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freedomfireflies · 2 years

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okay hear me out... lots of angst 👀 maybe even some angry harry or harry that freaks out cause he doesn't want you to see that side of him and doesn't want to hurt you... you know, the typical "use me" stuff 🤪

I don't know how much angst is too much angst, but I hope this does the trick 😭

“No.”

Your entire world has whittled down to this one moment. This one decision. This one plea.

“Harry—”

“No.” Resolute. He leaves no room for discussion or persuasion, his fingers curled into his palm, his eyes tightly shut.

He won’t even look at you. Won’t look at you, won’t touch you…it’s all you can do not to scream.

This isn’t unusual for Harry when he’s in this state. When he’s this bound to the demon in his chest. The one that feeds off anger and resentment.

He had started the day as the Harry you’re used to. Happy, pleasant, although still a nuisance.

He returned home as Scary Harry. The one who stews in silence as the wrath bubbles inside his stomach until it can overflow like lava from a volcano.

He never lets you see him like this. Never lets you under the hood of his subconscious and allow you to investigate its workings.

Today, however, you refused to let him go without at least trying to find common ground.

After all, you’re partners. On the good days and the bad days.

When you first suggested he try and fuck his anger out, he had brushed past you without even a blink of acknowledgment.

You knew he’d hate the idea, but you weren’t ready to let it go quite yet.

And now, twenty minutes later, you’re still tugging at his shirt as you plead with him, desperate to help in any way you can. To erase the look of anguish from his face if only for a moment.

And when you finally play your ace and call him by the nickname that can flip his mood on a dime…he caves.

Albeit bitterly.

You can’t resist the smile that pulls at your lips as you jump from his lap and take his hand.

You lead him to the couch. A safe option. A fast option. Anticipating he might change his mind if you don’t get the show on the road within seconds of his reluctant agreement.

You take great care of the large, surly man practically forcing you to drag him toward the sofa cushions.

You run your hands up his arms, drinking in the tensed muscles as you attempt to smooth them away. You kiss along his neck, finding his pulse point, leaving your name in lilac scars for him to find tomorrow. A reminder of how much you care for him. How much he means to you.

You can physically feel the anger bleeding from his heart into his mind, into his body, into the way he refuses to touch you.

You don’t take it personally, of course, having already anticipated his hesitancy. He’s afraid he’ll break you in the state he’s in.

You’re determined to prove otherwise.

You manage to slip your fingers under his shirt, tugging it up the length of his torso before swiftly pulling it over his head.

He grunts, but you don’t miss the way his breath hitches with eagerness. The same way it always does when you drink him in.

Your touch is like a hallucinogenic to him. Each delicate, eager graze of your skin against his. Each soft brush of your hips. Each gentle taste of you on his tongue.

If anything can pull him back from the edge of insanity…it’s you.

So, you do your best to focus every divine, sensual power you have on bringing your Harry back to you.

Once his shirt is off, you move to his jeans, gliding the zipper down until you can tug the material down his legs and throw them onto the floor behind him.

Next, it’s your turn.

You allow a moment to let him take control the way he’s so apt at doing. Affording him the opportunity to decide where the night is going to go. To do what your Harry always does and just…take.

When the hardened look in his eye proves he still isn’t fully committed to ruining you the way you’re hoping, you decide to erase any and all pressure.

Your fingers weave through his, pulling his hands from their place by his side and toward your hips.

You slip them beneath your shirt, tugging them up to your chest until he can feel the way your body awakens with just a look alone.

The second the rough pads of his fingers feel the peak of your nipple, warm yet still soft beneath his touch, the fury intensifies.

Which hadn’t really been your goal, but the dark wash of lust that passes over his expression is enough to make you suck in a sharp gasp.

And your erotic pants for breath are what he feeds off of.

Despite your better judgment (seeing as your cunt is now making all your decisions for you), you decide to push him even further.

And you do that by pushing your aching tits into his large, supple hands.

