#writing

[ad-wills]

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

WRITING PROMPTS REGARDING ABORTION AND MISCARRIAGE 

trigger warnings for graphic description of the above topics, human trafficking, cannibalism, violence against pregnant women.

everything about this is entirely fictional, meant for writers. since I understand there aren’t many whump blogs that feel comfortable writing prompts about the subject (very understandable), I figured I could offer writers out there some prompts about this, in case they were looking for ideas for their works.

that being said, while the prompts are not real, the subject is very much real and can be triggering, so if it’s not something you’re comfortable with, don’t read below the line.

__________________୨ ୧ __________________

*feel free to change/adjust the pronouns however you want

a pregnant whumpee got kicked in the stomach by whumper, which led to miscarriage.

a pregnant whumpee, who was a housewife, fell down the stairs at her house when her partner was away for work. she didn’t tell her partner about the incident either because she was afraid he was going to get mad at her or because she thought it was fine and didn’t want to worry him. until she suffered severe bleeding that turned the mattress red at night.

whumpee who went through miscarriage kept hallucinating a life where her child was alive and she got to raise them. caretaker tried to help her, and even though her condition only seemed to get worse, they refused to send her to an asylum. 

whumpee who lost her child during childbirth refused to surrender her child’s corpse. It was understandable at first, until the child started to decompose and rot in her arms and she, with a knife in her hand, would attack anyone who tried to take her baby away from her.

whumpee was a sex slave who got pregnant, the thing was that it was a mistake. so in order for her to be able to continue doing ‘her job’, whumper made her undergo unsafe abortion by having a straightened-out wire with sharp edge (from a coat hanger) inserted into her vagina and into her uterus. they got the fetus out, but whumpee later got a nasty infection that resulted in her suffering from hallucinations, and her not being able to stand or stop her pale, naked body from shivering. whether or not she was rescued in time is up to you, the writer. 

whumper is an OB doctor who often lied to the patients that they miscarried their perfectly healthy stillborns and that the babies needed to be surgically removed in order to save the moms’ lives. this made it very easy for the doc to get away with eating fetuses, since the moms would rather not keep the corpses of their stillborns anyway, and police were never involved. (I mean who would question a licensed physician?!)

[crocketthoughton]

The truth is out there

[glitched-dawn]

me after making the biggest love story in the series end up with both main characters being aspec

[creatingblackcharacters]

“Why’s she so rude?” (She’s Not)- Stereotypes, pt2

So I'm sure that you all thought I was going to give a blow-by-blow list of "visual stereotypes to avoid". I'm going to be honest here, I thought about it, and figured it would be redundant. My page already includes sensitivity on depicting Black people. So instead, I'm going to focus on stereotypical "character" concepts, so that you can 1) not write it in your stories and/or 2) recognize it in media (fiction and reality!) and in life!

Two major resources: the Jim Crow Museum website is an EXCELLENT resource to understand the imagery of antiblack racism in U.S. history and society. The other, White Tears, Brown Scars by Ruby Hamad. The book focuses on the many racist stereotypes projected onto women of color and how that purposeful, systemic negative perception of us bleeds into every aspect of our lives- specifically by white women/white feminists who believe that they are not contributing to said oppression.

I'll start with Black women, just because I’m passionate about it (obviously) and there are so many things I wish I had and hadn’t seen growing up. We deserve better by the year of our lord 2024.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: mention of sexual assault, assault

Misogynoir

What I want everyone to understand, before I get into this, is the concept of intersectionality, and more specifically, misogynoir. Misogynoir is the specific type of contempt and prejudice that Black women face at the intersection of race and gender. I say this because you might read these things and go “oh, as a woman, I experience these things!” I get it, but I want you to PAUSE, and remember, that right now, we are talking about Black women’s experiences. And those will often be different, due to that intersection of identities. And that understanding will have an effect on how you understand (and thus, write) those experiences.

The Jezebel

The link goes into much deeper detail, but the Jezebel is the idea that a Black woman or girl who is sexual is somehow “fast”, “salacious”, “a hoe”, “driven by desire/doesn’t understand purity”, and at its worst, unable to be r*ped/a victim because she is less valuable yet somehow inherently seductive to men.

This gets thrown around CONSTANTLY in media and life for Black women (my first experience of treated like I was ‘fast’ was when I was like… twelve?) One major, visible example is Megan Thee Stallion. Meg has a college degree, she likes anime, she’s a brilliant rapper, and has an entire personality and struggles she’s shared… But she also likes to dress scantily clad and have sex. By doing those things, she ‘lessened in value’. And because of this, when she was shot at and assaulted, even Black people questioned her character, rather than understanding that she could have been anyone, and she still wouldn’t have deserved to be assaulted. She's not allowed to be multi-faceted; she "brought it on herself".

Black girls and women who happen to take charge of their own sexuality, to the discomfort of society, are treated as Jezebels- as whores. Think about it- if one of Taylor Swift's recent boyfriends shot at her, would the media question her value or her word? Question her equivalently high ‘body count’?

Question how you write your Black woman- she can enjoy sex! She can be sexy! We love to see it! But if you're punishing her specifically, or judging her within the narrative, versus your other characters who are allowed to safely explore and act upon their sexuality… Check your judgment! Why do you feel the way you do about this character? Why do you think that your Black character is the one that should be judged for her actions. Would you feel this way if it were a nonblack character?

The Sapphire/Angry Black Woman

Ohohoho, I have infinite amounts of feelings about this one.

This is the "sassy Black friend", the "aggressive Black boss", “step on me angry mommy”, the one who does the z formation and makes everyone "uncomfortable". She’s not allowed to be confident, assertive, or self-assured- she’s arrogant, rude, and aggressive.

I discussed it in part one, but I'll reemphasize it: your Black woman doesn't have to be an ‘Angry Black Woman’ in order to be angry! Just like any other human being on the planet, we are allowed to be mad. (In my honest opinion, we have a lot to be mad about, but I digress 😅)

If the only character that ever gets angry is your Black character, I want you to consider why. What is she angry at? Was this something you wanted the reader to understand or empathize with? Are we supposed to disagree? How does everyone around her treat her anger? Is her anger righteous? Is she always shut down or dismissed for it? Is it only meant to defend her friends, but never herself? Does the narrative suggest that it’s only good in use of others and not herself? Would this be the same reaction if one of the nonblack characters was angry? Is this something you did on purpose?

Very often, we're called 'angry Black women/girls' to invalidate our emotions. My therapist once said anger is a protective emotion. We might be hurt, overstimulated, sad, depressed, frightened, anxious… But we are often not allowed the grace of others digging deeper to see that. Even if the other characters do not understand her anger, even if her motives are not meant to be understood at the moment… you as the writer should be aware. But if every time it’s time to show anger or upset, it’s your Black character… consider why this is the one you thought would best convey that message, and how your Black readers might feel seeing that this character (who may not even be the ‘bad guy’) is the one that is ‘only’ angry. No other development, no other emotions, just… there to be mad.

I take this one to heart, as someone who feels very passionately about things… this is one of those things where I wish, in life and in media, people would have more grace for Black women. We're human, too. We have feelings, too.

The Mammy

This one isn’t as visually blatant anymore in media as it was in the past (like every Mammy doesnt look like Aunt Jemima), but you may have seen this one as "the mommy figure". The "lesbian that parents the silly gay boys". The one that’s always encouraging the ship of the white boys, but never the one allowed to be in the ship (especially when her ship is canon!)

A good example of this was how people expected Jessica Drew from ATSV to be "more loving" to Gwen, rather than the mentor and boss she was (plus, as a Black woman with a Black mother… trust and believe, she was quite direct and gentle). And in comparison to her counterpart, white man Peter B. Parker, was decried far worse for similar detrimental actions.

The Mammy often serves in opposition to the Jezebel and Sapphire/Angry Black Woman. What makes the Mammy particularly annoying is that it implies that the only good Black woman character is a ‘nice’, demure, unthreatening, homely, motherly figure whose job it is to make sure to center the (usually) white ones. The Mammy is expected to coddle everyone, to her own detriment. She's a ‘good Black’ because she causes no issue, raises no fuss, never shows a negative feeling, knows that she has to ‘be strong’ but to always defer because the white characters know best. She’s ‘not a threat’, and that’s why she’s ‘allowed’ to be around. We shouldn’t have to be those things in order for our stories to be heard and understood, in order to be empathized with or treated like someone of value.

The Strong Black Woman

If I never hear this phrase again in my life, if we eradicate it from future generations for Black girls and women, I'll cry of joy lmao. I hate it, and it's not for the reasons most nonblack people would expect. Lord, this one. Anyway. The ‘strong Black woman’ is meant to protect everyone, no help needed! Whenever something is wrong and we all need a pickup, here she comes to ‘let me do it’ and everything is going to be okay! She did all the necessary suffering so that your characters don't have to! She can sweep in and save the day!

Now here's the dissonance kicks in. This one on its surface probably sounds like a good thing. She's a hero! She’s resilient! She's great! Who wouldn't want to be superwoman? Who wouldn't want to reject being a love interest, all women are always love interests! Let us be the badass that kicks ass and shows the men what for! Who wouldn’t want that, 24/7?!

The answer: US. 👍🏾🤣

This is a long, separate conversation on its own, but we have to understand that Black women (women of color, really) and White women do not always share the same end goals and understanding of "strong woman character" or even feminism. We certainly aren't always the love interest. Very usually not, in fact. We are always pushed to the side. We are already the hero in our lives, we're already the "strong woman".

Not everyone yearns to be the Singular Hero who will Fix It All as many of us are already expected to do. It's exhausting having to swallow your own needs for everyone else all the time, especially when it's suggested that you have no value otherwise if you don't. Heroism is Exhausting, and it's something worth looking into when you’re characterizing your Black girls and women. I’m not saying that we can’t be strong! We are, and it’s impressive! But I also want us to add some nuance to that strength, the way we would for any other character. What it means to have community, rather than to do it all alone. How even if she wants to be the hero (and that’s okay! That’s fine!) how it would still wear on her. Surrounding your Black girl character with unconditional support, to have a lover that actually wants to pull some weight- that's something many of us actually would like to see, because we're usually shafted to the side as 'someone who can do it all herself' (in order to hide that no one thinks we need or are deserving of the help).

It's okay to let your Black woman and girls show weakness, to rest, to be taken care of! It's not "less feminist" to accept that we're humans that need help and can't carry it all, too. That it’s okay to want to feel valued and protected. Because god knows, I wish I didn’t grow up strong and resilient, I wish I grew up knowing that the world cared that I was safe.

Standards of Beauty

These standards are not the same! I've mentioned it before in my lesson on skin tones, but very often when we think of "beauty", it’s easy to fall into the idea of whiteness. Pale skin, thin hair textures, etc. If those are our existing standards of beauty, then it doesn’t matter what any of us look like- we’re ugly! When I was in high school, I remember a classmate saying that Swedish people were the most beautiful people because of "white hair and pale skin". Without even meaning to, that guy basically said everyone darker than a stack of loose leaf printer paper was ugly by proxy of not being Nordic White (no matter how pretty they actually might be!!) 🤣

It’s also of note that whiteness/paleness tends to be connected with innocence and cleanliness in western culture, while blackness/darkness tends to be considered dirty, sinful, fearful. Now, while the origin of this idea may not be racist itself, when you spend hundreds of years implying that Blackness is bad- to the point that, in the U.S. they came up with an entire slur one step past “negro” (meaning ‘Black’) to deem you less than- it’s hard to say that the societal connotation didn’t apply.

Now we've already discussed working on describing our Black characters better! I continually remind you all that you should be describing them as wonderfully made as you do your white characters. Keep in mind that we live in a world where from day one when we enter the world, Blackness and Black features are not seen as beautiful nor emphasized. Whiteness is the standard of beauty that we, for a long time and still, are expected to adhere to. If you'd like to do better by your characters, remember that you don't have to give them "white features" or use "white" as an adjective to do that!

Black Women as Women

“There was literally nothing, not a thing, that a white woman could ever have that was worth more than her sexual virtue, and this obligated mandatory chasteness and sexual vulnerability… If the most important thing a woman has is virtue, and only white women can have virtue, then by definition, only white women can be women.” Ruby Hamad, ‘Only White Women Can Be Damsels’, White Tears, Brown Scars

Often, Black women by definition are not included under the societal banner of “women”, from our features, to our personalities, to our 'role' in life. "True Womanhood" is denied us, cis and trans, because of our Blackness. The things that make women ‘women’, we are not included under, because systemically, the only ‘women’ that were meant to mean anything were white.

