#like the fact that he has traits of a darkener…

[sn0wgr4ve]

I think if Papyrus was dodging the question like Sans did, he would've given more of a bold-faced lie (something where the facts don't line up) or a funny absurd answer (like when he answered the "what if someone was hiding something from you?" question).

Adding to the amnesia-ish line of thought: he is described as "Forgettable" in the murder run! (Perhaps that has a deeper meaning)

And when you talk to him in front of Undyne's house in a run you've killed someone, he says something along the lines of

NOW, I DON'T REMEMBER MURDERING ANYONE...

Don't remember, huh? That's a weird way of phrasing that!

(Granted, that could just be his way of making a cheeky jab at US, but the other possibilities still intrigue me!)

* oh now THIS is where it gets interesting… papyrus appears to be so so sweet, but once you look into it, he’s extremely manipulative and lies even about little things that don’t matter, like if he sleeps or not.

* a HUGE part of this is how he acts in snowdin. if you look at his dialogue with a certain perspective, it becomes clear that he’s just acting. whether it’s for frisk, or as us the player, is completely unclear. hell, it could be both. but he’s pretending all the same.

* a single scene’s examples are:

PAPYRUS SCENE 1

[ YOU KNOW WHAT’S “SUP”, BROTHER! ] He automatically makes it clear that Sans is his brother without it being necessary.

He acts as if he can’t see Frisk, but from where he’s standing, he should 100% see them with complete ease.

He tells Sans his goals despite him already knowing them.

During the Genocide run, he doesn’t even bother with any dramatics, as there’s no point.

(sidenote, both xbox achievements for snowdin relate to papyrus in a way that calls him god?)

* there’s also him having an obsession with redemption, him saying that he’s a brutal kind of guy, that he’s aware of sans’s pranks that are pulled across time and space, his connection to gaster that he definitely remembers (as he shows sadness at the sight of the CORE despite kind of knowing what frisk is doing), and much much MUCH more.

* there’s a good chance that he just pretends to not remember, either because he regrets it, he wants to move past it, or simply because the past hurts too much to think about

#chaos.txt #joost8910 #okay to rb #undertale #deltarune #papyrus #utdr theory #this is why i have an entire google doc about papyrus #it’s extremely unfinished but already so jam packed with interesting tidbits about him that makes him the most mysterious character ever #like the fact that he has traits of a darkener…

[cherryjuiceblues]

𝐌𝐔𝐓𝐔𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋 | 𝟓.𝟐

➯ HARRY LETS HIS FRUSTRATION GET THE BETTER OF HIM AND SOME TIME AWAY FROM Y/N HAS HIM TURNING UP AT HER DOOR TO FINALLY TELL HER HOW HE FEELS. ✰ dom!harry resolved angst. shouting. sexual content. BDSM influenced punishment. dominant and submissive dynamics. slight anal play. minors dni. 𝑤𝑐 10.7k ッ mutually beneficial masterlist

The house doesn’t smell like curry.

And that’s the first thing he notices when he steps inside after a long day. Harry always makes a point to relish in the view of his home before he enters its threshold; warm and bathed in light—the clear signs of life pouring out of the windows and across the driveway. Y/N cradles his heart in more ways than she shall ever know but simply remembering that she is here, in his home, keeping it safe whilst he’s gone… It does irrevocable things to him.

But today, fretful from the stresses of the night before, perhaps he’ll admit that it does less to soothe his weary head as it does most days. When the only thing getting him through the workday was the promise of a beloved meal, prepared with love, steaming—waiting for him when he got home—and the scent doesn’t immediately hit him in the face… he worries. He worries for his sanity and for Y/N’s wellbeing. He worries for the words he might say on an impatient, empty stomach.

The tension between Harry’s brows radiates throughout his entire skull as he rolls out his shoulders and prepares himself for the conversation he’s going to have to have in approximately ten seconds. He can hear Y/N tottering around in the kitchen—and that almost makes it worse—that she’s in there and yet he can smell… he can smell something sweet. Something—

His feet lead him to the scent, hoping his nose is mistaken, forehead tightening at the sight he is greeted with.

“What’s this?” His cadence is concerning—unclad with his usual charming lilt—swathed in this new, murky tone of impatience. “Where’s m’dinner, sweetheart?”

Y/N twists around from her place at the sink, lips turned downwards unlike her usual welcome of a happy, relieved smile. And her reaction, Harry will later accept, is a valid one considering his complete lack of greeting—when he is usually so full of soft lilts and gentle caresses.

“Oh—hello to you too,” she scoffs, words tumbling out uncharacteristically, “‘m I your housewife, now?” And—regardless of whether Y/N had already been labelled as such by Harry’s own employees, she has a feeling his eyes would’ve darkened all the same. His immediate, deathly silence does more to terrorise her than any garish attempt at horror (although that successfully scares her too).

She’s wondered what it would take for him to have his moment. Harry’s patience has always been such a relief—the most gentle person in Y/N’s life—a trait previously severely lacking and one she now cherishes every day.