They grasp onto the needy flesh as he groans, shifting onto his knees until he can fully devote his attention to the pleasure he’s compelling from you.

You melt into the sofa cushions, ready to let him do whatever it is he sees fit to your body as long as you have a front-row seat to the angst.

The hard, pensive expression woven into his features. The rough pull of your flesh by his hand. The way you can see his intentions as if they’re being broadcast on his forehead.

He’s going to split you in fucking half.

The events of the day, of the week really, had toppled like dominos until he was forced into this state of denial and wrath and indignation.

Normally, his only remedy is taking an ax to the old wooden raft that rests in your backyard.

He’ll be out there for hours, hacking away until his fingers are bleeding, and the rage is gone.

And if that doesn’t do the trick…he drinks.

You figure this is a much more constructive alternative.

As he tugs your hips down, forcing his hand beneath your sweats, you feel nothing but relief.

Not from his touch, per se, but from the knowledge of knowing your plan is working. You can see the stress beginning to melt from his mind the second his fingers dip inside your aching cunt.

You arch, hands pulling at the fabric of the sofa as you brace yourself. He starts with two, which isn’t typically his style, seeing as he prides himself on his caring nature.

His words, not yours.

You aren’t exactly upset by the aggressive switch in technique, seeing as the rather full feeling it creates proves to be quite effective in yanking your pleasure to the surface.

“Think you’re so fucking clever, hm?” he taunts, other hand slipping up to your throat as he forces your head higher, eyes on his. “Make me use you?”

“Shit—”

“Make me need you?” His tone is venomous, so far removed from the loving sound you’ve come to adore that you aren’t sure whether to be stunned or aroused. “Know I fucking need you, don’t you? Know I need this tight, little cunt. To fucking have. To fucking taste—”

You know he isn’t really speaking to you. But rather to himself. To the rage.

“Shit. To fucking ruin—” He stops, sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth. “I could fucking ruin you, darling. Could fucking ruin you and never think twice about it. Could have you crying for me.”

You know he’s right. Know he could make you do anything he wanted if he set out to do so.

“And you’d fucking love it, wouldn’t you?” he seethes, eyes trained on the thrust of his fingers—now three—inside you. The sound, the stretch, the way they disappear inside you as you clench around him. “Fucking beg me to hurt you. Beg me to ruin this cunt like it’s mine—s’fucking mine, isn’t it?”

Your eyes roll back into your head, chest heaving so hard you aren’t sure if you’re actually breathing. “Har—”

“Fucking tell me, darling,” he demands of you again. “Tell me you wanted me to fuck you until it hurts. Tell me how you wanna feel my cock so deep inside you, so fucking hard that you understand. That you understand. Just like you fucking want to.”

Stars appear like angels around your eyes, the lack of oxygen doing wonderful things to your body as you roll your hips to meet the thrust of his hand.

He makes a noise that resembles that of an animalistic growl, removing his touch from your cunt as you gasp for the reason why. Feeling empty. Feeling betrayed.

Soon, his reasoning makes sense, and you’re afforded about two and half seconds between him fisting his cock and him burying it inside you.

He doesn’t offer a moment of relief. Doesn’t offer a second to catch your breath or even a kiss, which is a signature touch of his.

Kissing you as he first slides in. He’s convinced it somehow lessens the sting, or even makes the moment more tender, although all it really does is just…make you love him a little harder than you had before.

The first thrust is sharper than you had anticipated. Full of pent-up anguish and years worth of regret. None of it belonging to you, of course, but you’re happy to take it from him.

No matter how angry he gets, no matter how dangerous…he’s still your Harry. Nothing will ever change that.

And you’ll wear the mascara stains along your cheeks like a badge of honor if it proves to him that you’re his anchor, not his enemy.

He tosses your leg around his hip like it’s nothing, driving deeper inside you, buried to the hilt until you’re tugging your lip between your teeth to mask the whimper.

“S’this what you wanted?” he grunts between attacks. “This what you fucking wanted, darling? To feel me fucking ruin you the way you ruin me? To feel me so fucking deep inside you that you never forget who you belong to?”