I bring up Megan Thee Stallion again. Meg is probably one of the most beautiful, feminine women I've ever seen in my life. Men still call her a man, due to her height, due to her confidence, and due to their insecurities. Same with Serena Williams; Serena is damn near built like a god in my eyes. She was told she was manly from the beginning of her career, no matter how beyond skilled she was in women's tennis. Even when she damn near died giving birth- the most basic of 'tasks' women are seen as having in this society, it didn't matter. Black women are 'less womanly', 'less valuable', 'less in need' of that protection and identity that society swears Women™ need (and not in the honest way that we do need protection).

Consider that you're making sure that your Black women have the options of range of gender expression and emotions (and if they aren't allowed to, is that on purpose). If you're only ever creating us and we're in service of some dainty white woman and never the other way around... consider how that may reflect what you think our role is in your story, and in your mind.

Adultification

“Awkward moment when Rue is some black girl and not the innocent blond girl you imagine.” twitter: sw4q

It has been shown that Black girls the same age as their white girl counterparts are deemed older and less in need of protection, and supposed to 'be more mature'. Imagine that. Deemed inherently less innocent, due to your skin color. Having to parent our siblings, get jobs to contribute, do all the cleaning, and more. Yet, when we act with the maturity that we've been forced to grow into, we're "fast". A little 12-year-old girl, now to society, the Jezebel. All because she wanted to try pink lip gloss or wear a skirt; things that little tween girls might try to understand the big world around them and push boundaries. Now she's a woman, now she can never be a victim. Now she can be beat on and hurt and it's her fault.

I explain this for two reasons: One, for you to think about how your write your Black girls, and Two, for you to hold more grace for Black girls- real and fake. Do you hold her to a higher standard than your white characters of similar age? Does she inherently seem less innocent to you for reasons outside the plot? Is she as human to you as your other characters? Is she allowed to be a child? To act like one? To make mistakes? Are you as empathetic or understanding about that childishness as you are towards nonblack characters? Do you make these decisions on purpose?

It's not like Black girls can never be YA protags or anything- ofc we can. But keep in mind that she's not somehow automatically "stronger" by proxy of her Blackness, that she'd "be tougher". She's a kid. Let her be one.

Conclusion

There’s a LOT you have to consider when writing Black girls and women. I’m not going to sit here and say it’s easy, because being Black, and being a Black woman, is not easy. If you’re stressed reading it, imagine being stressed living it lmao. It’s a constant chain of quick-time events every day of your life to prevent nonblack nuclear meltdown in response to your every single action. I’m not going to apologize for it, either.

That being said, I don’t expect you to understand everything, especially not all at once. I just want you all to keep these things in mind, to question yourself when you’re writing your character- are you treating her differently on purpose? Or are you treating her differently because of a bias you might not even notice you have? It might help to go back, to read how you treat all of your characters. Or, if you’ve never written before, to maybe outline the traits of your characters and figure out where things balance out. As always, all you can do is practice at it. Because it's the thought that counts, but the action that delivers.

Whew, I'm actually emotionally strained after this one. My chest is beating fast. Let me go get some groceries now.

[cupid-styles]

brat (sex columnist!harry x best friend!y/n)

in which y/n is best friends with harry, a sex columnist, who needs a little help answering a reader's question.

word count: 3k

content warnings: SMUT!!!! (mean dom/bratty sub dynamic, dirty talk, pussy spanking, paddling, sir kink, degradation, slight edging, fingering)

masterlist | talk to me

. . .

“You’re out of your mind.”

“I’m really not.”

“No, but you are.”

“It would be for work and work only—”

“I don’t care.”

Harry sighs as he lifts a hand to run it through his curly hair. The noisy puff of air is filled with unsaid annoyance and Y/N tries her best not to roll her eyes at her best friend’s stubbornness, instead focusing on toying with the bracelet around her wrist. Instead of replying, he quickly runs his fingertips over the trackpad on his laptop so it glows back to life. 

“Can you at least hear me out?” he asks, his tone teetering on a polite plea, “You know writing about sex is my job. How am I supposed to help this person out when I can’t even offer a fair answer?”

Y/N crosses her arms and shrugs and Harry wishes he could reach across the couch and push them to her sides. 

“What makes you think I have any experience being a sub, anyway?” she fires back, keeping her eyes glued on the TV in front of them.

They're currently binging the newest season of The Bachelor, but Harry was more so using the dialogue and Y/N’s periodic gasps as background noise. For the past year or so, he’s held down a job at an online publication as a sex columnist. He loves it — people write in anonymously, asking him questions about everything from premature ejaculation to open relationships. Under the pen name H.E. Bell, he gets paid to write lengthy, thoughtful responses, helping his readers with approaching whatever sexual issue they’re facing. And this week, his editor really wants him to address a particular question about a dominant and submissive relationship. 

The thing is, though, is the letter comes from a sub. And Harry’s a dom. 

A mean one, at that.

So while Y/N’s diving into a pint of her favorite flavor of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream (Phish Food, obviously), and Harry’s trying his best — and miserably failing — to place himself in the shoes of his submissive reader, he knows what he has to do.

“I hate to tell you, but you scream submissive,” Harry replies, pushing his laptop off of the couch and onto the coffee table. “Don’t even try to deny it. Just… just hear me out. Please. My deadline’s tomorrow afternoon.”

Y/N lets out an irritated huff as she grabs the TV remote and presses pause. Silently, she sits back against the couch, facing her best friend, and shoots him a displeased expression; a wordless allowance to speak. 

“I’m a dom and I’ve literally always been that way. You’re a sub, through-and-through. This person is asking about situations pertaining to experience as a submissive, and I can’t really provide them with the advice that they’re looking for since I’ve never been in that headspace.”

Y/N shrugs carelessly. She’s unbothered by his frank analysis of her subordinate behavior — it’s not exactly surprising that Harry, the sex columnist, is able to identify a sub, dom, or switch from 10 miles away. But that doesn’t mean she has to get dragged into his research, or whatever the hell he was trying to play it off as.

“Why don’t you just skip the question, then?” Y/N asks. “If you don’t have the right resources to offer an answer—”

“My editor thinks it’ll bring in a lot of page views,” he says, his throat bobbing with a swallow. His eyebrows draw together some, creating a small worried wrinkle between them. “Listen, I’ll fuck off if you’re totally uncomfortable with helping me, but you’re my best friend and I don’t know who else I could ask with this short of a timeframe.”

She sighs and brings her knees up to her chest. 

“Fine. Read me the question.”

A grin breaks out on Harry’s face as he grabs his laptop. He taps on the trackpad a few times as he brings the email up on the screen, eyes scanning over his bright inbox. 

“Okay, here’s what they said,” he clears his throat and Y/N really does roll her eyes this time, “Dear H.E.— I’ve been in a sexual relationship with my dominant for three months. Up until now, we’ve clicked really well. The chemistry is great and we always mesh really well both during scenes and aftercare. But lately, I’m worried I’ve been a little too bratty. For context, I’m a bratty sub with an attitude, but my dom knew that going into this. I fear that they’ll grow tired of my nonsense and insistent disobedience, but when I’m in my subspace or engaging in a scene with them, it’s hard for me to pull away from it. What should I do? Do you have any advice for what I can do as a sub to best help my dom?”

Y/N’s plucking at her bottom lip as Harry glances up from his computer. Blinking, she thinks for a moment before crafting a response.

“Well, it sounds like the sub needs to communicate their feelings to their dom. There seems to be a lot of insecurity.” she says. He hums, nodding his head as he types a few words on his keyboard. 

“Yeah, that’s true,” he murmurs, “They said it’s hard for them not to be in that bratty headspace, though.”

She shrugs, “I mean, if you’re a bratty sub, you’re a bratty sub. That’s just who you are.”

“Do you think there are any punishments that would work, then?”

“You’re the dom, shouldn’t you be able to answer that question?”

“I guess,” he replies, running his palm over the short bit of facial hair that’s grown on his chin in the past few days. “Spanking, edging, overstimulation, types of shibari, I guess…”

Y/N’s thighs squeeze involuntarily.

“...I just don’t know what works best.” he finishes his sentence, halting the tapping of his fingertips over the keyboard. “What do you think?”

She forces a swallow to coat her dry throat. “It depends.” she pushes out.

“Well, what works for you?”

She thinks for a moment. It’s been a minute since she’s been in a proper dominant/submissive dynamic — the last few times she’s had sex have all been one night stands and quick flings, all of which don’t allow enough time to learn about hard limits, punishments, and safe words. Her brain has to float back to a year ago, when she was sleeping with Reese, a soft dom who tried his best to tame her bratty nature but came back empty every time. He was good — the sex was good, but she wanted — no, needed — more.

“I don’t think I’ve ever really had a dominant… achieve that, I guess,” she mumbles thoughtfully. “I mean, I know what I like, as far as punishments go. But it’s not really about what the submissive likes, is it?”

“No,” Harry agrees. He hums as he opens up a second tab and she watches as he types the words “punishments for submissives” into the search engine. She sniffles and attempts to disregard the way her core instantly clenches. 

He’s silent as he reads through a few lists, occasionally jotting down some notes into his Google doc. Y/N swallows noisily when he glances back up at her, this time prepared with an apparent list of proposed consequences. 

“Okay, can you just tell me which ones you think most submissives would be fine with?”

She nods.

“Withgoing underwear in public?”

“Mhm.”

“Pussy spanking?”

“Yeah.”

“Nipple wax play?”

“Depends on the sub’s pain tolerance, but um… yeah.”

“Paddling?”

“I actually haven’t done that one before.”

Harry’s eyebrows raise. 

“No?”

She shakes her head. “None of my doms have ever had one.”

“Doesn’t sound like they were proper doms, then.”

“They’ve all been on the softer side,” Y/N explains shyly. “But… yeah. I guess it’s always something I’ve wanted to try.”

“Is it?” 

She can tell by the way his eyes have darkened, that there’s something wicked stirring in that brain of his. She knows she can put a stop to this now if she wants — he’s her best friend and he wouldn’t care if she ended the conversation here and now. 

But she doesn’t.

Not for a second.

So instead she nods. And she’s completely unsurprised by the next sentence that falls from his lips.

“Do you want to try it now?”

By now, Y/N’s brain is all fuzzy and melty, so she doesn’t even think before she’s nodding her head eagerly. Harry chuckles and closes his laptop, shuffling onto his knees to lean forward and pluck at her bottom lip. A smirk curves at his mouth as she leans into his touch.

“Getting quite desperate on me, aren’t you?” he murmurs, cradling her cheek into his palm. “Get naked for me then and I’ll go get the paddle. No touching while I’m gone.”

Her stomach flips at the domineering tone in his voice. All too quickly, they’ve fallen into their most intimate roles, and Harry’s carrying himself to his bedroom as Y/N continues sitting there, all gooey-eyed and foggy. And maybe he should have expected it when he returns back to the living room a few moments later to see her sprawled out across the length of the couch, her bralette and underwear still on with her fingers tucked beneath the waistband of the fabric.

“Kitten,” Harry all but growls, making Y/N shiver at the pet name, “Are you already disobeying me?”

She hums as she watches him through half-lidded eyes, soft fingertips petting at her pearled clit. His eyes glimpse down at the tented material and he instantly sets the dark red paddle down on the carpeted floor, kneeling between her legs.

“What’s your color?” he breathes, locking a hand around her ankle. Her pussy quivers just from the simple grasp.

“Green,” she answers, “I’ll tell you if anything changes. Safe word is licorice.”

Harry nods, allowing his large hands to float up her legs. They reach the gusset of her sodden underwear and he clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, snapping the fabric against her swollen pussy.

“Take your hand out of your panties now and I won’t smack your pussy until she’s raw.”

Y/N doesn’t move. In fact, he thinks her circling fingers only quicken.

“I’ll give you one last warning,” he grits out, squeezing the flesh of her thighs, “I’m not a nice dominant. You won’t be able to walk if you keep going against me.”

But of course, her hand stays glued to the bundle of nerves. Instead, she breathes out a sultry response: “Think I could cum like this, having you watch me.”

In a moment, her cotton underwear is being ripped from her body and thrown aside. He’s swift in his movements as he collects her wrists in his palm, squeezing them harshly and throwing them up, high above her body. She gasps, noisy and wet.

“I don’t fuck around with brats like you for a reason.” 