And she knows his reaction isn’t unjust. She should have made him dinner, ready to eat as soon as he stepped foot inside—just like she had promised earlier in the day. With a smile on her face. She can’t quite explain why she made a cake instead. She’d had every intention to do as she’d said, was on her way to the kitchen to get started, in fact. But then she’d opened her phone, scrolled through Pinterest for just long enough to become distracted, to forget her initial quest, and to become enamoured by a heart-shaped sponge cake instead.

Y/N understands Harry’s anger. But it’s still upsetting. She feels as though she has committed something worthy of jail time. Her stomach churns, previously dancing butterflies dispersing with a single brandishing glance over her way. They’re replaced by heavy, heavy bricks—weighing her down, immobilising her completely as she watches Harry inspect the kitchen with beady eyes.

“You made a cake?” He asks, already knowing of the answer; the evidence stares him straight in the face—accompanied by the debris—a crime scene of flour and icing sugar, bowls upon bowls filled with remnants of batter. She opens her mouth, abandoned by sound, swiftly closed when Harry continues on his own; unneeding of Y/N to have a conversation.

“Does it taste like fucking Korma, darlin’?” And she doesn’t like it—the way he weaponises the word she associates so closely to her own identity—the one he uses more than her own name. He’s upset. And it’s her fault.

“It—”

“—Don’t. Just—” he sighs, swiping his heavy palm over his forehead, “—be quiet.”

It slaps her across the face—his unwavering displeasure. She feels the heat rising, uncomfortable in her face, the stinging of her eyes uncontrollable. Harry walks around the island, sighing at the sight of his sink. She was going to clean it, she was. But that doesn’t matter now.

Y/N stands awkwardly near the doorway, stuck in place. He’s muttering, hands busying automatically, clattering indelicately—every bang and crash deafening in Y/N’s nervous state. “Cake,” he laughs flatly, “she makes fucking cake.”

She’d made it with good intentions, she swears. Everything she does is for Harry one way or another. But even Y/N can admit her timing had been astronomically off with this one. A tear trembles its way over her waterline, Harry chiding her; talking about her as if she isn’t there at all, wounding in a way that makes her feel small unlike every other time before. She swipes it away quickly but the evidence remains—a sad, salty trail. 

“Leaves her mess—” a spoon is dropped unceremoniously, “everywhere,” throwing utensils into the top rack of the dishwasher with a lack of finesse. “Promises me dinner and then has the… the cheek to play the feminism card. Like it’s some… sort of punishment that I dole out.”

And then he spins around, wielding a whisk in a way that usually should diminish someone’s threat but only emphasises his anger. His eyes harden at the sight of her wet face, and he softens his words none. “You know I don’t think of you as some— some tool, some object for my own desires,” he puts the whisk into the dishwasher, before addressing her again, “but when you promise someone something, you fucking deliver, do you understand me?”

Y/N nods jerkily, more tears brimming. “I’m sorry,” she all but wails. The guilt fills her ears with a thickness—one that throws her off balance.

“Yes, I’m sure you are.” She’s rendered him resigned; her dominant usually so bright and uplifting, now expelling sigh upon sigh at the mere existence of her.

“I don’t want to look at your sad little face, turn around.” Y/N lags, feet glitching over the tiles. “Face the wall—yep,” he nods at her stunned expression, indicating that he is indeed serious, “go on.”

But surely not. “Let me—” her arms reach out in front of her, asking to help. Begging to help—to clean up her own mess and let Harry sit down.

Harry shuts her down, shaking his head tersely, coming forward to turn her himself. “—In the corner…just do something good. Wipe your face—” She lets herself be manhandled, shoulders quivering silently. He nudges her knees with his own, positioning her just right—in the corner like a naughty child. “—Don’t need to see you crying.”

He’s right; he doesn’t. She fucked up, Harry deserves to be the upset one. But instead Y/N’s weeping like some sort of inadvertent guilt trip.

Without her vision, everything he does is that much louder—his mutterings now comparable to full-blown rantings. “Who needs—three fucking bowls? This isn’t masterchef, darling. You don’t need three bowls to make a cake, you don’t.” Every sound makes her body tighten up.

Y/N sniffles, “I’m sorry,” forehead drooping to rest weakly against the wall.

Harry doesn’t seem to hear her sad whimper, grumbling away to himself. But as he turns and starts wiping the island counter, he scolds her again. “Stand up straight, we’re not relaxing,” as she forces her head back up sadly, twisting her neck to apologise once more. He’s moved back to the sink, knocking the tap with his knuckle to start soaking a large, ceramic bowl. “—And quit lookin’ at me over your shoulder.”

She slinks back around, shame heating her cheeks. Her posture wilts like a sorry flower. But she can’t help but worry as he’s soaking the bowls—a remembrance of the frosting she’d made, ready to spread on her heart-shaped creation after it had cooled. She checks back over her shoulder just as he’s standing on the pedal of the bin, lid swinging up.

“No!” she cries, scrambling over to rescue the bowl from Harry’s evil clutches. He sighs, eyes roving over her doleful, wet face, but he lets her hold it.

“Why—are you crying?” He asks with such indignation. “Do you need a reason, hm? Because we can find you one,” he swipes under her eyes carelessly, murmuring something about how he ought to never make her come again. “Ridiculous,” muttering to himself as Y/N stands woefully before him—frame so much smaller than it should be. “Go upstairs. Take your—” he turns her by her shoulders, “—bowl and go upstairs. Be useful and cry elsewhere… whilst I make us dinner.”

