as long as they were talking about that, they weren’t looking for more.

They weren’t digging deeper.

And that meant she was still safe.

For now.

But the internet was relentless.

Because the thing about secrets—especially ones that belong to someone as famous as Harry Styles—is that they don’t stay secrets for long.

And when people suspect even the smallest sliver of something?

They become obsessed.

It started with something small.

Something that, to anyone else, would have seemed like nothing at all.

Harry had been spotted leaving a café in London, his sleeves rolled up, sunglasses perched lazily on his nose, a coffee cup in one hand.

But that wasn’t what fans noticed.

No.

What they noticed was the bracelet on his wrist.

A thin, woven band. Nothing fancy, nothing designer.

And—most importantly—not his.

The theories exploded.

GUYS. HARRY’S WEARING A FRIENDSHIP BRACELET. HAS HE EVER WORN ONE BEFORE? NO. WHO MADE IT?!

Look at the colors. Do we think there’s a meaning?

I AM SO SERIOUS THIS IS A HANDMADE BRACELET SOMEONE IS IN LOVE WITH HIM AND IT IS NOT ME

WHO THE FUCK IS SHEEEE?

There was no confirmation.

No proof.

But that didn’t stop people from digging.

Because once the internet smelled a mystery, they wouldn’t let it go.

Then came the coffee shop photo.

Blurry. Grainy. Taken at just the right angle to be nearly useless—but not quite.

Because despite the bad quality, despite the distance, despite everything, one thing was clear.

He wasn’t alone.

There was a girl across from him.

A girl who wasn’t famous.

A girl who was sitting comfortably in his presence, laughing at something he said, one hand wrapped around her mug, the other resting—casually, easily—on the table between them.

Too close.

Too familiar.

Too real.

The internet lost its collective mind.

HARRY STYLES SPOTTED WITH THE MYSTERY GIRL IN LONDON—NEW GIRLFRIEND?!

HARRY DATING SOMEONE? WHO IS SHE?!

WHO IS SHE. WHO IS SHE. WHO IS SHE. WHO IS SHE. WHO IS SHE.

I KNOW WHO SHE IS @yourusername!!

The photo was picked apart frame by frame.

Theories flooded TikTok and Twitter.

Some people were excited—because Harry in love?! Soft domestic boyfriend Harry?! They’d been dreaming of this for years.

But not everyone was happy.

Because some people… some people wanted access.

Some people wanted control.

Some people wanted to destroy anything that felt too real.

It started small.

A few comments.

A few tweets.

A few people saying she wasn’t good enough.

That she was using him.

That she was just another clout chaser who would milk this for all it was worth.

Then the DMs started.

Vicious. Personal. Cruel.

You’ll never be good enough for him.

You’re ruining his career.

No one wants you here.

He’ll leave you just like he’s left all the others.

And she told herself that she wouldn’t let it get to her.

That it didn’t matter.

That these people didn’t know her.

That as long as Harry was with her—really with her—nothing else mattered.

But it wasn’t just online anymore.

Because now, when she stepped outside, she swore she could feel the eyes on her.

Now, when she walked into her favorite coffee shop, she hesitated—half-expecting someone to recognize her.

Now, when she reached for her phone, her hands shook.

She started pulling away. Just a little.

Stopped texting first.

Stopped answering right away.

Stopped leaning into his touch as freely as she had before.

And Harry—because of course Harry noticed—tilted his head at her one night when she turned away from his kiss, his brow furrowing, his thumb tracing soft circles against her wrist.

“Alright, love?”

Her chest ached.

Because he was looking at her like that.

Like he knew.

Like he could see right through her.

Like he was already worried.

She forced a smile. Pressed a quick, barely-there kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah,” she whispered.

And lied.

The industry party was a mistake.

Y/N had known it the second they walked in.

The air inside the private venue was thick with expensive perfume, whiskey, and the kind of arrogance that could only come from people who knew they were untouchable.

The laughter was too loud. The conversations too sharp, dripping with faux warmth and hidden daggers.

She felt out of place immediately.

It wasn’t her world.

It never had been.

And standing next to Harry—Harry, who fit into this world so effortlessly, who could command attention just by existing, who seemed to belong in a way she never could—only made it worse.

He hadn’t let go of her hand since they arrived.

Had kept her close, thumb brushing over the back of her knuckles, squeezing her fingers in silent reassurance every few minutes, as if he could feel the tension in her shoulders, sense the way she was holding her breath.