The first spank he issues to her puffy pussy is quick and fleeting, hardly offering a lick of pain. He’s eager to find where her pain threshold lies; if she’s all talk or if she can take the full force of his large palm. By the time he lands the sixth one, her skin now reddening beneath his smacks, he thinks he’s found it and he admits, he’s relatively impressed. 

“Aw, did that one hurt?” Harry mocks, watching as her face twists in an expression of discomfort. “That’s because punishments are meant to be mean. You’re not supposed to enjoy them, little brat. You’ve had it too easy, hm?”

“H-haven’t,” she stutters out, wincing as he delivers a seventh, “I’m good, sir, I swear—”

“Oh, bull-fuckin’-shit,” he retorts. “You’re a silly little brat is what you are.”

“‘m not—”

Smack—

“You are.”

She whines until he reaches the tenth one. She’s a wiggly mess of sniffles and whimpers and he shushes her, brushing a thumb over her clit. She gasps lowly and he laughs.

“On your belly.”

This time, Y/N doesn’t defy him and Harry is admittedly surprised. She buries her face in the throw pillow and he rolls his eyes at the theatrics. Before picking the paddle up off the floor, his blunt fingertips scratch at her scalp, gentle and kind as they trail down to the nape of her neck. 

“What’s your color, kitten?” he asks softly, rubbing a docile palm over her bare ass.

“Green, sir.”

“Do you still want to try the paddle?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay,” he murmurs, “We’ll start with five and then see where you’re at. You know what to say if you want me to stop, right?”

“Red or licorice, sir.”

“Good girl.”

Since it’s her first time, he decides to ease her into it. He uses only a smidgen of his strength to smack the paddle against the thick of her cheek, watching as the wood ricochets. Her skin jiggles in response and he swallows, noting the way her nails already dig into the couch.

The second and third are just as light but he adds a bit more pressure to the fourth and fifth. When he’s finished, he rubs over the flush skin, slow and intentional.

“How was that?” he asks. 

“Good,” she replies, her voice slightly muffled from the pillow, “I can take more.”

A hand quickly finds its way to the back of her neck and her eyes instantly widen. He shifts her head, smushing her cheek into the soft fabric so her voice is no longer dulled. 

“Need to hear you loud and clear,” Harry says. “And now you’ll count for me.”

When the oak paddle makes contact with her ass for the sixth time, she grits her teeth but still calls out the number. She follows suit for the next five and, while it’s painful and harsh in the most uncomfortable of ways, she’d be lying if she said her skin didn’t feel like it was on fire. She’s burning for him, feeling her arousal leak down between the apex of her thighs with every last spank. 

“Good job, kitten,” Harry announces, dropping the paddle at the end of the set. “You did good, hm? Did the bratty girl learn her lesson?”

Y/N’s bottom lip juts out in a pout when his soft palms begin to soothe her aching bum. He instantly takes notice, wrinkling his eyebrows in confusion. 

“Can’t give you anymore tonight, kitten. It was only your first time.”

Instead of replying, she simply shakes her head.

“Use your words. I’m not a mindreader, brat.”

Swallowing, she lifts her head up slightly, only enough to give her a peek of Harry’s concerned expression. 

“W-wanna cum,” she mumbles, blinking at him, “Will you make me cum, sir?”

And instead of immediately getting what she wants, Harry does the unthinkable.

He rolls his eyes.

“You act like a slutty brat all night, begging to get paddled, and now you want me to make you cum?” 

She nods, ashamed and embarrassed.

“What the fuck makes you think you deserve that?”

“I-I took my spankings and paddlings without complaining. And I didn’t disobey you a-after that.”

“But you did defy me to begin with, didn’t you?” he pushes, weaving his hand into the hair at the back of her head. His fist tightens and he lifts her head so her neck cranes back. “Isn’t that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And now you want to cum.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But not only do you want to cum— you want me to make you cum.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fine then,” he decides, sitting down and leaning back against the couch cushions. “Come here. Straddle me.”

She forces herself onto her knees and ignores the way her ass and pussy both sting from her punishments. Right now, all she can focus on is her buzzing clit and its need for attention. 

She does as she’s told and splits her thighs to fit his own legs between them. Almost instantly, he cups a hand beneath her mouth and glares at her expectantly. 

“Spit, brat. Are you dumb?”

She shakes her head, allowing saliva to pool behind her lips before spitting it into his palm. With his eyes staring into hers, he lowers his spit-slick hand down to her mound and pushes a finger inside of her. Immediately, she clenches around it, her eyes threatening to flutter shut.

“Keep them open,” he instructs, “Jesus, your cunt is already milking me.”

She swallows and forces herself to maintain eye contact with the man sitting before her. He’s merciless in his ministrations, especially when he nestles a second, then a third finger and curls them up to her most sensitive spot. Her hands form tight fists as she grinds against his hand, moaning loudly when his thumb reaches her clit. 

“What a desperate little pussy,” he murmurs, speeding up the tight circles over the swollen bundle of nerves, “You like getting stretched out, don’t you? Say it.”

“I-I love when you stretch me out, sir.”

“Of course you do,” he smirks viciously, “Is your cunt gonna cum like this?”

“Y-yes, sir—”

“Ask for permission first, kitty.”

“Please sir, can I cum? P-please?”

She’s whimpery and mewling as she bounces helplessly on his fingers, the ribbon in her lower stomach threatening to unravel at any given moment. He hums, stilling the digits inside of her.

“Hold it.”

“Sir—”

“Hold it, brat.”

Her pussy clenches around him but she does. She restrains herself until he finally allows the ribbon to come undone, a slew of whines and curses sounding from her plush lips as she does.

It feels like it goes on forever but when the pleasure finally ceases, she collapses into his chest. Harry gently pulls his fingers from her center and wraps an arm around her waist, giving it a gentle, loving squeeze. 

He lets her stay like that for a bit and, maybe selfishly, he enjoys having her limp, exhausted body so close to his. 

“Gotta clean you up and rub some salve on your bum,” he finally manages out, ducking down to whisper the words in her ear. 

Tiredly, she nuzzles her head against his shoulder. “Five more minutes?”

He swallows. 

He doesn’t think she’s in her subspace, but he knows she’s sleepy and fuzzy from the mix of pain and pleasure he just instilled on her body.

And so for that, he’ll give her five more minutes.

Six, if she’s lucky.

[saraswritingtipps]

The Villain Checklist!

Creating a villain is a delicate art, much like crafting a masterpiece. To ensure your antagonist leaps off the page with depth, consider these essential elements for your villain checklist:

Motivation: Every great villain is driven by a potent motivation, one that fuels their actions and sets them on their dark path. Explore their backstory and unearth the core reason behind their villainy. Are they seeking power, revenge, redemption, or something more sinister?

Complexity: Gone are the days of one-dimensional villains twirling mustaches and cackling maniacally. Infuse your antagonist with layers of complexity and nuance. Perhaps they possess redeeming qualities or wrestle with inner conflicts that humanize their actions.

Flaws and Vulnerabilities: Despite their nefarious intentions, villains should be flawed beings with vulnerabilities. These weaknesses not only add depth to their character but also create opportunities for conflict and growth throughout your story.

Backstory: Delve into your villain's past to uncover formative experiences that shaped their present disposition. Trauma, betrayal, or societal pressures can all contribute to their descent into villainy, providing rich narrative fodder for exploration.

Goals and Ambitions: Just as heroes strive for noble objectives, villains pursue their own twisted goals with fervor and determination. Define what your antagonist hopes to achieve and the lengths they're willing to go to attain it, even if it means sacrificing everything in their path.

Antagonistic Traits: From cunning intellect to ruthless brutality, equip your villain with traits that make them a formidable adversary for your protagonist. Consider how their strengths and weaknesses complement each other, creating dynamic conflicts that propel your story forward.

Relationships and Alliances: Villains don't operate in isolation; they forge alliances, manipulate allies, and cultivate relationships to further their agendas. Develop the connections your antagonist shares with other characters, be they loyal minions or reluctant collaborators, to add depth to their character dynamics.

Moral Justification (from their perspective): While their actions may be abhorrent to society, villains often believe they're justified in their pursuits. Explore your antagonist's moral code and the twisted logic that rationalizes their behavior, offering readers insight into their twisted worldview.

Arc of Transformation: Just as protagonists undergo arcs of growth and change, villains should experience their own journey of transformation. Whether it's redemption, downfall, or something altogether unexpected, chart the evolution of your antagonist throughout the narrative.

Memorable Traits: Give your villain distinctive traits or quirks that leave a lasting impression on readers. Whether it's a chilling catchphrase, a distinctive appearance, or a haunting backstory, give your antagonist elements that linger in the minds of your audience long after they've closed the book.

[charlesoberonn]

When you were young, your mother used to read you an old fairytale every night before bed.

It was a sad story, about lovers who walked through hell to reunite with one another and almost succeeded, only to be separated again forever in the last moment. It made you cry, and the next night you would beg your mom to read it again.

"You know it'll be sad, right?"

"This time they'll win, mom! This time they'll have a happy ending!"

But they didn't. Nor did they win in the next night, or the night after that.

Deep down, logically, you knew it'll always end the same way. The story is done. It's been told long before you were born. But when mom was telling it, you could pretend that maybe this time it'll work out. This time will be different.

When you grew older you didn't stop pretending, even though you knew it was silly and getting sillier. When you learned to read and write, one of the first things you wrote was a new ending. It was bad, about you as an all-powerful angel coming down to help the lovers reunite and then you get invited to their wedding.

"It's not real, it's fanfic." a friend told you when you showed them. They explained the word, and you saw what they meant. But you didn't care, seeing the words on the page helped you pretend.

You read voraciously as you grew. All kinds of stories with all kinds of ending. But you kept coming back to that one. Reading from your mom's old copy which her read to her from.

You didn't need mom to read to you anymore, but sometimes you asked her to anyway. Occasionally she'd do it, but more often than not she was tired.

Soon she stopped reading. Then she stopped speaking altogether, her voice too weak and throat too sick to speak aloud. That's when you started reading the story to her.

It was hard at first, your tears choking you up. It was hard pretending that the story will end differently.

"The diagnoses are just estimates, probabilities." your dad said. And when he spoke, you could pretend there was a chance. But when the doctors spoke, their words felt as final and unchanging as the old words in the storybook.

Eventually, mom was no more. Your dad read something personal and touching in her funeral. Everyone thought you would, too. Everyone knew how much you loved writing since you were little.

You thought you would write too, imagined it in your mind as your mother's end drew near. You had so much to say, but the words wouldn't come out. The only words that would come to you were from the story. You tried to bat them away, but you knew you couldn't. You couldn't change this ending.

When it came your time to eulogize, you pulled out the book and without preamble started reading from the second-to-last page. This time there was no pretending.

Everyone knew the story, even the people who didn't know mom personally. Everyone knew it will end in tragedy. The lovers will not get a happy ending.

Except this time they did.

You didn't notice the change until you were halfway through the final page, so out of it you were. But the reactions from the mourning crowd clued you in. Your stoic dad choking down a chuckle.

You looked closely at the book and saw the words were written in your mom's neat handwriting.

You kept on reading, a smile on your face.

It wasn't the real ending. It was fanfic.

But just for a little while, seeing the words on the page helped you pretend a little longer.

[thoughtkick]

They burned the bridge, then ask why I don’t visit.

Ugo Eze

[cherryjuiceblues]

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐃 | 𝟏

➯ HARRY EXPERIENCES THE BIGGEST LOSS OF HIS CAREER BUT HIS BEST FRIEND IS ALWAYS THERE TO SOFTEN THE BLOW. ✰ rugby!harry friends to lovers. minor warnings for somnophilia. heavy descriptions of size kink and harry being bigger than reader. minors dni. 𝑤𝑐 5.2k ッ converted masterlist

Y/N watches from the sidelines, eyes ping-ponging to each side of the pitch as the ball makes its way back and forth, back and forth. Her lungs beg for fresh oxygen that she won’t grant them. France’s full-back pellets the ball high up into the air, straight into the arms of England’s full-back, England’s full-back wallops it back to France’s full-back. Y/N’s skin fucking burns with impatience—could someone just play the ball? Her gaze flits over the broad numbers littering the field… three—grass stains streaking across white—eight, twelve—blood streaming down temples—eleven, nine… Ten. 