Y/N wonders, as she sadly shuffles her feet along the floor and up the stairs, if this is the Harry his previous partners were privy to. If this is how his dominance presented—cold, harsh, and unforgiving. She can’t deny the curiosity; that if the circumstances were different that she wouldn’t be aroused at the expense of her fear. Not that she’s scared of him—she’s not. He’s not that kind of angry. But this is unexpected, and it’s unsettling. She can’t decipher the true intentions behind his words; if they’re fuelled by frustration, hunger, exhaustion… or if they’re disguised by such factors in order to portray his true feelings. Was he… irreversibly upset with her? Was he disgusted by her? Repulsed? Turned off? 

She sits on the edge of his bed—the bowl is cold against her palms, heavy and sorrowful, and surely much saltier than she’d originally intended—tears dripping off her chin and into the frosting below.

She cries because she’s embarrassed, she cries because she’s failed; she’s a disappointment and a right headache. It’s why she just sits there, doing as he’d told her—to cry elsewhere. Whether or not she’s waiting for Harry, Y/N doesn’t know. Her brain sits in thick sludge inside of her skull.

Time evades her in moments like these. Her eyes gloss over, focused on one blurring point, her thoughts form with immense struggle—like someone wading through mud, picking up one foot with force, weighed down by the imprisoning filth, allowed freedom for a fraction of a second before it is submerged once more. 

She sits and she stares at nothing in particular, blinking only to displace the tears that obscure her already fuzzy vision. And when Harry appears in the doorframe, it takes a lagging second or two before recognition, before her face twists slightly and a wet garbling sound dribbles its way out of her downturned mouth.

He sighs, anger replaced with exhaustion now… or simply pushed aside until another time. Harry walks towards her, movements slow; cautious like that of a person desperate to keep a placated baby sweet.

“Don’t cry, come on,” he thumbs a tear from her dewy cheek, “don’t need to cry.” His voice is softer now, Y/N is grateful. Although his caressing cadence is enough to make her emotional on most days. So it does little to cease the rapid beating of her heart or the little diamond droplets in her waterline.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” she sniffles, pushing her face into the pressure of Harry’s thumb despite feeling unworthy of it.

“Okay.” It’s a murmur, removed of emotion, as he’s smoothing his fingers around to the back of her neck, holding firmly—keeping her upright to allow her heavy head some respite—whilst he stands tall at the foot of the bed, gargantuan in size compared to Y/N’s sad form.

“Listen to me,” the digits curl slightly, angling her head up, up. She’s forced to ruminate over the tension in Harry’s brows and the evidence of his hands running through his hair with irritation, strands coiling wildly. But she nods against the strain, trying so hard to be better.

“You have two options.” He doesn’t sound angry anymore. Y/N almost wishes he did. The complete lack of inflection leaves her with nothing to lean on. “You can be a good girl for the rest of the night, just like I know you’re so capable of—” he pauses to let the words settle, and maybe to hear the echo of the slight spite in his accusation. 

Y/N doesn’t think she needs to hear option two, and when Harry does say it, it makes her sad all over again. 

“—or you can go to the spare room.” 

Her lip twitches; she clenches her eyes shut to force the tears back down and shakes her head in silence. 

Harry strokes his thumb against the back of her scalp. “We will talk about this. Tomorrow, we will. But for now, I want easy, okay? Will you be good?”

I am good! Is what she wants to say. She wants to say that she never meant to be bad, she never meant to upset him. She wants to take the last few hours of her life back completely and do it all over again. 

The weight of the bowl in her hands is a reminder. She puts it down on the mattress beside her, curling her knees underneath her bum to push her height up. To reach Harry’s chest and clench her fingers into the material of his shirt, jacket long since removed in the heat of his frustration.

“I’llbegood,” Harry feels the vibration of her words and hears the muffled promise as Y/N smears sad kisses over his cotton covered heart. He lets her—eyes losing the fight against his lids as they fall shut, sighing as he worries about taking this all too far. 

But the wheels are in motion, and the emotions are high. If Y/N can’t follow through on a promise, then Harry must follow through with a punishment. Or a scolding. Or whatever it is that they’re doing right now—which seems to be neither. He just wants to sleep, and hold her warm body, and forget about his day.

He brings his hand up to smooth over the top of her head, closed eyes allowing him one last moment of reprieve. Y/N’s tears soak through his shirt, wetting his skin underneath. No doubt he’ll find dampened patches littered across the material, soon to dry but the memory will never fade. Of having his love kiss through her tears, to beg in her sadness for forgiveness by applying her own homemade bandaids.

Harry needs a distraction.

His gaze lands on the forgotten bowl when he opens his eyes, gently pushing Y/N back onto her bum when he decides what to do.

“You didn’t eat your frosting, baby?”

And now he’s confusing her… because now he sounds almost playful—and Y/N doesn’t know the correct answer to give—the right words in the right order to be rewarded with the right reaction.

“I didn’t—know if you wanted me to, Sir,” she swallows around some of the words, snotty nose all stuffy and suffocating her vocal chords.