But no amount of grounding touches could change the fact that she didn’t belong here.

That much became even more obvious when the wrong person decided to open their mouth.

He was a producer.

Smarmy. Arrogant. The kind of man who loved the sound of his own voice and had been in the industry long enough to think he could get away with saying anything.

And for some reason—maybe it was the champagne, maybe it was just sheer audacity—he chose her as his next target.

“Didn’t think this was your type, Harry.”

Y/N froze.

Harry stiffened next to her.

The producer took a slow sip of his drink, eyes flickering over her like she was something to be inspected.

“Quiet little thing, huh? Thought rockstars liked more excitement.”

Her stomach dropped.

It wasn’t just the words.

It was the way he said them.

The smirk. The condescension. The absolute certainty that he was untouchable, that he could say whatever the fuck he wanted without consequence.

Y/N shrank back before she could stop herself.

And that was when Harry snapped.

He didn’t move right away.

Didn’t react instantly.

Just went completely, unnervingly still.

A muscle jumped in his jaw.

His fingers—still tangled with hers—tightened.

And then—slowly, deliberately—he turned.

And stepped right into the guy’s space.

Harry Styles didn’t have to raise his voice to be intimidating.

Didn’t have to yell, didn’t have to make a scene.

All he had to do was look at someone the right way.

And the producer? He knew.

He fucking knew.

Because suddenly, the confidence wavered.

The smirk faded.

The hand holding his drink trembled just slightly.

“She’s worth more than you ever will be,” Harry said, voice low, icy, laced with so much venom that Y/N shivered.

And then—as if to drive the point home—his hand found her waist, pulled her against him, shielded her from the world with nothing but the sheer force of his presence.

It was a warning.

A claim.

And everyone in the room fucking knew it.

He didn’t let go of her for the rest of the night.

Didn’t stop touching her.

Didn’t stop checking on her.

And when they finally left—when they were finally alone—he held her even closer.

She should have felt safe.

Should have felt protected.

But instead, something heavy settled in her chest.

Because the truth was, this wasn’t just about one asshole at a party.

It was about all of it.

The industry. The fans. The internet. The constant feeling of not being enough.

And maybe… maybe they were right.

Maybe she really wasn’t enough for him.

She wasn’t going to say it.

She wasn’t.

But then Harry—still holding her, still watching her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered—brushed his lips against her forehead, whispered, “You alright, love?”

And it just—it broke her.

Her breath hitched.

And suddenly, she was blurting it out before she could stop herself.

“Maybe they’re right,” she whispered, voice barely above a breath.

Harry froze.

“Maybe I’m not enough for you.”

His entire body tensed.

Like she had just physically hit him.

Like the words had physically hurt him.

“Don’t you ever say that again.”

It wasn’t a plea.

It wasn’t a request.

It was a command.

His hands framed her face, tilting her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze.

And when she did—when she really looked at him—she almost couldn’t handle what she saw.

Because he was devastated.

Shattered.

“Don’t you ever—” His breath shuddered, his forehead pressing against hers. “—say that again.”

She swallowed. “Harry—”

“No.” His grip tightened, like he was afraid she’d slip away if he let go. “You belong with me. Here. Always.” His lips brushed hers, desperate, aching. “And I don’t care what anyone else says.”

She closed her eyes.

Breathed him in.

Let him hold her together, piece by piece.

Because if Harry Styles believed she belonged—

Maybe—just maybe—she could believe it, too.

The storm hadn’t passed.

Not really.

The world still had its claws in them, still watched their every move, still dissected every glance, every touch, every fleeting moment caught on camera.

But Harry… Harry never wavered.

Not once.

Not even when the headlines got uglier.

Not even when the whispers turned into full-blown speculation.

Not even when she started pulling back again, flinching at every flash of a camera, hesitating before reaching for his hand in public, terrified of giving them more fuel.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

But he didn’t push.

Didn’t force her to talk about it.

Didn’t tell her that she was still enough, still his, still the only thing in his life that mattered more than anything.

No.

Harry Styles didn’t waste his breath on words.

He showed her.

And the whole damn world saw it.

Madison Square Garden.

A sold-out crowd.

Phones up. Lights blinding.

It was a big night—bigger than most.

The kind of night that would be talked about for years, the kind of performance that would live forever in grainy fan videos, breathless social media posts, and blurry concert footage.

And she wasn’t supposed to be there.

Hadn’t planned on coming.

Had told Harry she’d stay home—avoid the cameras, avoid the crowd, avoid the possibility of being dragged into something she never wanted to be a part of.