Your fingers make a home in his hair, face burying into his neck as you reel, lips absorbing the salty skin at your disposal.

You feel the ache forming between your thighs, along your hip, down your neck. It’s beautiful and thrilling, and so fucking divine that you can’t stop the whine of desire that echoes throughout the living room.

You’re so caught up in the heat, in the feel, in the torture of his hard, determined thrusts that you don’t pay the consequences any mind.

“Yeah? Fucking claim you, darling, fucking take you,” he hisses in between his own groans of pleasure. “Fucking take you like—”

Just like that…everything stops. His words, his movement, his taking.

Your eyes shoot open. They find his, magnetized to something on your body. Something on your neck.

You feel his heart shatter.

Physically feel the pieces of his humanity crumble as his lashes flutter, the realization dawning on him in such a devastating way that you feel your breath catch in your throat.

“Har—”

His free hand reaches for your skin, fingers hovering above your throat as his gaze flickers along whatever it is that has him so fascinated. “Did…” A pause. “No, I didn’t mean…” Another pause. “Baby, I’m—”

Suddenly, he moves back, expression falling into one of regret and shame and loathing.

Confused, you bring your hand to your neck to feel for whatever it might be that could turn a noble man into a cowering young boy like the one before you.

Yet there’s nothing except the slight ache from the pressure that you know will subside before morning.

Your hand lowers. “Harry, what—”

“It’s red,” he hisses, hateful gaze finding yours and that's when you begin to understand. “It’s fucking—it looks fucking…I didn’t mean—” He stops, moving onto his knees as his head begins to shake. “I fucking knew this was a bad idea, I never should have…I never—”

“Harry, relax.” You hoist yourself up onto your elbows, head tilting gently to the side as you attempt to calm him. “You’ve left my skin red plenty of times before, this is hardly—”

“But not like this.” His tone is seeping vile disdain. “Not when I’m fucking…I fucking hurt you—”

“Whoa,” you interrupt, head shaking quickly in bewilderment. “Hold on, I never said—”

“I can fucking see it,” he snaps, thrusting his chin towards the mark. “S’what I fucking did—”

“Because I asked you to—”

“But I fucking knew better.”

There it is. The real truth he’s trying to escape, except his version of reality is outrageously twisted from what you know to be true.

You move to sit up higher, reaching your hands to take hold of his face, but not missing the way he cowers away from you.

You don’t let that deter you, instead grasping his cheeks between your fingers until you can peel his eyes away from the mark on your neck and onto your own.

“Listen to me,” you implore, lowering your voice to a more authoritative tenor. “I asked you to do this with me. I wanted this. All of this. Each and every second of it. Because I know what you’d do to hurt me, and this wasn’t it.”

A scoff. “You don’t fucking—”

“Did I say I was done?” Your eyebrow cocks upwards, waiting for his obedience as his teeth scrape together and he forces his mouth shut. “I know you, Harry. I know what your anger looks like better than you do. I know what your love looks like better than you do.”

You give him a moment to truly see. To understand.

“What, you think a little dirty talk and choking is gonna hurt me?” you proceed. “Gonna scare me away from you? Gonna ruin what we have?”

He forces his glare from your face and toward the sofa.

“Well, surprise, but I happen to like being choked,” you remind him quickly, and rather smugly. “And spanked. And toyed with. And ruined.”

You dip your head closer, letting your lips brush until you’re sure he’s only focused on you.

Then, you whisper, “So, give me your worst, baby boy. And I’ll show you exactly what I can handle.”

You watch as his brain struggles to understand. Struggles to accept. Struggles to see the truth for what it is.

That he’s not a monster and you’re not a baby deer.

To further accentuate your point, you slip your hand down your stomach and toward your clit, aching for a touch.

His eyes narrow in on the flick of your fingers. The way you slide them down until you can dip them inside. Feel yourself out. Bring them back up to begin again.