“I’d like you to now.” Harry sees his hands on her face as he says it, white frosting painting her like something else they’re familiar with—his fingers spanning the entirety of her features, smearing the mess around like she’s his own personal canvas. 

He leans down, just enough to dip his fingers inside the bowl, coating his digits, and then he stretches back out to his full height with purpose, sinewy forearm veiny as it is pulled towards Y/N’s mouth by an eager hand. 

She sits still—statuesque—with her eyes roving up Harry’s rolled sleeve and all the way to the straight line of his mouth. Y/N can’t help but wish she could know exactly what he was thinking as he daubs the pads of his middle and ring finger against the seal of her mouth, displacing the substance from his fingers to her lips, before teasing his way inside to hook her bottom teeth down and unlatch her jaw.

He just… stares for a moment, holding her mouth open and watching as saliva pools beneath her tongue and kisses his fingertips. And then he pats her cheek with his other hand, a soft tap as Y/N’s lashes barely flutter from the weight of his palm. She drools a little when Harry drops her jaw, shame lingering somewhere but not quite reaching the forefront of her mind. It occurs to her to close her mouth, but it seems her dominant isn’t quite finished—bringing a newly dipped hand back up to her face. He’s all but dipped it entirely into the bowl, cold against Y/N’s face when he smudges his handprint over the left side of her face with a quirk of his lips.

“Sweet and salty, huh?” his eyes darken, the pad of his thumb smearing the frosting so indelicately adorning her face. The sugary paste intersects with a drying tear trail streaking down her cheek and Harry can’t help the way his saliva pools under his tongue, blocky front teeth pushing two lines into his bottom lip. 

She looks so pretty.

Y/N watches the way the flesh holds a slight indentation when her dominant closes his mouth once again. The quickstep of her heart dances with exhilaration now—body frozen in anticipation as Harry’s looming stature shrinks her. Her eyes are wide, and the only things she dares to move, flitting around Harry’s face as he manhandles hers.

He squeezes her cheeks together, shaking her head from side to side before dipping his thumb into her open mouth and spreading it across her tongue. Vanilla blossoms on her taste buds, and a quiet hum rumbles at the back of Y/N’s throat.

“S’that nice?” Harry all but coos. “All your hard work? Does it taste good?” He’s teasing, she knows—but that’s never mattered with Harry. Y/N will always answer him sincerely. 

She hums around his thumb, “Mhm,” tongue flicking against his soft pad. If Y/N could eat everything off of Harry’s fingers, she would. Hand fed for life, lips cushioning his long digits as they stroke her tongue and caress the insides of her cheeks.

“Let me see,” Harry murmurs, keeping her head still as he bends down, tongue unfolding from behind his lips as he licks a stripe from the corner of her mouth to her cheekbone. Y/N makes a startled noise around his thumb, goosebumps littering her skin. Warmth and wet from his thick muscle as it lingers unnecessarily; he hums lewdly, over exaggerating the pleasure just to amplify Y/N’s—to watch her squeeze her thighs out of the corner of his eye as he leans back and swallows.

“Beautiful,” he concludes—about her frosting or about her, Y/N doesn’t know. Her eyes are wide and crystal clear, every emotion glittering over the surface of her corneas. And she just sits there, white smudges over her cheek, her lips, staring up at Harry as though he created the world in the palm of his hand—as though she sleeps soundly curled up in the nest of his dimple or the crevice of his navel.

Harry knuckles the rest of the mess off of her skin, suckling the joint into his mouth and gathering it all onto his tongue. She doesn’t expect the grip of his fingers on her jaw and for her automatic response being to present her own tongue, doesn’t realise that she registers the slight purse of his lips as he crowds her space and shamelessly lets the sweetness drip heavily into her mouth.

He doesn’t have to tell her to swallow as her throat bobs, eyes never wavering from Harry’s despite the electricity that jolts up her spine from the casual debauchery. So unwavering, his gaze, as if concentrating on the most important thing to ever happen in his life. Refusing to blink to avoid risking missing a single millisecond.

And then… then he steps back, the moment suddenly gone. Y/N misses the way his eyes droop regretfully.

Silent footfalls pad over to the en-suite, collecting cleanser and lotion, serum and soft wipes. Harry dabs at her face with such precision that Y/N wonders if it’s soothing for him—to take more care than necessary at cleaning her skin. She doesn’t quite understand the intent. Was he not going to continue what Y/N confidently assumes he had in mind?

He doesn’t as he changes out of his suit, he doesn’t as he passes his work shirt to Y/N, he doesn’t as she undresses—which would be the perfect time to do such a thing—he doesn’t as he pulls back the covers and settles in, patting the spot in front of him.

Y/N complies with a similar silence. No words shared but nonverbal communication can be just as effective. The wrap of Harry’s heavy forearm around her waist, pulling her in tight, so tight—almost too tight. That’s soothing enough to her, feeling his hard chest, his hard arms, his hard—

“Mm, Harry,” a whispered moan and a shift of her bum. She can feel him begging to nestle between her. 

“No, baby, no,” he tickles her neck inadvertently, burrowing his nose into the delicate flesh. She yearns to crane her head back against his shoulder.

“Want you to feel good, sir. Just stay warm inside me, please?”

“I don’t deserve it, pet. Sleep now. We’ll eat in an hour.” 