But somehow—somehow—she found herself standing in the wings, heart in her throat, hands curled into fists at her sides as she watched him command the stage.

It was impossible not to be captivated.

Impossible not to watch the way he moved, the way he laughed into the mic between songs, the way he glowed under the stage lights.

He was in his element.

He belonged here.

And she—

Well.

She was just trying to stay invisible.

But then—

He turned.

Looked right at her.

And everything stopped.

Because suddenly—mid-show, mid-crowd, mid-fucking-Madison-Square-Garden—Harry Styles did something he never did.

He talked about her.

On stage.

For the world to hear.

“This one’s for someone who thinks she doesn’t belong in my world,” he said, voice steady, eyes never leaving hers.

The crowd screamed.

A roar—loud and deafening and completely unaware of what was actually happening.

“But she is my world.”

Her breath caught.

And then—before she could process what was happening—

He started playing.

A new song.

Unreleased.

Just for her.

And the lyrics—oh, the fucking lyrics.

They were filled with pieces of them.

Little inside jokes woven into verses, fragments of whispered late-night confessions hidden in melodies, the kind of details that only she would understand.

A love letter.

A declaration.

A warning to the world that she was his and he was hers, and that nothing—not the industry, not the headlines, not the relentless scrutiny of millions—could change that.

The internet lost its mind.

Clips went viral within minutes.

Fan theories exploded.

But none of it mattered.

Not really.

Because in that moment—in the middle of everything, in front of everyone, under the brightest damn spotlight possible—

It was just them.

And she belonged.

She didn’t hear the rest of the set.

Not really.

Not past the pounding of her heart, not past the static in her brain, not past the overwhelming realization that he had just done that.

For her.

For everyone to hear.

The screaming of the crowd blurred into white noise. The energy in the arena buzzed around her, the walls seeming to pulse with the sound of thousands of people still losing their minds.

But she couldn’t move.

Couldn’t think.

Couldn’t do anything except stare at the stage where he still stood, grinning like he hadn’t just shattered her entire world in the best possible way.

Because Harry Styles didn’t do things like this.

He dodged questions in interviews.

Shrugged off rumors.

Gave the media nothing to work with.

And yet, tonight—tonight, he had given them everything.

And she had no idea how to breathe through it.

Somewhere along the way, her fingers had curled into the fabric of her sweater, clutching at herself like it might help her stay grounded. Like she wasn’t seconds away from dissolving into nothing but feelings.

Because she knew what this meant.

Knew what it would cause.

Knew that by morning, headlines would be flooded with theories, and her name—or at least her existence—would be dragged into the light again.

But she couldn’t bring herself to care.

Because he’d said she was his world.

He’d said she belonged.

And maybe—just maybe—she believed him.

She was still in a daze when the show ended.

Still stuck in her own head when the lights in the arena dimmed, when the roaring of the crowd turned to scattered cheers and fading echoes of his name.

She barely noticed the way people moved around her.

Security, crew members, the distant hum of conversation—it all faded into the background.

Until—

“There you are.”

Her breath caught.

And then he was there.

Harry.

Still sweaty, still breathless from the high of performing, still looking at her like she was the only thing in the entire fucking world.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t ask if she’d liked the song.

Didn’t joke about how she’d better have been paying attention.

Didn’t do anything except close the space between them, hands gripping her face, lips pressing against her forehead, breath warm and shaky against her skin.

And she—

God.

She melted.

Because she could feel it—everything he wasn’t saying, everything he had already said on that stage.

The weight of it settled in her chest, so thick she thought she might break apart.

And then—so quietly she almost missed it—

“Tell me you’re staying.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

Because he knew.

Of course he fucking knew.

Knew how much she had struggled with this.

Knew how many times she had almost walked away.

Knew how much she loved him, but how terrified she was of all of this.

And yet—

His voice was steady.

Not desperate.

Not pleading.

Just… certain.

Like he already knew the answer.

Like he already knew her.

And maybe he did.

Because before she could second-guess herself—before she could let doubt creep in, before she could convince herself she wasn’t strong enough for this—

She nodded.

Just once.

And Harry fucking collapsed against her.

Exhaling like he’d been holding his breath for months.

Arms wrapping around her like he was afraid she might disappear.

Lips crashing against hers in a kiss that was anything but careful.

Because it wasn’t a question anymore.

Wasn’t a hesitation or a what if or an I don’t know.

It was real.