Harry hangs back, intense, focused eyes following every movement of the ball; just like Y/N, only with pinpoint accuracy. He’s the decision maker of the team, the fly-half—the player that sets up most of the scores, who guides the play. One of the most important pieces of the puzzle and… he’s frazzled, Y/N can tell. By the slight mania in his widened eyes and the frantic point he stresses towards the other side of the pitch, desperate for his teammates to attack—to get some phases going, some passes—anything other than kick tennis.

France have had the upperhand all game. They’re the favourites, after all, and playing at their home ground—but this is the final game of the Six Nations. This is the win England need to set them up for the World Cup.

And they’re losing. They’ve been losing since the second minute when France scored a try from their own twenty two—their lightning fast winger weaving in and out of all of England’s defence to dive over the line—leaving his electric trail in a bolt behind him.

And now it’s the seventy eighth minute and France are two points ahead. Y/N knows why Harry is signalling so passionately—he is desperate to get the ball further down the opponent’s end of the field. If not to score then to force them to make an error, to give away a penalty. Anything to secure the win in the final two minutes.

She is practically barking orders at the players herself—only quietly under her breath instead of the way she is sure Harry is shouting. Every technique, every tactic—Y/N has observed them all. She knows that the clock ticks twice as fast in the final moments of a game. She knows that Harry’s close to losing control of the match completely—of losing that chance of evening the scoreline—and her heart is beating out of her chest watching it all unfold.

The ball finally makes its way into a player’s hands for more than two seconds. France don’t kick it away; their number nine makes a run for it—determined to end the game with an extra score on the board. He executes a dummy pass, feigning to throw the ball to his teammate and successfully losing England’s own nine that slips in the grass in his attempt to mark. Disarmingly quick for a small player, he gets all the way to the halfway line before being tackled.

And this… this is when everything changes. Y/N shoots up from her seat when he goes down—piled upon by white jerseys desperate to rip the ball right out of his hands. She holds her breath as he stays on the floor, can’t find the ball within the chaos—flits her eyes over to Harry who is standing in formation with the rest of the backs. His mouth moves a million miles a second, expression rampant, arms flailing as he screams at his players.

Just a little longer, just a little longer… “Come on, ref,” Y/N mutters under her breath, “blow the fucking whistle.” She watches the man in red do just that—bring the whistle up to his lips in a rapid motion, throwing his arm up in the air to favour England. 

A penalty. In the final minute. For England.

The stadium goes up in a cacophony of roars. Furious French moans drowned out by the deafening screams of the English. A rivalry as old as time goes down to the wire once again. Y/N’s heart pounds away inside of her ribs—hardly able to process the sight of Harry and his team celebrating—the relieved clenching of his fists.

Waterboys rush onto the pitch, slinging the kicking tee to Harry’s awaiting palms. Time continues to pass—the clock sure to enter the red before he’s made contact with the ball that he meticulously balances at the perfect angle. Y/N has watched Harry perform a thousand kicks and yet nothing will ever quell the gut-churning anxiety she feels during these moments in a match. To witness the mass of eighty thousand people reduced to murmurs as Please respect the kicker appears on every screen in sight. To watch Harry, his routine—because every fly-half has one—the way he eyes up the ball, angles himself, blocks out the world around him to draw that invisible line from the ball to the posts… it's an honour and a damnation.

And Y/N is always nervous to watch him kick, but right now, her body feels as though it might start emanating electricity. Harry’s a near perfect shot. His success rate is one of the highest in the game—past and present—but… This angle is, for lack of a better word, fucked. He’s practically kissing the touchline, ball facing a direction you would not expect to be the correct one. But Harry prepares himself, positioned with the posts nearly behind him, ready to curve it just right.

Then he kicks it—he boots it as all kickers do. And it bends. It curves in the air, slicing through it like soft, melted butter. Y/N goes deathly still—time slows down—she’s only half-aware of the screens showing the clock tick over to red. The ball soars, heading straight for the posts, it glides like it has fucking wings—

And then it collides heavily against the left post and bounces back into play. Straight into French hands.

He’s missed. He’s—missed. Y/N’s exhale comes out as some sort of wet exasperation, hands flying to cover her cheek in pure disbelief. No. The stadium cries out so loudly she can hardly hear herself think. All she can see is Harry. The way he crouches down and pinches the bridge of his nose as France kicks the ball out of play and the referee blows the final whistle.

It’s over. All those weeks, all those games, all that fighting. Just to lose it on the last kick of the game. Y/N can’t believe her eyes. 

“You’ve got this, Harry. You’ve got this. Don’t even worry. Y’the best England have seen since Farrell.”

She betrayed him by encouraging such a statement, she’s sure (despite the fact of it). Maybe it got to him; the pressure. The kind of pressure Y/N hoped would be helpful. The truth being that he is the best player they have right now. He’s breaking records, he’s setting new standards, he is the bright, shining new star. But maybe that’s too much to place on a person’s shoulders. Even on the breadth of Harry’s.

The pitch starts hurtling closer and it’s only then that Y/N processes the speed in which her legs are stampeding towards Harry. She can’t get at all as close as she yearns to be—reaching the edge of the box with an aching chest. Not with anger, not with disappointment. With sadness for her friend, for her best friend. Tonight was supposed to be a celebration, a night of euphoria and drunkenness and laughter.

All Y/N can see is Harry’s sullen face as his teammate hauls him up and slaps him heavily on the back—no gentility from the hardness of a rugby player. The teams shake hands and France take a victory lap around the pitch, celebrating with fans whilst the award podium is set up. All Y/N wants to do is get to Harry but England have to stand there and watch France lift the trophy. She glances at it now with disdain.

It’s always a struggle to find Harry after a match—sometimes he’s got press to do, sometimes he’s being ushered into the changing rooms, sometimes he strolls around the pitch with his team, taking photos with fans. Y/N always waits, always watches with stars in her eyes. Nothing ever quite matches the rapid beat of her heart when she gets to observe him in his element; after a win.

But today they’ve lost. And today, Harry doesn’t linger. He doesn’t even let himself get pulled aside for pitchside interviews—lucky that the captain is hounded first. Y/N can already see the headlines. Styles Sulks After Shattering Six Nations Defeat. His hands clapping for France but the line of his mouth hard and the sheen of his eyes glossed over. She knows the noise all fades into the background for him, his mind is elsewhere—body desperate to join.

Her own knows the feeling; too far away from him to relax as their magnetic forces pull towards one another. Keeping her feet planted firmly on the ground is a hard task, when the only focused object in her vision is the outline of Harry. And as soon as he makes that first step towards the tunnel, she’ll make sure to run through anyone who stands in her way.

Getting to Harry’s hotel room proves harder than it should be. Y/N had wasted her time looking for him anywhere else—of course he wouldn’t have wanted to go to an afterparty. To celebrate what? A crushing loss? France’s pilfering victory? Entering a room as Harry Styles might as well be the equivalent of shitting on a plate and offering it around like some kind of hors d'oeuvres. Charm is usually his specialty but it’s no surprise that he chose to hide himself away as soon as the opportunity arose—to take back what little control he has over today and deny prying eyes passing judgement where he can see them.

She thinks, for a moment, that he’s not going to answer the door and her sympathy nearly bubbles into misguided anger before she alters its path. She is so frantic to reach him that it feels like a waste of time to stand still for even a second. But the soft padding of socked feet against carpet sounds from behind the thick wood, and the click of a lock as the door gives way to reveal the image of a forlorn Harry.

He’s so tall, and so broad, and his personality is larger than life—but right now… Right now, Harry looks small. His shoulders weigh heavy and his posture slumps forward, and despite the fact of his towering height, Y/N doesn’t feel so dwarfed in his presence right now. Neither of them say anything; both waiting for the other to speak up first but neither does. Y/N just stands there… in the hallway, suspended in a moment, looking at Harry with sad eyes as his fingers linger on the door handle.

And then she throws her arms around his hulking shoulders and feels his chest deflate against her own expanding one, as she breathes, “I’m sorry, Harry.”

He doesn’t reply—what is there to say? Nothing positive or optimistic, only bashes to his performance, his ability as a player. Instead, he curls his arms around her back; an immediate solace to breathe in the wash of her scent, the soft of her hair as he buries his nose against her crown. His biceps squeeze around her, compressing the bones in her body with a heavenly kind of weight. Small in his arms but big enough to provide comfort. Always the biggest part of his heart, the place he goes to for relief.

Every exhale against her head bleeds warmly into her scalp, seeping down to her toes and regulating her heartbeat. Weightlessness is a common feeling in the presence of Harry, more often physically than not, as he pulls her off the tips of her toes and carries their embrace to the foot of the hotel bed. The door clicking shut serves as a reminder of the outside world; of time continuing to tick away despite the silence that blankets the room they’re in. Y/N removes her hands from Harry’s nape as he sits down, his own paws lingering on the plush of her hips. His eyes are sad, tired, embarrassed. Y/N doesn’t recognise him like this.

“Kev is gonna kill me,” Harry laughs with exasperation, a hand dragging itself down his face. It’s not often that he finds himself on coach’s bad side—he’s not sure he ever really has. He’s well disciplined, a little too cheeky sometimes, perhaps, but manages to ride the line with ease. He works hard, he trains hard, he respects the game and lives to improve with every new day. (Y/N once joked that Harry would struggle getting on the bad side of a wasp; could charm his way out of a potential sting without breaking a sweat.)

She breathes softly, fingertips carding through freshly washed hair; a shower the only thing he could force himself to do after the loss. “Kevin is not going to kill you. You’re his best player.”

It’s hard not to let his sigh turn into a moan with the way she handles him with such tenderness. There’s no fight, none at all, when he closes his eyes and lets her scratch his scalp. “Not supposed to sulk about it. Got t’get up and move on. Prepare for the next thing.”

A gentle tug at the back of his head, not painful, but stern. He looks up at her figure between his legs. “Harry, you can be upset, it’s okay.”

“Can’t be grumpy tomorrow.”

“Just for tonight then.”

It works. He huffs, “I fuckin’—” falling backwards and pulling Y/N’s body with him. She holds back her affronted squeal, palms landing on either side of his shoulders. “—ruined it for everyone.”

“No you did not.” It’s not fair to berate him but Y/N has never been one to allow self-deprecation. That was reserved for herself, and herself only. Her palm meets his chest lightly as she frowns, “You didn’t ruin anything, are you kidding? You kept that match alive.”

“And then I bottled it! Right at the bloody end.”

Her smile is sad; wishing for thaumaturgy to run through her veins—or the ability to turn back time. “And next time the posts won’t get in the way.”

“Hm. Not funny. Might not even be a next time. I’ll probably get dropped for this.”

“No, you won’t, don’t be silly. If everyone got dropped for a single mistake, you’d have no fucking players left.”

It falls silent for a while, their embrace a steady rising and falling of chests—like a dingy floating down a lazy river. Harry strokes up and down her back, as though she’s the one that needs reassurance. It feels nice all the same. The only thing Y/N can do is let her weight settle atop of his hefty body, trying to breathe as deeply as her lungs can manage in hopes that Harry’s heart will mirror. Of course, she’s kidding herself into believing she is any sort of definition of calm, but her mind hasn’t quite caught up yet. Maybe it’s the humidity that forces the catch of her breath as Harry shifts beneath her—maybe it’s the pollen count. Probably the pollen count.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he murmurs after a moment, mindless hands fidgeting amongst her clothes. The layers she’d meticulously arranged to combat the brandishing winds have untucked themselves from the denim of her jeans. Harry’s fingers slip underneath and brush against the silken skin of her waist. He sighs, speaking once more before Y/N can hum her agreement, “You’re so soft.”

There are unspoken lines in relationships, right? Boundaries, expectations, societal normalities. Y/N has lost count over the years, how often herself and Harry have been mistaken for a couple. It alludes to something deeper than neither of the two have ever addressed. And the line… it’s never been crossed but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t been toed upon. The waters aren’t as cold as they’ve been before. Y/N’s cheeks warm with the comfort of hiding in her best friend’s chest. The things he says always make her skin thrum with unbridled energy; there’s just something about the way he wields words that has her feeling special. But she hides it with great effort; yearns to maintain a cooler front, perhaps to match her counterpart and appear a worthy equal beside Harry’s coveted self. Being described as soft isn’t an inherently romantic thing—it’s simply a statement—but Harry hums it so freely, like her softness is the salve for all of his cuts and scrapes. The delicacy of a girl, his girl, it’s enough to plaster over the disappointment of his day, because bigger things matter more.