She can’t argue, not when her eyelids are so heavy. But the sleepiness of her brain and the tingling between her legs has her head all foggy, movements not her own as she guides Harry’s hand up to her mouth and coaxes his middle two fingers past her lips. He sighs into her neck, a gentle huff, but doesn’t resist—his other arm simply snakes under her body to wrap back around her waist and infuse her into his front.

Y/N has never slept so easily after an argument before.

When more of your possessions reside in your dominant’s house than your own, it’s probably time to reevaluate the situation. Y/N doesn’t do that as she juggles cans and bottles before dumping them into her suitcase—Harry’s suitcase because hers was old and battered—doesn’t even ponder it, which is something novel for her.

Harry passes a makeup bag silently from beside her. His case sits open on top of his mattress, slowly filling with clothes and toiletries. She’s not going for long, not even three full days, but Y/N has always been more at ease when she overpacks—instead of underpacking and feeling that swirling dread when she realises she’s forgotten something.

They’d travelled to her house to grab some things and then back to Harry’s—where he neatly folds whilst she fretfully panics—too manic to be overly helpful.

“Do you think I’ll need my sunglasses?” She gestures with them, spinning them around her finger before proceeding to juggle midair to stop them falling to the floor.

Harry smiles, humming whilst he picks a loose bit of fluff from the jeans he’s folding, “I’d take them, just in case.”

“Won’t you tell me where we’re going?” She tries to round her eyes but Harry sees right through her. “Please?”

“No, darlin’, sorry.” He’s not sorry.

“I can’t believe you’ve known the whole time— when did he tell you? Why won’t you tell me? This is ridiculous…” she scoffs, “trying to send me somewhere when I have no bloody clue where it is I’m going—!”

“Oh, watch out everybody, she’s gearing up.”

“—Yes, I am! Stay clear of me unless you want a…” she hesitates , “a…”

“A knuckle sandwich?” Harry offers.

“A knuckle sandwich, yeah!” holding two small fists out in front of her with misguided intent. “Watch out, mate,” hopping about him like a crazy person.

He lets her, hoping she’ll tire herself out with all the bouncing around. “Okay, pal. I’m not telling you! I’m not sending you off to war, don’t worry, okay?”

She almost snorts. Don’t worry… what a ridiculous notion. “When pigs fly, Harry,” she grumbles.

They’re in better spirits today, evidently—although the morning had been tense. When Y/N had peeled her eyes open and relished in the feeling of Harry wrapping her up, she’d melted even further into the mattress. But that was before consciousness had really hit her, before her brain woke up and went fuck. 

Harry had gone through the same thing about three seconds later, the jolt of Y/N’s remembrance disturbing his slumber. He’d groaned out, rolling onto his back and slinging a forearm over his eyes. Y/N peeked behind her at his bare chest rising and falling slowly. His grumbling voice had made the hairs on her arms stand up.

“Want a coffee?”

“Oh—I’ll do it, Harry.”

“No you won’t, stay there,” slinging his legs over the side of the bed and stretching his arms above his head.

She still couldn’t help but admire the broadness of his back and the way it rippled despite the suspense in the air. “Could I have a tea, please? Actually, can I just come with you?”

He’d looked back at her, dimple carving its place with a small smile. “Alright, fusspot, come on then.”

“Here you go,” Harry passed her a mug, presenting her with the handled side as if he wasn’t casually holding scalding ceramic in his hand.

It toppled out, really, nearly undecipherable as she rushed, “Thankshandsome.”

Harry brought his mug up to his lips, not quite registering what she’s said, and then he paused, “What did you just say?”

Shit, nothing, nothing. “I said thanks, Harry."

“No you didn’t, did you just call me—?”

“—It sounded weird,” a sad frown pulled at her mouth. “I want to be sweet but it sounded so stupid.”

He shook his head, tongue running along his bottom lip to stop himself cheesing. “Say it again.”

She’s flustered. “I—” Harry raised his eyebrows. “...Thank you, handsome.”

“And again?” tongue poking the inside of his cheek.

Clammy hands dragged over her eyes to try and feel invisible. “Thanks, handsome.”

A broad grin stretched out across his face, and Y/N swore she saw the hint of a blush teasing the surface of his cheeks. “I like it,” he said. “You’re welcome, darlin’.” Y/N’s face burned, a nervous roll of her lip between her teeth before Harry reached out to kiss her cheek.

“I’m sorry about yesterday, baby. Really sorry.”

“Wh—?” She grabbed his hand that had found her face, thumb stroking her chin. “Why? It was my fault, I’m sorry. I promised you. I hate that I broke it.”

“You did promise me, yeah. But I didn’t even say hello to you, sweetheart. What kind of arsehole does that? Made you feel like shit. Can’t deny it, I made you cry.”

“But I just felt bad. Because— Because I promised, and you must’ve been so hungry.”

“It was just a curry, pet. No harm done. You made a very gorgeous cake instead. And yeah, I was hungry but no one died. I don’t hate you because you made a mistake. People make mistakes—I made one hundred mistakes last night.”

“Only a few,” she smiled coyly. 

“I’m sorry. I was hungry, and I was tired, and I did all the wrong things. I upset you and it upset me and… I never w’na speak to you like that again. Will you forgive me?”