It was them.

And she was staying.

His hotel room was dark, save for the soft glow from the city outside.

But she barely noticed.

Because the only thing that mattered—the only thing that existed in this moment—was him.

Harry.

Pressed against her, warm and solid, breath still uneven from everything that had led to this.

His hands were everywhere.

Not rushed. Not desperate. Just certain.

Slow, teasing touches down her spine.

Fingertips tracing the dip of her waist.

Lips skimming along her throat, up to the shell of her ear, where his voice was low, husky, full of intent.

"Gonna remind you who you belong to, yeah?"

Her breath hitched.

Because fuck.

She’d heard that voice before—cocky, teasing, full of mischief when he was playing up his charm.

But this?

This was different.

This was a promise.

Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, gripping, needing—but he wasn’t in any rush.

Because Harry didn’t just take.

He worshipped.

And she felt it.

In the way his hands moved over her skin—slow, deliberate.

In the way he kissed her—deep, devastating.

Like he had all the time in the world.

Like she was the only thing in it.

His mouth found the curve of her shoulder.

The dip between her ribs.

The inside of her wrist, where her pulse thrummed beneath his lips.

Every inch of her.

And with every kiss, every touch, came a whisper.

"You're everything, love."

"Perfect for me."

"Mine."

Her face burned, but he wouldn’t let her look away.

Wouldn’t let her shrink away from the way he saw her.

Because when she got shy—when she tried to hide—

He caught her chin, thumb tracing her jaw, forcing her to meet his gaze.

And fuck, that look.

Like she was something sacred.

Like she was something he could never get enough of.

"Look at you, taking me so well."

Her breath shuddered out of her.

And God, he knew what he was doing.

The filthy praise, the way he held her like she was precious, the possessiveness in his voice—

It was too much and not enough, all at once.

And he didn’t stop.

Didn’t stop until she was falling apart beneath him, gasping his name, hands tangled in his hair, nails raking down his back.

Didn’t stop until she was completely his.

And then—when the world had settled again, when their breathing was slow and tangled together, when she was half-asleep in his arms

Harry took care of her.

Of course he did.

Because he always did.

Pressed a kiss to her temple.

Murmured soft things against her skin as he cleaned her up, as he wrapped her up in him.

Strong arms pulling her close, keeping her warm, keeping her safe.

Only ever his.

And just before sleep pulled her under—

Just before her body fully relaxed against his—

She heard it.

Soft.

Low.

Meant just for her.

"Love you, you know that?"

And she did.

God, she did.

But what really got her—what really made her heart ache in the best, most devastating way—was that he never said it like he needed her to say it back.

Never said it like he was waiting for some kind of validation.

He said it like a fact.

Like the sun would rise tomorrow.

Like the sky was blue.

Like her being his was something permanent.

And maybe it was.

The airport was a nightmare.

The second they stepped inside, cameras started flashing, voices shouting—Harry! Over here! Is that your girlfriend?! Harry, can you confirm—

He ignored them.

Of course he did.

Didn’t even flinch.

Just kept walking, kept his hand firmly on the small of her back, kept her close.

And he was carrying everything.

Her suitcase.

Her tote bag.

Her carry-on.

Even the stupid travel pillow she’d nearly forgotten in the car.

Meanwhile, she was strolling beside him, completely unbothered, sipping her coffee like she didn’t have a single care in the world.

The contrast? Insane.

And the internet lost its mind.

The tweets came fast.

@stylesupdates: HARRY CARRYING EVERY SINGLE ONE OF HER BAGS WHILE SHE JUST DRINKS HER COFFEE??? SIR. YOU ARE WHIPPED.

@hslotlover: HE'S WEARING HER SHIRT (it’s posted on her Instagram @yourusername) AGAIN I CAN’T DO THIS TODAY.

Because, yeah.

He was.

It was an old, slightly oversized tee—hers.

The one she always stole from his drawer. The one she wore to bed whenever he wasn’t around.

And now?

Now he was wearing it in public.

On purpose.

Like some kind of quiet, undeniable statement.

Like a middle finger to the world.

But the real moment—the one that cemented it all—was the photo.

A blurry, candid shot someone snapped from across the terminal.

Harry, walking ahead, death glaring at the paparazzi.

Her, right behind him, looking effortlessly soft, untouchable.

And the caption?

"He’s still an asshole, and she’s still his soft spot."

And fuck.

If that wasn’t the truest thing anyone had ever said.

Because the world still didn’t get it.