In moments like these, Y/N could reply with a myriad of things. She sure as hell hears a million and one of them pinging around her head. Maybe she’s cowardly, or maybe she’s sensible—she adopts a jibing approach, “It helps not to roll yourself around a muddy field every day.”

“Charming. We’re not pigs, you little shit.” She makes him laugh, a huffed exhale, but a humoured noise nonetheless. Her lips curl up into his neck and she pretends that he’s happy for just a moment. 

When the lull of silence passes and Harry starts to shuffle beneath her, a sense of panic morphs to desperate distraction—not too dissimilar to the reaction of an overworked mother catching her toddler on the verge of bouncing its wails off the walls like some twisted sort of hyena mimicry—she waves a brightly coloured toy in front of his face, equipped with all kinds of bells and whistles.

His pecs indent with the pads of her fingers as she pushes herself up and plasters on an exaggerated grin that can only preface mischief, wiggling her eyebrows, “Want a massage?” ever the unalluring as her drawl tiptoes into the boundaries of offensively inaccurate Northern, “Hm? Free of charge.”

A blip of relief radiates through Y/N’s chest like the echo of a submarine when the corners of Harry’s mouth twitch upwards; in response to the sudden animation of her movements or the laxation that comes promised with her proposition, she’s not sure. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth as he hums, neck propped up lazily by the palm of his hand, “They’re all free of charge.”

She runs with this fragment of a game—practically bullies herself into a sprint as she nods, “You should be grateful I’m not charging you by the minute. I studied for years.”

She did study for years, and Harry’s never been more grateful for it—selfishly cashing in all the massages he can get. “And look—” 

“Roll over—” she hoists her hips up to alleviate her weight, off of his body so he can do as she says and shuffle onto his front.

“—Where you’ve ended up.” It’s a self-deprecating thought, not one to banter or jibe, despite being disguised as such. Holed up in lacklustre Room 143, frittering time away with a subpar athlete. Harry’s lucky she’s here lest he dig himself into an even deeper hole.

“I know…” her sigh is light, completely oblivious to Harry’s thoughts only a mere skull’s width away, “so tragic.”

It’s quiet again after that, the vacant hotel air perforated with an occasional thick exhale from Harry’s pouting mouth as Y/N’s hands work through knots and kinks over the breadth of his back. He tries to fight sleep but she presses in harder, just shy of too hard, just enough to melt the taut into goo. When those breaths start coating themselves in gravel, the air catching on his larynx on its way out, and salaciously undiluted hums turn to feathery grunts—Y/N feels smug when she does that to a person—especially when it’s Harry.

Y/N doesn’t have to ask what he wants when she orders room service. Five years of friendship lends itself to the memorisation of eating habits. He’s tired after the massage, muscles heavy and bones squishy, when her efforts to scoot him towards the headboard proved impossibly strenuous. It’s caught up with him like a wave crashing to the shore—all-consuming; submerging. Harry drowns in it entirely, can barely keep his eyes open long enough to shovel his cheat dinner into his mouth. The TV ends up screening old reruns of Friends. Y/N can tell Harry’s clocked out—mind traversing the depths of his insecurities—and it tugs her lips downwards to know she can’t distract him. Not even acting along to their favourite scene makes the smile reach his eyes. She unfocuses her own just to pretend she’s seeing what he is—the blur of the television, colours melting together in kaleidoscope swirls. Ross’ forlorn Hi pulls her out of it.

She feels bad for projecting; for expecting or hoping him to be okay. Of course, he’s not going to be okay. Okay is waking up on a Monday morning with time to buy yourself a treat for lunch before heading into your dreary office job. Harry’s not even knocking on the door of Oh-Kay. But it’s a useless feeling—to be witnessing misery so candidly with nothing worthwhile to offer as a fix. Then she looks over at him, prompted by a thick rumble, and it all goes quiet inside her head for a moment. He’s asleep—plate resting precariously over his lap. The waves catch up to her too, brows smoothing out to mirror the peace of Harry’s expression, and she knows it's time for bed.

Everything seems so much louder when you’re trying to be quiet. Y/N experiences that tenfold in the en-suite bathroom. Her toothbrush vibrates too hard, the water splashes too violently, the cap of her cleanser is obnoxious when it clicks shut. Harry peeks an eye open when she settles atop the covers once again; rosy notes clinging to the full of her soft cheeks, glowing in the soft vibrance of the bedside lamp she’d leant over his chest to click on. There’s no guilt on his face that might suggest he’s been awake for a while, and the rumble of his voice solidifies Y/N’s panic of disrupting his sleep.

“Sorry,” she winces, adjusting her bare knees on top of the sheets. Harry’s sleepy eyes flit down to the hem of her shorts brushing against the plush of her thighs. Then he shrugs a shoulder and extends his arm, beckoning her forward with a curl of his fingers. “Come on. Need a cuddle.” 

And Y/N falls into him easily—head tucked beneath his chin, open palm smoothing over his heart, just like that—as they both ignore the intimacy of their embrace.

Parisian sunlight doesn’t filter past Y/N’s eyelids when they twitch awake, fluttering open less than elegantly. The stitches of memories sew themselves back together piecemeal—too slowly to find it questionable—the caress of soft pads across the puff of her cheek. She thinks she grunts. 

It’s the moon that shows her. The silhouette of wide shoulders and a sloping neck; the sheer curtain enveloped with gentle pockets of wind that slip through the open window, billowing inwards. It pools across the carpet; cool moonlight, casting an unearthly glow along the bicep that reaches out.

Harry’s thumb brushes the girl’s feathery lashes, ducking beneath her undereye to stroke the skin there. It’s such a gentle awakening that Y/N feels heavy—half awake and half still dreaming—still floating through the clouds of her imagination. Weights tug her eyes shut again.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” a quiet murmur, not quite a whisper, the edges grisly but well-intentioned.

“...What time ‘s it?” The pillow sinks in further, weighted with the nuzzle of a nose and an overt inhale. Seasalt and sandalwood, from a little blue bottle—travel size—bathing the cotton covers and tucking Y/N safely into cushions of secure muscle and warm skin. 

“Not sure, go back t’sleep.”

Just enough of the day before creeps into the periphery of her consciousness, forcing the sleep away with an obvious disgruntled twitch. “Are you okay?”

Harry supplies a hum, noncommittal and faraway—too engrossed in the trail of his thumb against her cheek to provide much more. “What‘re you doing?” She whines, fighting the curl of her mouth with the principle of her pilfered slumber. Each nerve ending he passes over leaves bumps in his wake in an endearing betrayal.

“Don’t move,” he tuts when she wriggles her head some—ticklish. “I was thinking…” and if Y/N were less catatonic she’d quip something predictable to earn an answering pinch, “thinking that I’m really glad you’re here.” It’s a saving grace that her tongue lays heavy behind her lips. Harry’s timbre slicks itself over her, satiny like silk. Sincerity isn’t their forte most of the time. It makes her stiffen, anticipating what comes next. 

“I really love you.” 

The weight behind his words should be more startling—a stumble during an elegant figure skating routine—but it glides over the ice with ease, buttery and smooth. Y/N feels herself slipping under the cotton wool covers of unconsciousness with these words, a tiny smile evidence enough for Harry that she heard him, understood him. What might encourage a pregnant pause in the afternoon light, coaxes her back to sleep in the predawn.

It’s a sentiment untold, bearing new significance in the whisperings between sheets. His hotel room, now a honeymoon suite, perhaps—with promises of romantic views and crisp, white palettes bouncing light from wall to wall. Too much room for a newly wedded couple but grand in gesture and boundless in memory.

Only they’re not even lovers, let alone united in matrimony, and no newfound intimacy comes without question. But it’s two in the morning, or three, or four, and this all feels like some sort of beautiful dream—weightless—venturing beyond imagination. Maybe Y/N is dreaming, maybe she’s conquered the intricacies of lucid dreaming, maybe that’s why it isn’t scary to hear. Because it’s not entirely true. 

But it’s hard to imagine, to fabricate the pressing of lips against the corner of her mouth and the soft plumes of air tickling her cheek. And it’s even harder when those same lips knit themselves over her hairline and a winding forearm pulls her in closer into a grounding embrace. She falls asleep again before her brain can whir up enough to provide conclusion.

Harry sounds different when Y/N wakes up. He feels different too. He’s solid as ever, solid yet yielding around her own softer form, but there are new ridges where she’s never known them to be and skin rocking forwards to kiss curves. 

For a moment, it doesn’t register that this is… unusual. Y/N seems to process it twice. 

Once with a sense of nonchalance. 

Oh, Harry’s humping me in his sleep.

And once with an urgent kind of astonishment.

 Oh. Harry is humping me in his sleep. 

But that realisation doesn’t lend itself to her advantage. It doesn’t make her shoot upwards and scramble away before he realises. Because—sleepiness aside—it feels… it feels really good. His body is warm and his arms are tight around her waist; a security blanket made of bicep and sinewy forearm. But it’s wrong to enjoy him like this, without his permission, without his awareness. 

“Harry. Harry, wake up, you’re—”

“Y/N…” her name falls from his lips like a feather; a confession soft spoken.

“Yes,” but he’s not awake. “Harry,” she digs her fingernails into his wrist, hoping the pinch will stir his slumber but he only ruts into her harder, a groan catching in his throat.

“Baby—” Y/N gasps with his moan, muscles tightening, seizing with panic. The bump in his sweats knocks over the rounds of her bum, sleep shorts thin and easily mussed. She can feel them riding up with each roll that Harry gives and the voice in the back of her head telling her to let him… it only gets louder. 

He’s holding her so tight, entirely safe in his arms, so cardinal, so desired. It wouldn’t be so wrong of her to let him use her body like this. He deserves to feel good. She tells herself it’s not selfish, it’s not impolite of her to feel fulfilled too. There’s no control over what makes her body sing. But Harry seems to be pretty good at it, even in sleep. 

His breath is in her ear; it blankets over the slope of her shoulder, warm and seducing. It feels right to have Harry’s lips tucked against her neck, like it was always supposed to be there. What if the side of her neck never feels warm again. It’s the shift of her hips backwards, mistakenly, that arouses him. 

His body stills and the groans in his throat diminish as realisation dawns. But he’s not hurried, or stuttery in his movements. No, there’s no rush at all. A slight tumble over his words as he wakes up, “Oh sh—shit, m’sorry peaches,” and a stroke across the exposed skin of her stomach when he pulls back, “That’s my bad.” But that’s all he reveals, before untangling himself from the sheets.

Y/N coughs, splutters, over a response, unable to reply with anything that could be considered coherent. Her eyes are fighting to dart down when he stands. That’s my bad. His indifference, Y/N thinks, strikes a chord. But she doesn’t understand. Why her heart pounds harder and her legs squeeze tighter. Is she disappointed or is she disturbed? It’s too early to piece any of her feelings together. Her phone beams seven-forty when she taps the screen.

She rolls over onto her back, dragging her clammy palms over her face as Harry takes himself to the on-suite too casually. Her skin is all hot, roiling waves washing over her and strangling her thudding heart. The ghost of his body still presses against her, the hardness, the softness, all of it. The sounds he was making; new to her ears in all their time knowing one another. No amount of pretending could send her back to sleep now.

The bathroom fan whirs and Y/N can’t decide if she’s grateful or dismayed that she can’t make out any clear sounds. 

When Harry emerges, the dusting of rouge across his cheeks makes Y/N’s stomach flutter, eyes darting around the room to look at anything else. He clears his throat and brushes the back of his index finger under his nose. Y/N might believe he was trying not to laugh if she weren’t so mortified.

And then he actually speaks. He speaks to her and she has to acknowledge him. “I’ve got to get the coach back this mornin’.”

She swallows, “Yeah, mhm, okay.”

“Alright,” A keycard appears between his fingers, and then he places it on the console table, “y’can return this to the front desk f’me?” Y/N nods silently. She doesn’t watch Harry as he gets dressed, or as he shoves things into his bag. She doesn’t even sit up, mouth seemingly stuck open in a gape. “Okay, bye, see you later, stinky.”

“See you—” but the door has already clicked shut, “—later.”