“I already had,” her voice wobbled, relief flooding her system. Harry wrapped his arms around her shoulders and buried his nose into her hair without a moment of hesitation. “I’m sorry too.”

He hummed. “You know I don’t expect you to cook and clean for me, don’t you? Don’t expect any of that.” She nodded against his chest, forehead rubbing against his bare skin. “Could roll around on the floor all day or pick pretty flowers, as long as you were happy.”

“Stop, you’re making me cry,” a wet sniffle rumbling into his chest.

“You really think I’m handsome?”

She barked out a laugh, pulling back to look into his smiling eyes. “No! I think you’re wretched!”

Now, they pratt about like two high teenagers—giggling about things that could only be funny in these very specific circumstances. Harry insists on pretending to grind on Y/N like he’s been cast in some sort of early two thousands music video, relishing in each fit of shrieky laughter he wins from her, nibbling into her neck and pulling her body into his.

“Harry! You’re supposed to be helping me pack!”

“I am helping.”

“No you’re not!” she laughs.

“Let’s finish it later,” he mumbles into the side of her face, arms squeezing around her middle promisingly. “I’m supposed to be working, you know?” Harry hasn’t set foot in his home office all day.

“You’re the boss,” she argues validly.

“Yeah, I am…” he agrees, keen to keep their bubble from popping. “Will you let me decorate your cake with you?”

Y/N spins around in his arms, face bright as she exclaims, “Yes! Oh my god, yes!”

Harry laughs. “G’na need to make some more frosting, most likely,” smiling like a menace when Y/N’s eyes widen and he can almost feel the heat rising up her face. She glances over to the bowl that is still sat on top of the dresser where Harry moved it the night before. If not for the fact that half of it was used like foundation, then it is most definitely not fresh anymore from its lack of cover.

“Come on, then,” she bites her lip, finding his hand and intertwining their fingers in a bold move of enthusiasm as she coaxes him out of the bedroom and down the stairs.

A beautifully heart shaped cake sits undisturbed on a vintage glass stand, the patterned dome warping the image underneath it. And despite the trouble that said cake caused, Y/N still bounds over to it all smiley, proud like she’s just received a first class distinction for a dissertation she’s slogged over for months.

 Harry watches her fondly, noting the way her lips form around silent words as she lists off all the things she needs to get out of the cupboards. It’s a privilege to get to see someone so comfortably in their element; to pick up on things they don’t even notice about themselves. 

She ushers him over, presenting a wooden spoon for him to take. “You can stir, muscle man,” the cheeky quip settling on Harry’s skin with a buzz as Y/N slowly pours each ingredient into a bowl. Harry does as he’s told, stirring and beating the mixture until the boss deems it good enough.

She wields the palette knife like it’s an extension of her hand, smoothing the frosting over the cake whilst Harry ‘helps’. Y/N did ask if he wanted to do it, but he couldn’t possibly do a subpar job of her favourite process. So he watches from beside her—not too close (“You make me nervous”) but close enough for moral support (“Not that far away!”)—making an effort to hold his breath in case it were to disturb her.

Cakes were never Harry’s dessert of choice but… but. Y/N’s unwavering glee is enough to make him want to request a change in the law that demands cake be granted to all. “Do you like it?” She grins, looking up at Harry to gauge his reaction. And he hardly has to over exaggerate; it is gorgeous.

“Too good to eat, that’s for sure,” he hums, holding her gaze with a twinkle in his eye.

“Wait! It’s not finished,” her face drops as she remembers, frantically hurrying to the fridge to retrieve a punnet of strawberries.

Harry should’ve known. “Nothing is ever finished without strawberries.” It’s a gentle tease, followed by a huff of laughter, shaking his head gently as she cuts them in half to place around the border of the heart, in between soft peaks of piping. 

It’s simple, and it’s sweet, and it’s lovely. Much like Y/N as she habitually holds up a fruit to Harry’s mouth, shrieking and pulling back when he purposefully nips her fingertips. He grins through a chew, fresh, sweet juice shining on his lips.

Then he turns to get some water, presenting Y/N with a perfect opportunity. As he’s filling a glass, letting his mind wander to dinner plans, “Do you fancy spag—” he turns into Y/N’s attack as she strikes. Vanilla buttercream. Vanilla buttercream splattered across his cheek and kissing his eyelashes. 

Y/N gasps, hands coming up to cover her mouth and hide her smile, so bad at pretending to be innocent. Harry says nothing, and then he trails his eyes from the floor to her face… “You little minx,” and he pounces.

The submissive yelps, reaching behind her for the counter—frantic for stabilisation as Harry’s body collides into hers. She’s drowning in giggles, out of breath from the incessance. The bottom of her spine digs into marble, hips swivelling as she desperately tries to reach the bowl. Harry’s laughing, pushing forward to rub his sugary face against hers whilst Y/N wiggles—and when he realises her intent, drops his hands to her hips and tugs her behind brutishly into his front—reaches over her back and elongates a sinewy arm to grasp what she can’t.