“So…” you pant eagerly. “You gonna sit there and watch me? Or are you gonna make good on your word to ruin me?”

You can tell he’s torn between doing exactly that or feeding into his doubt.

It’s not until you whimper at the touch of your own hand that his decision is made for him.

He slots himself back between your thighs, cock grinding down against your cunt as you whine, his hands burrowing themselves in the soft skin of your hips.

Then…he kisses you.

Kisses you as he slides in, reminding you that no matter how fucking dangerous he likes to think he is…

He’s still, and always will be, your Harry.

“Guess there is an upside,” he murmurs after a moment, nudging your jaw with his nose.

“Yeah? And what's that?”

A smirk. A rather devious one at that.

“You look fucking amazing in red.”

~ Other Harry Blurbs

~ Full Masterlist

#harry #harry styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles blurb #blurb #harry styles x reader #harry styles x you #harry styles request #request #harry styles smut #harry styles one shot #smut #harry styles angst #angst

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merlinemrys · 6 months

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20 QUESTIONS FOR FIC WRITERS

1. HOW MANY WORKS DO YOU HAVE ON AO3?

129 . . . i write exclusively short oneshots so take that with a grain of salt.

2. WHAT'S YOUR TOTAL AO3 WORD COUNT?

362,664 which is a feat for ME!

3. WHAT FANDOMS DO YOU WRITE FOR?

semi-regularly:

bbc merlin

marvel (spider-man)

percy jackson

dc (batman and superman)

have written and posted for:

doctor who

house md

grishaverse (the grisha trilogy and six of crows)

alex stern series

the raven cycle / the dreamer trilogy

goncharov (😭)

harry potter

the 100

the magicians

anne with an e

to all the boys i've loved before

4. TOP 5 FICS BY KUDOS?

ACCIDENTAL HEROISM / the batman (2022)

THE JONES-WATSON-PARKERS / mcu spider-man

MYTH CALLS ME LEGEND / bbc merlin

BRING ME HOME / percy jackson

YOU'RE THERE WITH OPEN ARMS / bbc merlin

merlin fandom . . . you will always be famous to ME!

5. DO YOU RESPOND TO COMMENTS?

yes, always (or at least i try).

6. WHAT'S THE FIC YOU WROTE WITH THE ANGSTIEST ENDING?

hmmm . . . WAIT. LAFF. this is so funny because i think it's FINAL GOODBYE, my sole goncharov fic because goncharov dies at the end. fr though, maybe WE CAN MEET AGAIN SOMEWHERE which is a pjo fic where i killed percy off lmao. i have since realized that i apparently don't write a lot of angst . . . an interesting to note about myself for sure!

7. WHAT'S THE FIC YOU WROTE WITH THE HAPPIEST ENDING?

due to the nature of my writing—short oneshots—they all mostly end happily! maybe IN THE NIGHT (mergwenthur with platonic merthur and merwen and romantic arwen) because it was just soft all the way down!

8. DO YOU GET HATE ON FICS?

no, i don't think so.

9. DO YOU WRITE SMUT?

sometimes. the mood just has to strike yk <3

10. DO YOU WRITE CROSSOVERS?

uhh if you mean characters from Fandom A meet and interact with characters from Fandom B then no? i have written fic inspired by other fandoms, but those would be AUs then . . . i'll go with no.

11. HAVE YOU EVER HAD A FIC STOLEN?

not to my knowledge!

12. HAVE YOU EVER HAD A FIC TRANSLATED?

nope. some people have asked though! i was deeply honoured but i like to keep my fics on ao3 instead of any other site and they wanted to post elsewhere.

13. HAVE YOU EVER CO-WRITTEN A FIC BEFORE?

wait. i just remembered, oh my god. SCREAM. does 13 year old me's rp count? because that would retroactively change my answer to the crossover question since i DID do that. it was so godawful and was probably 100k—started out as bbc sherlock fic and then bbc merlin got in there along with doctor who and supernatural and probably every fandom under the sun after that. we never posted that anywhere (thank GOD) but what a time. i don't co-write now. not for any particular reason, but i don't think it's come up.