[leilanihours]

# IMGONNAGETYOUBACK

pairing: paige bueckers x ex-gf/iowa!reader

word count: 4880

warnings: suggestive content, arguing

summary: your "rivalry" with a certain uconn blonde has its speculation, but no one knows what happened behind the scenes

from lani: why is every single thing ive posted based off of a song..anyways..hope yall enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing it

AS YOU SLIP into your black jersey, adrenaline courses through your veins. you and your teammates have successfully carried iowa to the final four of march madness. you've all come this far and refuse to break the streak.

but similar to your previous game against lsu, there's a lot of speculation surrounding the tension on the court with uconn. people are going crazy over the paige bueckers and caitlin clark face-off, but they’re going even crazier over your own heated interactions with the blonde.

the internet has decided to constantly pit you two against each other after observing your intense taunting and confrontations in previous years. they believe that it’s merely competitive tendencies but they have no idea where it all actually stems from.

you haven’t always been a hawkeye. for your first two years of college, you were a husky through and through. the public knows this, of course, which adds to the stigma around your name. but after a season-ending injury, you decided you needed a change of pace and environment. it was nothing personal against your teammates, coach, or school in general, you just felt like uconn wasn't where you were supposed to be.

so after you were in the transfer portal, everyone went ballistic. there was a plethora of reactions - some encouraging and supportive, others targeted and calling you a "traitor."

that's what the public is aware of. but they have yet to discover the deeper scars.

"you gonna lock in, y/n?" one of your teammates asks from behind you. turning around, you are met with caitlin, the other hawkeye under extremely close observation tonight.

"i gotchu," you smirk, "what about you? you gonna carry the team again?”

"you already know," she says, mirroring your expression. the two of you have gotten very close over the past couple years, which honestly makes the whole paige situation worse as people make comments like "caitlin and y/n versus paige is crazy" or "ready for this 2v1 game tonight!” they piss all three of you off but really just add to the hype and buildup of the game.

soon enough, your coach is ushering all the girls out of the locker room and onto the court. screams and cheers fill your ears as the crowd observes your entrance. and damn, if your ego wasn't high before, it definitely was now.

the two sides of the arena were filled, one side a sea of navy and white, the other a myriad of gold and black. music blasts from the speakers and makes the walls shake with energy. as you make your way over to the bench, you raise your arms repeatedly to get the crowd going. gaining an immediate reaction, you smile big and put your hand to your ear to play into the praise.

your teammates shake their heads at your antics. they know how competitive you can get. you tend to interact with the crowd and cameras a lot, but no one (especially fans at home) complains.

the crowd before you quiets down for a split second as you focus back onto what your coaches are saying in the huddle. suddenly you hear echoes of booing and other taunts as everyone turns around to see the uconn girls run out excitedly. the last one to come out is none other than paige bueckers, blonde hair in her signature braids and ponytail immediately catching your eye.

part of the reason people always compare you to her is because of how similar you are. your game style, skill set, and energy has always resembled the husky's, but you never understood it until she does the exact same hand motions you did but to the uconn supporters.

as she turns away from the crowd, her eyes dart around to find yours, doing so in a matter of seconds. her icy blue eyes sending a chill down your spine and she hold intense contact. fuck. she knows exactly what she's doing. 

you can tell from the few seconds your eyes are glued to hers that she still wants you. you just know. there's too much emotion behind the stare, saying everything that needs to be said and more.

coach bluder gives the run-down on defensive assignments quickly and explains some of the plays. somehow, by some force of nature, you're stuck guarding the one person you were conflicted with: number 5, paige bueckers.

your teammates all turn to you as soon as the words leave your coach's mouth. they are well aware of your special history with the blonde as well as your complicated relationship now.

"you got that, y/n?" caitlin asks you.

"yeah," you shrug, "you don't have to worry about me. i'm good." and you meant it. you were sick of being compared to paige all the time and were ready to show people who's better.

did you still care for the girl? of course; you always have and always will. but will you let that get in the way of your winning streak? hell no.

the referee beckons each team to the center of the court for the tip-off. hannah sets herself up for the jump ball, standing across from aaliyah edwards on uconn's side. 

you confidently walk over to where paige is standing. your eyes meet hers once again as you wordlessly dap her up, offering a civil front. you already know you'll being seeing the clip on your feed a lot tomorrow morning.

despite the cordial interaction, your mind is running wild at the feel of paige's long fingers brushing against yours. you missed her like crazy, but were also upset with her for multiple different reasons. right now you were enemies, opponents, rivals. but in a few hours after the game? well you would have to wait and see.

the ref throws the ball in the air and aaliyah manages to get her fingers on the ball first to swat in her teammates' directions. uconn almost immediately turns it over due to paige missing kk's pass as the ball goes out of bounds. it's just too easy.

------

the buzzer sounds loudly, signaling the end of the second quarter and halftime. you and your teammates jog to the locker room, sweaty and out of breath. the score was currently 32-26 with uconn in the lead.

you had to admit, that definitely wasn't your team's best first half but you were ready to come back twice as hard.

"c'mon guys," lisa yells, "we gotta seriously up our game right now and fight against their defense. keep giving them as many fouls as possible.

"caitlin, we're gonna try to give you more threes, so everyone else, if caitlin has the ball set those screens, got it?"

you all nod wordlessly as you pay attention to her words. your coach turns to you, looking you directly in the eye, her stare deadly.

"y/n, you gotta push bueckers more, don't direct all your focus on getting cait the ball. really use that energy that i know you have."

"yeah i hear you," you pant as you wipe your forehead with a towel. 

one of the coaching assistants hands you a waterbottle, so you immediately squeeze the ice cold water into your mouth without putting the nozzle on your lips. it's a habit that you have whenever you're in a rush or busy thinking about something.

"and one more thing, y/n," you hear your coach call you before you make your way back on the court, "please, for the love of god, leave your emotions out of it tonight."

the words shoot a prick in your chest, not expecting such a direct statement. nonetheless, you nod firmly, agreeing with her as you jog to where your team is lingering.

you may or may not have had a few...touchy altercations with a certain number 5.

like in the middle of the first quarter...

------

"bueckers with the lay-up, does she get it? no! it is rebounded by l/n!"

your hands grasp the ball tightly under the net but before you can make your way over to the opposite side of the court, another set of hands on the ball stops you.

you look up to see paige also grabbing the ball as it sits in your hands, starting to fight to get it in her possession. with the two of you pulling back and forth, the refs whistle blows to put an end to the quarrel.

however, you two continue to push until one of your teammates wraps their arms around you to pull you off. walking away, you laugh, energized by the interaction. you put your hands up in surrender as kate releases you from her grip.

you turn your head back around to see that paige has also been forcefully pulled away by one of her own teammates with a similar expression on her face, clearly as equally as fired up as you.

------

and the middle of the second quarter...

------

"THREEEEEEE! Y/N L/N!"

you flex your arms and let out a proud yell. it's your 4th score of the night and you feel amazing. your teammates clamor over to you, patting you on your back and bumping you with their chests.

paige failed to block your attempt, putting her arms up and jumping but not being able to reach the ball before it falls in the net.

seeing her tough front falter for a second, you point a finger to her just to spice up the game a little more and get the crowd really going. she shakes her head and chuckles darkly, waving you off with a hand.

"did you see that? bueckers and l/n back at it again with their supposed rivalry, what a dynamic duo, am i right?"

------

time flies rapidly as the clock runs down. it's the last quarter of the game and tensions are at an all time high. with less than 10 seconds left, iowa has the lead 71-69. it's way too close for comfort.

everyone's on edge. the announcers narrating the game for folks at home, coaches, benched teammates, the audience on either side of the court.

when uconn forces a turnover, you stand out of bounds waiting to pass the ball in. 1.1 on the clock. paige stands with her back to you. no one could've predicted your next move. 

you take advantage of her guard let down and quickly bounce the ball off of her, chopping the time in half as she fails to catch it in time and lets it out of bounds once again.

you feel a second of remorse once you catch the defeated look on her face. but you couldn't let the game slip out of your hands that easily. not without a fight.

less than one second on the clock, there's no way for uconn to win. caitlin passes the ball to gabbie who simply throws it high in the air to run down the clock.

the buzzer sounds as you and your teammates run into a group hug, screaming and cheering. you have a small celebration before going to the handshake line. as you pass and commend the uconn coaches and players, you allow your fingers to linger on paige's for a second longer than others.

when she meets your eyes there’s a look of hurt apparent in them, yours filled with guilt. you know how important that game was to her, to her entire collegiate career. but this game was also important to you, she had to know that.

------

your teammates insisted on celebrating at a nearby bar and restaurant, feeling high off the recent victory.

you were obviously down to go with them, but decided to take a little extra time in the locker room showers just to get some peace and quiet to yourself. you tell the girls that you'll catch up in your own car.

so now you're changing into a fresh set of clothes in a dim, empty locker room. some people might find the setting eerie but you enjoy the stillness of it all, especially after the day you've had. 

you’re wearing a basic white crop top and a muted purple skirt, a thick black leather jacket draped over your shoulders to protect yourself from the cold evening air. as you grab your backpack and make your way out to the gym’s parking lot, you spot a familiar figure wandering around aimlessly.

of fucking course i'm left here with her, you think.

you let out an irritated sigh as you continue to rub a small towel against your head to dry your hair.

the sound of your shoes against the pavement catches paige's attention and causes her to turn around. when she observes your relaxed, freshly showered figure, her chest tightens. whether it's from hatred or attraction, she doesn't know.

"hey," she yells to you, stalking over.

you look up to her direction and laugh, "you look like a lost puppy, bueckers."

"damn," she says, "first you decide to beat me and now you're insulting me and calling me by my last name? way to kick me when i'm down, y/n.”

you try not to display how flustered you feel when she says your name like that, “i didn't decide to beat you, i just did. deal with it."

"attitude much? i'm just tryna be civil, ma, no need for the hostility."

that fucking nickname.

"did you need something from me? i'm just tryna meet up with the team so spit it out."

"you heading to the bar?"

"yes," you say skeptically, "how the hell do you know that?"

"i'm heading there too, dumbass," she replies.

"what the hell are you talking about?"

"your team invited mine to hangout," of course they did, "is that a problem?"

"might be," you respond shortly, "so why are you here if the rest of your team is at the bar?"

"i could ask you the same question, l/n," she mocks the way you say her last name.

"i asked you first."

"eager to hear me talk i see." before you can reject the idea she interrupts you, “it’s okay, i know how much you love my voice."

she's not wrong, of course, but you would never admit it to her face. you ignore the question with a roll of your eyes.

"i took a longer shower than everyone else,” you shrug, “told 'em i'll just meet them there. your turn."

she laughs nervously before answering, “uh, i was supposed to get a ride from azzi but i guess she forgot," she says as she looks around the empty parking lot. now it's your turn to tease her.

"that's crazy," you laugh and shake your head, "your own friends don't even wanna be around you."

"man, shut up," she scoffs.

there's a beat of silence before you begin to walk to your car, getting the hint that the conversation was over.

you hear paige groan behind you before asking, "yo..do you think you could give me a ride?"

the nerve.

"excuse me?" you say incredulously as you unlock your car door and slip into the driver's seat. the blonde jogs up to your car, resting an arm on the frame of your door. you become hyper aware of how close you are, and how good she looks.

for the first time since you started talking to her, you take in her appearance. she's wearing a light blue cropped tank top, almost like a sports bra, and dark gray distressed jeans. there's a white uconn hoodie in her hands.

the amount of skin exposed makes your body heat up. the way her arms are flexed against your car makes you think back to the many times they've been flexed underneath your weight.

“can i. get. a ride.” she staggers out, like it’s painful to ask you for a favor. you take advantage of her position immediately.

“i dunno, can you?” you smirk.

“i fucking hate you, do you know that?”

“i dunno, do i?”

“dude.”

you throw your head forward in a laugh, shoulders shaking at her irritation.

“you’re so easy to piss off, i love it.”

“yeah well there’s a lot of other things about me that i know you love but we don’t have to talk about that.”

“do you want a ride or not?” you deadpan, “’cause if you’re gonna act like this all night i don’t want you at the bar, bro.”

“‘bro’? that’s what we’ve come to? that’s even worse than just bueckers, y/n.”

“just shut up and get in the car.”

“yes ma’am,” she says with a mock salute as she closes your door and jogs around the front of the car to the passenger seat.

as you turn on the engine, paige settles into the spot next to you and immediately reaches for the aux cord .

“um,” you pause, “what are you doing?”

“blessing you with my awesome music taste? what do you think i’m doing?”

“absolutely not,” you say, “my car, my rules.”

“um, no. the ‘rule’ is that the passenger chooses the playlist while the driver sets up the queue. we’ve been over this.”

“okay but,” you start carefully, “that was when we were together.”

silence.