A clumsy hand bashes against the ceramic, his free arm wrapping around both of Y/N’s the best he can to incapacitate her as his fingers find frosting. He pulls them back, frenzied in his movements as he carelessly sullies her face, her big puffs of laughter tickling his palm. “Ah!” She squeals, head thrown back against his shoulder to try and escape Harry’s menacing paw. “Ha—ha—Harry! Sto-ho-op!”

“You love it,” he grumbles into her temple, far from irritated but his voice can’t help but dip into that velvety cadence with her body pressed so tight against his. He smushes his palm over her mouth, perfectly riled up when Y/N opens her mouth and slathers her tongue against the sticky skin.

She giggles something unattractive—though it makes Harry’s cock twitch in his sweats. “Fuckin’ love struggling like this, don’t you, doll?” And suddenly the mood shifts, Y/N’s laugh catches in her throat and she garbles out a whine instead, body relaxing in Harry’s hold.

He nudges her forward, encourages the stretch of her body over the countertop and the way her knuckles knock against the ceramic. An unconscious hum rumbles past his lips, tongue poking out to taste the sweetness Y/N left behind.

Deft fingertips tug impatiently at the denim hem of her jeans, forcing the button undone and then the zipper, shifting them down to stretch across her thighs. Y/N pants when she realises that’s all the wiggle room Harry is going to grant her. 

He pauses, “What’s your colour,” uncharacteristically out of breath, hardly poised as a question.

“Green,” Y/N whines in return, trying to wiggle her hips but Harry wraps his fingers through the back of her underwear and pulls. The fabric cuts into the crease of Y/N’s thighs and a shiver wracks through her as the force of it bounces her ass against him—against his bulge. 

His breath hits the shell of her ear as he leans over, taunting and teasing. “Gonna let me fuck you?”

“Yes,” Y/N nods, turning her cheek into the marble to feel the cold spread out across the searing flesh. Her hands form fists, nails digging into her palms—desperate to tug on something but her skin is the only option.

It’s rushed, and it’s frenetic—it’s not the way things usually go and it multiplies Y/N’s excitement tenfold. Her knees wobble without prompt and she’s not sure she’ll be able to hold this position for very long but she doesn’t think she’ll have to. Not when Harry pulls himself out of his sweatpants and slips himself under her panties and through her lips. He’s so hard already, Y/N feels herself wetten from the slightest touch; his weight and his grunt as their bodies meet completely and utterly.

But he’s teasing her, he’s… he’s—

“Harry,” it comes out all whiny and impatient—two things Y/N has never claimed not to be—but with every slant of his hips, every stroke through her arousal and bump of her clit, with her wretched knickers still on, it makes her angry. “Stop—stop teasing me!”

He jerks, unused to such commands toppling from her mouth. “Shh, be good, be quiet,” but complying regardless as he slips her panties down her thighs to stretch just like her jeans. Y/N can’t spread her legs very wide, but that doesn’t stop Harry from pushing at pulling as he pleases—one hand pressing down on her lower back, the other cupping her cunt and smearing her arousal like an artist with a paintbrush. 

Neither of them can stand the idea of foreplay right now; Y/N can feel her sad, empty hole pulsing and clenching around nothing—Harry throbs just the same, slicking her wetness up and around his dick, twisting and tugging at the tip enough to make him leak down his knuckles.

They’re wet enough, shining under the harsh kitchen lights, and yet Harry still pulls at Y/N’s ass, spreading her wide to dribble a thick line of spit onto her puckered hole. She jolts, hips grinding unceremoniously against the counter as she feels his saliva drool down to her glistening cunt and Harry’s thumb chase it. He coos and hisses at the bang, smoothing over her hip with his other hand as he starts to rub circles over her.

“Oh—!” It’s impossible not to writhe under the foreign feeling, exposed and wet, trapped by her own jeans. Her forehead falls down, clashing against the marble but Y/N hardly feels it. All she can feel is the pad of Harry’s thumb and the heat it burns into her body—the seeping between her thighs the longer he plays, and the teasing bumps and brushes of his cock against her rounded flesh.

“Shh, that’s it. Good girl.”

And she withers. She disintegrates right in front of Harry’s eyes.

“Pretty girl with a pretty ass, hm? ‘s that feel good, darlin’?”

“Mm, please I—”

“I know, shh—shh,” thudding himself against her firmly, guiding the tip up and down her slick, pushing in to watch her stretch and swallow before leaning back again. Pushing in—pulling out. His thumb applies the slightest of pressure, not enough to send panic clattering up Y/N’s spine but enough to mollify her very being. The sensation—the teasing—of intrusion without the worry of it. The taboo nature of experiencing such pleasure in such places. 

When Harry pushes in all the way, Y/N nearly collapses, whimpering into the counter. She can feel him in her fucking throat, she’s sure of it. Every ridge, every vein, the nudge of his head, his slit kissing her walls. And Harry spews all that he can without saying the words themselves.

“Love your fucking cunt, love this—fucking gorgeous body.” His voice thins out to a gravelly whisper, “Were you made just for me, sweetheart?” hips slapping against rippling flesh, palm smoothing up her back to weave into tendrils of hair as his thumb remains encircling. Y/N tries to reply; all that procures are pitiful cries of exertion, air punched out of her lungs with every thrust. “Waiting patiently for me to find you.”