14. WHAT'S YOUR ALL TIME-FAVOURITE SHIP?

see, this question is so hard because i write and consume so much different media. at the moment, in my current doctor who phase, i'll say tenrose! ask me during a different phase and you will get a different answer hehehe <3

15. WHAT'S A WIP YOU WANT TO FINISH BUT DOUBT YOU WILL?

all of four of them 😭 one reason i write oneshots is because my interests wanes so fast. you'll be hard pressed to find me in the same hyperfixation for longer than a few months, but i always come back eventually. specifically, RENEGADE'S RETURN (dc dick grayson-centric) would be the WIP imo because i posted that with no intention to finish it. all the other ones i had hopes, but this one . . . no </3

16. WHAT ARE YOUR WRITING STRENGTHS?

prose and characterisation. i think i'm getting pretty good at writing in the pov character's voice. like if you take my house md fic and compare it to . . . i don't know my raven cycle fic, i think the voices are distinct enough even with my same writing style:

HOUSE MD: New Orleans sticks to House’s skin. It reminds him of the Philippines. Long days baking under the sun, oppressive heat blanketing his entire body, sweat pooling at the top of his lip. At least when he was in the Philippines, he wore shorts and a tank top to cool down. Currently, there are about three layers on his chest—undershirt, button-up, blazer—and the AC in this place wheezes and puffs out mildly cold air like an overweight asthmatic kid attempting to run a marathon. THE RAVEN CYCLE: Adam Parrish does not have many things. A bare IKEA mattress, various pieces of makeshift furniture made out of cardboard, and a three-dollar rug he found at a sale. It’s not much, but it’s his and he’s proud of it. Sometimes, though, pride doesn’t discount how hot Virginia summers are. His skin is sticky with it, the light cotton of his shirt clinging to him, restlessness twisting under his skin.

i tried to pick two snippets that are generally about the same thing (summer heat!). at least to Me, this seems different enough in tone, but you know. vibes!

17. WHAT ARE YOUR WRITING WEAKNESSES?

my inability to write long form is genuinely not only a weakness but so so so detrimental to me fr. every fic i have written can EASILY be at least 25k EACH. probably more (definitely more) because i write the moments in between or . . . [sigh] let me say this instead. with longfic, there's usually a moment or a scene that you want to get to, the whole fic is culminating to that scene so you write thousands upon thousands of words to get to where the that scene would make sense in context, yes? well. for Me . . . i just write The Scene™

18. THOUGHTS ON WRITING DIALOGUE IN ANOTHER LANGUAGE?

i'd fuck up google translate so fast (and have), so something like "they speak in spanish" or "'hi, how are you?' they ask in spanish" would be preferable to me.

19. FIRST FANDOM YOU WROTE FOR?

definitely pjo percabeth fic at the age of like . . . ten (10). i posted it on ffnet and have since scrubbed from the internet.

20. FAVOURITE FIC YOU'VE EVER WRITTEN?

funnily enough i created a series which is just fav fics that i've written which sounds so egotistical, but whatever. there are 13 works in there, i believe, and most of them are merlin lol. but in recent memory it has to be a tie between JUDAS KISS and THREAD OF GOLD (both arwen fic !!!) because i experimented with my writing sooooo much there, JUDAS KISS being first person and THREAD OF GOLD being second person. i typically write a close third person pov especially for fic. my prose is wired for that, but it was so fun to try to do that for first and second anddddd i got some banger lines out of it so a win's a win!

THREAD OF GOLD: Your father’s presence is larger than life. Larger than love. It looms. It casts shadows long enough to hide every hope and dream you’ve ever had for yourself. JUDAS KISS: All I can think about is Arthur. His rage is fine as a blade, sharpened by the betrayal I have dealt him.

#idk why it’s missing lines on desktop for Me but on mobile it’s normal.. tumblr u stupid stupid site #tag games #not merlin #text #tais toi lys

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