But he didn’t care.

Because she was his.

And that was enough.

That had always been enough.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading, you’re a total angel! Don’t forget to like, comment, and reblog if you enjoyed! It means everything to me! 💖

taglist: @oscahpastry @mema10 @angelbabyyy99 @iloveharrystyles04 @cinemharry @drwho06 @donutsandpalmtrees @panini @mads3502 @imgonnadreamaboutthewayyoutaaaa @one-sweet-gubler @rizosrizos26 @ciriceimpera @everyscarisahealingplace @hello-heyhi @sexymfharriet @lizsogolden @hannah9921 @chicabonitasblog @huhidontknowstuff @berrywoods1245 @jennovaaa @angeldavis777 @prettygurl-2009 @almostcontentcreator @run-for-the-hills @maudie-duan @dipmeinhoneyh @harrrrystylesslut @georgiarose94 @stylestarkey @watarmelon212 @hopefullimaginer123, @fangirl509east @bethiegurl19 @adoredeanna @secretisme4 @harry2121 @hopefullimaginer123 @fangirl509east @uncassettodiricordi @2601-london @zbaby @harryscherries28 @michellekstyles

[ladycharlottexoxo]

suggestive themes. strap. squirting. mirror sex.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ sevika who has a surprisingly good hand at makeup, does your eyeliner but ends up getting frustrated when the wings arent perfect on both eyes. she manages them somehow in the end.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ “if you stare at me like that, i can't focus,” sevika whispers to you as she carefully puts the blush on your cheeks, not that you need it around her.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ this same sevika fucks you from the back against the mirror with one of your legs hoisted up. your tears soak your face as you sob from the pleasure, the mascara now ruined running down your face. you were utterly wasted. “sevika, ow! that's too deep!” you complain but sevika doesn't care.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ her strap is far too deep than any night before causing you to squirm in her grasp. your lipstick is smudged from the kisses beforehand, your drool ruining the already ruined lip makeup. “dont! don't!” you moan. “oh shit, babe, look, you look so adorable like this,” sevika grabs your jaw and makes you look at your tainted self.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ that was all you need, you squirt covering almost all of the mirror with your slick and release. your eyes roll back and your body falls back against sevika's own. “i got you now, doll, just relax.”

[gothamite-rambler]

Jason (crossing his arms with attitude): What are you going to do? I refuse to apologize.

Bruce stared at Jason in shock, and in his anger, he made a decision that every parent dreads.

Bruce (stern tone): You are grounded!

Jason (this is a whole adult, defiant): You can't ground me!

Bruce (firmly): Grounded!

Jason (shouting, confused): But I don't even live here!

Bruce turned Jason around and pointed to the stairs leading to his old room. Jason was too stunned to respond.

Bruce (stern, but calm): Tonight. Your room. Grounded!

Jason (stammering): I- I- Wait- This isn't fair!

Bruce (scolding parent voice): I'm very disappointed in you. Now go to your room. I'm only doing this because I care for you. Grounded.

Jason (face turning red with anger and sadness): This is some bullshit!

Jason stomped upstairs and slammed the door to his old room. The sound of random items being tossed around echoed through the house.

Bruce (indifferent): He'll work it out of his system. I'm going to bed.

Dick (looking at Tim, then Bruce as he heads upstairs): Did you just ground a 23-year-old?

Tim (surprised): And did it work?

Bruce: You forget I'm Batman.

masterlist

[teddybeartoji]

megumi NEEDS you to pay attention to him at all times but he won't ask for it bc fuck that but if you haven't 'bothered' him in like an hour he's huffing and puffing and stomping his foot. he doesn't call or text, he just shows up at your place and then stares at you because he refuses to tell you what's wrong either.

but you can tell he's clingier than usual. he joins you on your bed/couch and he sits a bit closer than usual, his thigh pressed against yours as he sinks into the pillows. he toys with the hem of your (his) shirt and stares at you like a puppy – he thinks he's being tough but you read him like an open book, a faint smile tugging at the corners of your lips when you turn to steal a glance at him.

"did you miss me, megumi?"

he hates how teasing your tone is.

it's making him want to sink even deeper, to hide from your curious eyes. he knows he can't though – as stoic and brooding he wants to be, around you he's laid bare no matter whether he likes it or not.