“so do you want the ‘late night drives’ playlist or the ‘oldies but goodies’ playlist?”

“what?”

“you heard me.”

she brushes over your comment painfully fast. you had no idea why. you refuse to leave it at that.

“can you just put on our playlist?”

more silence. you gotta be kidding me.

“i don’t-“

“don’t even try, paige, i know you still have it.”

“but-“

“don’t fight me on this. all i want is to celebrate with my team and get a drink so can you please hurry up so we can go?”

“shit,” you hear her say under her breath, “yeah.” she pushes her hips forward as she gets comfortable in the seat.

your eyebrows furrow at the reaction. this girl is so fucking complicated. you weren’t sure if you wanted to curse her out or take her right there.

———

“y/n!! you made it!” jada squeals as you walk into the bar, “and…paige? wait. are you two back together??”

“hell no.”

“definitely not.”

you and paige turn to each other.

“oookayy..” jada trails as she pulls you away from the blonde in the direction of where your team was sat.

the girls cheer your name as you take a seat next to caitlin. you can tell they’ve already had at least 2 drinks each.

“hey,” caitlin says with a warm smile, “you got some catching up to do. let’s go get you a drink.”

she ushers you to the bar where you are able to sit and observe the environment. the venue is fairly dark, the ceiling lights dimmed to a warm hue with a few candles on each table. the stools at the bar were a cold metal that gave you goosebumps. all the table booths have dark brown leather couches one side and wooden chairs with intricate designs on the other.

“so,” caitlin starts after she’s ordered you a drink, lord knows what it was, “i saw you and paige walk in together. that mean anything?”

“please,” you scoff, “i’m done with her, cait, like seriously.” she stays silent, waiting for you to continue, “i mean, she’s so annoying and cocky and confusing, it’s exhausting - i hate her.”

“you sure about that?”

“yes.”

“then why do you still put up with her?”

“what do you mean?”

“i mean,” she says as the bartender delivers two of the same drink, one for you and one presumably for caitlin, “just stop talking to her. ignore her.”

you pause to think. “but she’s always the one starting these dumbass petty fights.”

“then don’t answer her?”

“i have to.”

“and why is that?” she eggs you on, sipping on her drink.

“because,” you sigh, “i can’t let her win.”

“or,” caitlin smirks as the two of you get up to head back to your table, “you still like being around her.”

“as if.”

“okay. tell me this then - why do you two still smile at each other like nothing has changed?”

“we almost never see them, cait.”

“no, i know but…i saw the way you looked at her today. and i saw the way you looked at her when we played them in sophomore year. you still like her, y/n.”

you two have returned to your seats with the rest of the team. you find yourself looking for a particular blonde (again) across the room. the uconn girls were sitting at a similar table to the one you were currently at, just on the other side of the bar.

to your relief, caitlin drops the conversation to engage in one with kate about the game. you quietly sip on your drink as you continue to stare at paige. she’s smiling - laughing - with azzi and aaliyah. you missed them. you missed her. you didn’t acknowledge it until now, until caitlin knocked some sense into you. you did enjoy being around her, mainly because it reminded you of how it was before you transferred to iowa. even though your conversations consist of constant jabs and insults, it was better than radio silence.

but you also hated it. you hated how you couldn’t be with her like you used to. you hated how you left. you hated how she treated you when you left. you hated how she acted like nothing happened. that’s why you have to win every time you’re up against her - literally and figuratively.

paige scored 4 three-pointers in a game? you score 5. paige got 6 rebounds? you got 7. paige had 8 assists? you had 9. it wasn’t just for yourself, it was for the media. with how they constantly have a magnifying glass on your life, you can’t jeopardize your career. so you have to be better than her.

your jaw clenches at the thought of the pressure, the expectation. you down the rest of your way too light cocktail and make your way back to the bar for a stronger drink.

“hey,” you say to the bartender, “can i get a sex on the beach, please?” he nods with a polite smile as he walks away to make your order.

“still rockin with those?” you hear an all-too-familiar voice say.

“if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” you mutter, not bothering to turn to her.

she scoffs. what is her problem now? you think.

“you’re so damn predictable,” she laughs, “it’s hilarious.”

“at least i’m reliable,” you retort, “when’s the last time you had any stability in your life?”

“when i was with you,” she says immediately.

that makes you turn your head. you are greeted with paige’s cold eyes and an unreadable expression.

“what are you doing, paige? what are we doing?” you sound exhausted.

“you tell me. i never got a good explanation when you…left.”

“i tried. you wouldn’t let me. didn’t think you wanted to hear from me after our last conversation.”

“don’t pin this on me,” she says pointedly, “you left me.”

“i didn’t have a choice, paige, you have to understand that.”

“but did you have to leave me? you know we could’ve worked it out.”

“could we have?”

she sighs. the conversation has elevated quickly. you didn’t expect her to open up like this now, to bring all of this up now. maybe it was the ambient atmosphere or the influential alcohol, or both. the man behind the bar sets your drink down on a small napkin in front of you, but you decide against going back to your table.

“so…” she says quietly, “have you been seeing anyone? i know how the fans like to twist shit, but is any of it true?”

“wouldn’t you like to know,” you laugh.

“hey, i’m just tryna gauge where you’re at right now. scope out the competition, you know how it is.”

“‘scope out the competition’?”

she shrugs.

“have you been seeing anyone?” “have you heard that i’m seeing anyone?”

god, this girl could not give a simple answer to save her life. but two can play that game.

“maybe i have. maybe i haven’t. and maybe i’ve seen you with a certain husky named azzi?” you have no clue where you got this idea knowing damn well that they’re nothing more than friends.

“and what if i am? you jealous, ma?” they’re nothing more than friends…right?

“hilarious.”

“that’s not a no.”

“no, it’s not..” you mumble under your breath, turning away from her to avoid her burning stare.

“good.” what the hell is this girl getting at? her avoidant yet suggestive responses set something off in you. “you never answered my question.”

“i am with someone,” you lie through your teeth, wanting to get a reaction out of her.

her breath hitches, “who?” her tone is targeted with a hint of…anger?

“why do you care? you’re with azzi right?”

“i never said that.”

“but you didn’t deny it,” you point out, using her own tactics.

“i am now. i’m not with her. so who are you with?”

“i don’t need to tell you anything.”

“so you’re not with anyone?” she laughs. this girl.

“i am.”

“then tell me.”

“no.”

“fine. be like that,” and suddenly she’s pulling you up from the barstool and into a poorly-lit hallway.

“where are we going?” you demand as you two turn a corner, the only light is the distant hue from the main part of the bar.

“we need to talk about this.”

“talk about what?”

“this,” she motions between the two of you as she pushes you against a wall, one strong arm preventing you from leaving.

“there’s nothing to talk about.”

“i’m not gonna let you keep dodging this, y/n. you left me to go to whole different state with no explanation whatsoever.”

“because you ghosted me first! what was i supposed to do?”

“we were supposed to work it out. remember? when we were teammates on and off the court?”

“you shut me out.”

“because, y/n,” she sighs deeply, “i knew i couldn’t handle it if i had to say goodbye to you. i would’ve-“ she stops herself.

“you would’ve what?”

after about 10 seconds of silence, she whispers, “i would’ve begged you not to go - not to leave me.”

your eyes shoot to hers, but she’s looking down at the floor. her head is almost resting against yours as you observe her adamant yet vulnerable state. you’ve never seen her like this.

from what you’ve seen online, paige seemed to have the time of her life after you transferred. you assumed that she moved on so easily, so quickly. you didn’t consider that it was all just a front.

“paige,”

“what?” she barely gets out, still avoiding your eyes.

“look at me,” she doesn’t, “please.”

her head flies up at that, “what?” she repeats.

you don’t know what to say, you just needed to see her - really see her. her eyes are filled with such clear emotion yet you can’t put your finger on what she was feeling. from her body language you can tell that she misses you. and as you realize you subconsciously put your own hand on her waist, you body is telling you that you miss her too. 

you contemplate your next move for a second, questioning if all of this is worth it. but she’s worth it. in the time you’ve spent apart from her, you grew and matured. you also realize that you need her like you need oxygen. you come to the conclusion that you always have, but it took distance and space to accept it.

not wanting to get too in your head, you smash your lips onto hers as your shoulders instantly relax. you feel paige pause but eventually melt into the kiss, moving her hands up to the nape of your neck. you bring your other hand up to her wrist, resting it there as you relish in the feeling of her lips finally against yours after almost two years. you guide her hand down to your thigh as you move to grasp her shoulders. she glides over your upper thing, riding up your lilac skirt.

she breaks the kiss for a moment, “i’ve always loved you in purple.”

before she can resume the heated kiss, you push against her and observe your surroundings. to your left is the open area you just came from, all your friends oblivious to your activities. all the way down to your right is a door leading out to the back lot and a closer door - presumably a supply closet.

you weigh out your options: do you want to stop the interaction completely, drag her into your car all the way outside, or simply shove her into the closet and have your way with her?

smirking up at her, you pull her into the closet as she laughs at your desperation but follows you nonetheless. 

yes, there were still broken pieces in your relationship. yes, you have always claimed to hate each other. but no, you weren’t leaving without her, even if you had to use handcuffs.

she was never not yours, and you were never not hers.

[animentality]

[drchucktingle]

finishing a first draft of a novel is an exciting moment. as someone who rarely talks about their upcoming projects i am not hinting at anything JUST SAYING also completely unrelated im exhausted and feeling great about whatever TOTALLY UNRELATED mystery work i did today

[redheadspark]

Here (Part One)

Summary - Azriel's worst nightmare has come true: his mate is nearly killed.

Warnings - Mostly Angst in this one

A/N - This is part of the Ocean Eyes Series.

I wanted to write a two-part, or possibly a three-part of this idea I had in my head. I promise it won't be all angst, more like a hurt/comfort if you will! Please let me know in the comments if you wish to be tagged in the second and possibly third part of this piece :).

Part Two can be found Here

I hope you enjoy it.

Rage. All Azriel could think was rage. 

He pushed his way into the front doors of the River House, his mind reeling and his thoughts were focused on one being. Everything on his body was stiff, from the top of his neck down his backside to his feet that were pushing him to the main sitting room to the right.  Voices were heard, worried and angered voices that were mixed and the tension felt along the Shadowsinger. He was moving so fast that his own shadows were trying to catch up to him, warning him and coaxing him to be calm. But he was not calm. 

You were nearly killed.  His mate and wife were almost killed. He was seeing red.

He abruptly threw open the doors, seeing all who were present stop in their conversation and look at him as his wide eyes were filled with anger. Rhysand, Feyre, Nesta, and Cassian were all there in a semi-circle, horror was on their faces alongwith anger and festering wrath and outrage. But Azriel was not thinking about them, he was thinking about you and what happened.

What he felt in the bond.

"Where is she?" He asked in a low tone, not caring that the tone was a bite and his eyes were glaring at the Inner Circle. Each of them, directly in the eye, knowing fully well they wouldn't lie to them since it was Rhsyand who contacted him.Feyre, looking rather remorseful and on the verge of tears seeing Azriel like this, walks over to him with hesitance. His eyes locked with hers.

"Azriel.." She started, but Azriel's eyes snapped to her in such a way that it made Freyre freeze.

"Feyre," he said her name with such a bite that it seemed not himself, but he was not himself. Feyre's eyes widened in shock, the sound of his voice saying her name seemed lethal in a sense, he'd never spoken to her like that before. If it was any other circumstances, Azriel would have been chewed out by Rhsyand for the way he spoke to his High Lady. But Rhysand stayed quiet, inwardly knowing not to step on the Spymaster's toes at the moment. 

Feyre glided over to Azriel and took his fist in her hands, coaxing him to at least open his hand up to allow her to lace her fingers in his. Her bright eyes searched his, determination on her face, "Come with me, I'll take you to her."

Azriel followed willingly, knowing Feyre would guide him now as she led him out of the sitting room and up the stairs. All Azriel could think about was you, the pain he felt deep in the bond, and how that alone almost made him fall to his knees. He heard your scream, the piercing scream that sounded like your own soul was being sucked away from you. Azriel knew you could handle pain, he knew you weren't a pushover. You were tough as nails, one of the toughest Illryians Azriel has ever known. Not just tough in strength, but tough in spirit and in your soul. 

To feel that pain and hear it, Azriel had never been this scared in his long life.

Feyre ushered Azriel to one of the guest rooms, pushing the door open. Azriel froze at the sight in front of him, his heart plummeting in his chest and his blood going cold. There you were, passed out cold on your side in the middle of the massive bed that was right in the middle of the room.  You were stripped down to your undergarments, a thin sheen of sweat along your skin as you were clutching a massive body pillow in your arms and legs and your wings were sprawled out behind you. A massive red slash into your left wing, right along the bone from top to bottom, was seen and so visible to Azriel that he was fuming. Madja was perched on the bed, ointment was pressed into your wing and herbs were in vials next to her on the nightstand. 

Azriel saw your unconscious body, the pale skin tone that was clear evidence of blood loss, and even the shine in your hair was gone, it was like he was seeing a ghost. You seemed more like a shell, a hollowed shell of the being that Azriel knew and loved. After Feyre released Azriel's hand, Azriel walked over to kneel next to you to be nose-to-nose with you. He searched your face, the coolness in your cheeks, and the dark circles under your eyes.  Even the way you breathed while sleeping sounded uneasy, laboring really as Azriel tried to hold back his own tears.

His own worst nightmare came true right in front of his eyes: his mate being harmed and Azriel having no way of stopping or preventing it. He feared this for as long as you two were together, that something could happen to you because of who he was and what role he played for Night Court. But of course, you told him that nothing would happen to you, that he was too worried or paranoid. 

It was now a sick reality.

Azriel felt his heart breaking as he tentatively reached out and touched your bare arm that was on top of the body pillow, feeling how cold you were and the sweat still evident. You whimpered, still asleep and sounding like you were in insane pain as Azriel felt tears in his eyes. Tears for seeing his mate in such pain, tears for the rage he was trying to bury deep down.

Tears for the regret of not killing the very fae he had a hunch did this to his mate.

"She'll survive," Azriel's head snapped up at Madja, who was ringing out a blood-stained washcloth into a basin. Her face was solemn, but still calm as she took some more ointment along her fingers and reached over to place a generous coat of it along the open wound on your wings. You whimpered in pain, your face contorted as Azriel immediately rubbed your arms and nosed your hair lovingly. 

I'm here, baby. I'm right here, I got you with me. Stay with me, baby. Please, stay with me. I need you, I need you here with me.

Azriel was saying so many things through the bond, hoping and praying to The Cauldron that you could hear his voice as he kept talking to you inwardly. He wanted you to open your eyes and show you the brilliant blue orbs that he loved, he wanted to hear your laughter and voice to know that you were still breathing. 

You were there, but you seemed so far away.

"What happened?" Azriel finally asked, his voice raw from the tears as his fingers were still massaging your arms soothingly. His eyes went to Madja, who was giving him a serious look.  The stare-down was enough to have Feyre feel as though she was interrupting something, but Madja then jerked her head to the left. Azriel's eyes followed in that direction, seeing what she was he was directing him to stare at. His eyes went wide.

A singular Ash Arrow.

"The arrow sliced along her bone," Madja explained, getting up from the bed and walking over to the bowl where the arrow was sticking out. Water was inside stained red in blood and something darker, almost black. Azriel watched in silent anger as Madja took a spare cloth in her fingers to lift the arrow without her fingers touching the actual arrow itself. It was long, stained in your blood, and looked precise in design.

"It was an inch away from being fatal," Madja explained as she showed the arrow to Azriel, "Your mate was lucky to have been fast enough to not have it be fatal to her. But the poison in the arrow is doubled compared to other ash arrows I've dealt with in the past."

Azriel felt his shadows flicker against his sides in anger from what he heard as he spoke low, "Doubled?"

"Whoever shot this arrow, had all the intentions in killing your mate, and making it painful," Madja explained, Azriel's eyes darting to her as well as Feyre's. Though she was still at the doorway into the guest room, she could see all that Azriel was reacting to. She felt it in the air and sensed it, she too also hated seeing you nearly on death's door and so close to leaving this world.  Azriel was happy with you, immensely happy, and to think of you leaving him and your son in this world without you there would break her heart.

"I spoke to your High Lord and High Lady about her condition and what needs to be done for her to recover back to full health," Madja explained thoroughly as she dropped the arrow back into the bowl with a splash, making her way back to her work station, "Your mate needs to stay here to fully heal. Her wings are tender and delicate now, any movement will make the poison spread,"

"It's still in her?" Azriel asked hoarsely, almost in pain himself. Feyre moved then, no longer being able to stay in her spot away from her friend as he was grieving for his wife. Standing behind him, she placed a hand on his shoulder, his shadows licking her fingers and palm as a silent way to thank her. Somehow, Feyre felt it too, watching Madja as she was packing some of her things.

"The poison is minimal and tolerable for now, I took most of it out. It's up to your mate and her willpower for the poison to evaporate within the next day or two, in fact, it's critical. Which is why she needs to stay here and let the medicine and her Illryian strength do the work to get herself back on her feet," Madja informed Azriel and Feyre, clutching her bag as she stood by the bed. 

"She'll be safe here, Az," Feyre softly said to Azriel behind him, Azriel heard the softness in her tone as she spoke again, "She'll stay here at River House for as long as she needs to."

"I'll come by tonight and check on her, and from then on I'll come daily. For now, she needs rest, peace, and quiet," Madja explained, taking in a long breath as she gave Azriel a soft bow, "I'm sorry for this, Shadowsinger.  This is no easy thing to conquer. But I stand by what I said when she brought your son into the world: your mate is strong. One of the strongest female Illryians I have ever met in my life. You must have faith that she'll make it out alive, it is vital not just for her, but for you."

Azriel drank in all she said as she walked out of the room, closing the door behind her to leave Azriel and Feyre in the room. There was silence for a moment or two, the only sound that was heard was Azriel's labored breathing and the slightly opened window near the bed. He looked at you again, feeling his world falling apart all over as he attempted to hide his tears. But Feyre caught on and wrapped an arm around his shoulders to hug him from behind. The tears fell, and Azriel squinted in pain as he rested his head on the mattress, though still asleep and not realizing that your mate was breaking.

"She's right here, Az. She's right here alive with us okay?" Feyre said to him as she hugged him tight.

"I failed her," He moaned into the mattress, Feyre shaking her head as he sobbed, "I swore to protect her and keep her safe when we got together. It's my fault—"

"Don't do that! Don't say that Azriel.  This was not your fault, do you hear me?" Feyre reassured Azriel. Azriel clung onto Feyre, still crying into the sheets and feeling as though you were slipping away without him being able to cling to you. But the fact that Feyre was there, holding him close and telling him that you were alive, it was a small sliver of hope for him to hold onto. So many things were flooding in his mind: Who shot the arrow? Who was in charge of this attack? Why would you be the target? 

Who did Azriel need to hunt down and kill?

"She's going to stay here, perfectly safe, and I will make sure she is comfortable, Azriel. You have my word," Feyre promised Azriel as he lifted his head from the mattress, shoving his tears away aggressively with his fingers.

"Are you saying that as my High Lady?" Azriel asked, not meaning to sound bitter about it but his voice sounded it. Feyre hummed, moving to kneel next to Azriel so he could see the love in her eyes and sincerity. He adored that about Feyre, how kind she was even after all she went through as a human, and how she saved Prythian from Kind Hybern. She was still kind, still gentle in her heart though fierce when she needed to be. But the one thing that made her strong was her fierce friendships, how she held her friends close and would never let them go.

Like now.

"I'm saying that as your friend and someone who loves you," She replied softly, trying not to cry herself as she gave Azriel a soft smile, "Nothing is going to happen to her here, and you are more than welcome to be here with her while she gets better. Your family is our family too Az,"

Azriel panicked, thinking about the one member of the family who would be affected. 

"But what about Alec? Oh, Alec," Azriel panicked again, his son was now on his mind. What was his son going to think when he heard about his mother? What was Azriel going to say? His son was far too young for this chaotic world that was filled with hate and pain. Being only 4 years old, Alec was still so innocent and so kind, just like his mother.

"He's at school with Nyx right now, and he can stay here with you too," Feyre said to him calmly, seeing his panic, "I'll make up the guest room across the way for you two to sleep in while—"

"I'm staying in here with her," Azriel said to Feyre as he looked back at you, seeing you shift slightly and cling onto the pillow some more, the pain was less evident on your face as Azriel spoke again, "Alec can use the spare room, he can sleep with Nyx if he wants. But I'm not leaving her side, Feyre. Never again,"

Feyre must have sensed it would be a losing argument on her end when it came to trying to persuade Azriel into anything else.  But she would have done the same if it was Rhsyand there on the bed, even knowing fully well Rhsyand would do the same if Feyre was the one wounded and near death.

With a singular kiss to the top of his head, Feyre squeezed his arm a pinch, "I'm going to make you some food so you can eat in here. We're all downstairs if you need anything, but just stay here and be with her. Nesta will pick up Alec from school and bring him here, don't worry about him right now, we'll take care of him. You focus on your mate,"

Azriel gave her a soft nod, feeling the love she had and the warmth that Feyre could only produce sink into him. Although he felt like he was alone on an island, he wasn't truly alone. Not with the Inner Circle behind his family to care for them and to rally around him in this time.

"Thank you, Feyre," He thanked her, and as she walked out of the room to give him time with you, Azriel felt defeated. He took a chair to bring over to be at your side, then opened a window or two to bring in the fresh air, and then sat in the chair to watch you sleep. Not just sleep, but heal.

Even after hearing from both Madja and Feyre that you were strong enough to make it, Azriel couldn't just rely on hope. He felt hopeless in not being able to do anything, be anything, to bring you back. To wake you up and shine your blue eyes on him, to laugh again and fill the air with your bell of a laugh, and for you to smile and outshine any gem imaginable. 

Rhysand needed his cousin, Alec needed his mother, but Azriel most of all needed his mate. 

As you slept, Azriel was thinking over all the pieces of this complicated puzzle that needed to be placed together. He wanted to search every inch of every Court to find the very being that nearly killed you and almost took you away from him. He wished to find whoever was responsible and inflict so much pain in their life that they would beg for mercy. Any torture he inflicted in the past, he would surpass it. 

But for now, for now he simply wished for you to wake up again.

To Be Continued….

A/N -Once again, let me know in the comments if you wish to be tagged for Part Two and Possibly Part Three!

Thanks for reading!

Tagging - @valeridarkness @impossibelle @acourtofbatboydreams @prettylittlewrites @fxckmiup

[zukalpa]

__ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʏᴘᴇ ᴏꜰ ʙᴏʏꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ ᴛᴏ | (ʙᴀᴋᴜɢᴏᴜ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ)

Katuski ! is the type of boyfriend that worries for you. He understands how cruel people can be and wants to protect you from them whether you ask for it.

Katsuki ! is the type of boyfriend to be a softie around you. Despite his tough guy act, he just wants to be comforted by his loved one. He will never admit it but sometimes he'd rather be held and baby-talked.

Katsuki ! is the type of boyfriend to cook for his partner. He makes sure you eat enough throughout the day. He'd rather that he cooks since he knows what he's doing (according to him).

Katsuki ! is the type of boyfriend that hardly uses pet names to address you. It's either your last name or some shitty nickname he made for you. Once in a while, he'd call you baby or something.

Katsuki ! is the type of boyfriend to get overly jealous when he sees you talking to any guy. He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you closer, and making sure what was his didn't get stolen by some wannabe hero.

Katsuki ! is the type of boyfriend who is not good at emotions or words. Sometimes he says things in a way that offends others but doesn't offend him.

Katsuki ! is the type of boyfriend with incredible hygiene and is a total nag about it. He treats his body like a temple and makes sure you both have done all of your necessities before sleeping. If not, he'll drag you out of bed to do them.

Katsuki ! is the type of boyfriend who helps people out because he feels bad. Can't reach for something? He'll get it down for you. Sore throat? He'll make tea. He says "It's annoying how you always need help for basic needs" but he's glad that he can be of some use to you.

Katsuki ! is the type of boyfriend who prefers a private relationship rather than an open one. He doesn't know how to act lovey-dovey in public while people are watching him. He stays close to you but not too close that he'll get teased for it. As time moved on, he became more comfortable expressing the relationship you two formed. Even though he gets teased relentlessly.

𝘼/𝙉; 𝙁𝙞𝙧𝙨𝙩 𝙥𝙤𝙨𝙩, 𝙜𝙤𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙤 𝙢𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙖 𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙨. 𝙏𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙠 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 <3

[cursed-critters]

Writing smut as an asexual person is so funny to me, because like I have no idea what I’m going on about or if I’m just spitting gibberish.