"...yes."

and he loathes the way your lips curl up and the way your eyes lit up.

awful, awful, awful – you're awful for him. there's a weird feeling in his stomach and he feels sick, his hands are starting to get clammy and it's all just so strange. how can a person have such a big effect on him? why is he losing control over his own body at the sight of your smile?

the honeyed coo that spills from your lips is almost enough to kill him off. a dark shade of pink takes over his whole face and the tips of his ears burn and everything gets even worse when you reach out and cradle his jaw like he's a frail little thing. you press your lips against his in a sweet, gentle kiss but pull away in the same breath just to watch him chase after you.

you knew he would.

cute.

"i'm sorry for neglecting you, baby."

megumi pushes his head back into the pillows with a grumble and throws a hand over his face in a pathetic attempt of saving himself. he feels you rest your hand on his stomach and it's heavy, it's so heavy, he feels like he can't even breathe properly around you.

"whatever."

laughter bubbles from your throat and megumi thinks about physically giving you his heart. what the hell is happening to him? what kind of a magic spell do you have him under?

but it's not like he's really complaining, now is he? he'll pout and he'll sulk and he'll tell you to stop being so lovey-dovey but everybody knows he likes it.

everybody.

everybody can see how much he wants your attention, how much he wants you to baby him. he wouldn't ever admit it, not even if he had a gun to his head, but it's clear as day.

his fingers ghost over yours in a silent plea and you decide to put him put of his misery by snaking your arms around his middle and taking your place by his side. you rest your head on his shoulder and chuckle at the sigh of relief he lets out.

"better?"

"mhmm."

[annaofthenorthernlights]

@fluffbruary

Day 18 - Angel

[awearywritersworld]

before you started seeing each other, nanami was never late for work. however, the typically punctual business man has a terribly hard time resisting you.

when his alarm goes off at 7am, you always let out a small whine, rolling over and curling up against his side. how is he supposed to brace the chilly morning air when you're so warm beside him?

once he finally does gather the willpower, he'll tap your waist and offer a quiet, "okay, sweetheart. it's time."

your eyes don't even open when you press your lips to his neck and tangle your legs with his.

"please not yet," you plead softly.

"alright," he sighs almost immediately, pulling you impossibly closer and cradling your body against his chest. "a few more minutes."

and so recently, he shows up to work caffeine deprived at 9:03am, sporting a crooked tie.

worth it, he thinks.

[lilacgaby]

katsuki was red-faced and drunk as hell.

he could barely keep himself up straight, leaning against the wall of the curb that he sat on as midoriya waved to you. "thanks for coming, he wouldn't stop asking for you."

"don't talk about me like that.. damn nerd." katsuki slurred, pointing a threatening finger. in the wrong direction. midoriya laughed quietly, signaling goodbye to you as he took his leave.

"kat," you started, smiling at the pink flush of his cheeks, trying to place a coddling hand on his face but were stopped by him smacking your hand away. "what was that for?!"

"don't touch me! 'got my girl at home." he glared at you from the side, then shut his eyes and turned his face away with a small 'hmmph.'

you laughed, crossing your arms as you decided to play along. "really? but aren't i prettier?" he scoffed, red eyes not even bothering to look at you as he quipped, "fuck no. 's not even a competition. you'll be embarrassed you even-," he hiccuped, "said that shit when she gets here."

you gasp in mock offense, leaning down with a hand over your chest. "that's so rude! are you sure you don't wanna take a closer look?"

"get out of my--" his glazed eyes opened to glare at you once again, but his words got stuck in his throat as he looked you over. your streetlit features took a second to register in his mind, before a small, closed eye smile came over his face. "hey.. babe you got here." he said lowly after a moment. he grabbed one of your hands and held it up to his face, "missed 'ya. some fuckin' idiot was here earlier. so annoying."

"oh yeah? what'd they say?"

"i don't even remember." he started to fall asleep, but you hurriedly helped him up to the car first. he started sleepily muttering things to you as you buckled him in. "y'know you're the damn prettiest.. and the sweetest thing i've known.."

compared to how he was normally, he just wouldn't stop talking. not like you minded though, it was really feeding your ego to have him call you things like the most beautiful girl in the world.

as you helped him to bed, helping him change out of the clothes he'd wore in the bar first, you were cut off by him pulling you into bed beside him, caging you in his arms as he put his head on top of yours.

"stay." is all he said before he knocked out. but you did stay, not like you could've ran away from the tightened arms around you anyways.

tags. @k0z3me @darhinadadragon @maddietries @exoticrasin @lavendarstarz @hisonlyobsession @i-the-fluffo @cookielovesbook-akie @frosted-flakes @irenne-stans