It’s such a romantic sentiment that she finds herself welling up—perhaps easily understood by the overstimulation of her entire vessel but it feels deeper than that. It feels intimate irregardless of their current position. A limp hand flops against her lower back, tired elbow joints aching, searching for its partner—searching for its missing puzzle piece. And when Harry’s fingers slot into place… it forms the whole, pretty picture.

“Love, need you to—” a pause as though he’s forgotten the words as he says them. “Need you to relax. Gripping me so tight—not g’na last.”

But Harry’s sentiment calms her none, she clenches around him even tighter—suddenly tunnel visioned for one thing and one thing only. It’s an amalgamation of wet noises attempting to form syllables, “Pleasecome, pleasecome, please—” Inside, she wants it inside. 

“God, baby, you’re so wet,” Harry’s hips stutter, digits squeezing hers even tighter, thumb slipping away to slink around her front and frame two fingers on either side of her cunt, pinching her clit ever so slightly. It makes her shudder, mouth far too numb to feel the drool that strings down onto the counter.

“Mhm, mhm,” pushing back with all the strength she can muster, bum lifting to meet Harry’s pelvis. “Daddy.”

“Okay, darlin’, it’s okay. Need you to come f’me,” framing fingers coming together to form the perfect swipes over her clit—the extra stimulation she needs to just push her over the edge and send her toppling. He feels the way she starts to throb, feels the way the muscles in her legs lock, keeps rubbing to carry her through as her weak whimpers trail into wet sobs.

Y/N practically loses consciousness as her orgasm hits her; squeezes Harry’s hand so tight he hisses for reasons other than his strangled cock. Her knees buckle and her limbs lose competence. Harry moves both hands to her waist, hauling her up and onto her toes as he quickens his pace, lewd slicking and the thud of their bodies the only sounds to ever exist.

And she keeps squeezing, the aftershocks strong enough to pull Harry with her, to force him to slip out frantically before painting stripe after stripe onto her ass, her back. She shakes her head against the hard countertop—never before has she felt such a jarring loss, such a painful transition. Inside, she wanted it inside.

Harry stands behind her, slowly tugging, squeezing out every last drop onto her skin. His legs don’t quite shake like Y/N’s but the exertion, the overwhelming orgasm has his head spinning a bit. But not when he registers his submissive’s wet face, drenched in sweat and tears alike, unable to be peeled from where it lays heavily on the counter. He wisens up entirely, cooing soft, easily digestible words as he cleans her skin with a soft tissue. Swipes in between her legs slowly, careful to avoid unwanted pressure, and straightens her back as thought he might have broken it.

Her eyes are glossy, not fully present but it doesn’t bother him. She looks tired, pupils tracking his face with a lag. But tired means he’s done his job well, tired means all other thoughts fail to penetrate. 

They could do with a shower, a sleep, a good meal… but Harry can’t deny the desire to just sit with her for a moment. To untuck a less than comfortable stool and hold her on his lap, chin nestled against her neck. To kiss mindlessly along the slope of her shoulder and massage his fingers into her scalp, to have her doze off on top of him, completely void of tension.

And when she wakes up, he’ll let her eat cake for lunch.

Harry hopes he doesn’t appear too grumpy on the drive to Niall’s. He’s just… well he is grumpy, because he’s going to miss Y/N. And it dawns on him on that journey, just how much he’s going to fucking miss her.

It shouldn’t be so hard to tell her—not when he feels it so fervently. Maybe it makes Harry selfish for wanting her to say it first but he tells himself that’s why he’s waiting. Not because he’s worried but because he wants Y/N to be brave. 

And it weighs on him, every goodbye being void of those three little words. It weighs on him but it still doesn’t mean he says it any sooner. 

Y/N buzzes beside him, practically vibrating in her seat. She turns her seat warmer on, adjusts the aircon, switches the radio station, turns her seat warmer off, rummages around in Harry’s glove box for nothing in particular.

She’s nervous. She’s excited but she’s nervous—and even a blind man would be able to tell. Harry lovingly wishes he maybe could be blind, or better deaf, as she prattles on; terminally diagnosed with verbal diarrhoea as he ums and ahs to appease her. He stopped listening when she started rattling off facts about pigeons (pigeons, for Christ’s sake), focusing intently on the road alongside his own internal battles.

Harry doesn’t mean to suggest he doesn’t enjoy her borderline insanity—he does—he’s head over heels in love with her insanity. She entertains him thoroughly without even trying to and he thinks he could only list on one hand the times he hasn’t been completely endeared with her. 

But he can forgive himself for zoning about when it comes to pigeon facts, no matter how interesting it may be that the species were entirely domesticated, and then abandoned by humans.

“I need a wee,” she complains, shifting her seat belt so it stops pressing into her bladder.

“‘s alright, only five minutes away.”

“I know,” she whinges, starting to tug at the hem of her sleeve. Harry sees her incessant fiddling out of the corner of his eye, placing his upturned hand on her thigh as a silent ask for her own. Y/N takes the bait, and a calm settles over them. 

When they pull up outside Niall’s place, he’s leaning against the hood of his car, squinting at his phone. At the sound of tires over gravel he looks up and grins, elation taking over his face. And however desperate Y/N might have been to go to the bathroom, and no matter how excited her friend is, she doesn’t dare to rush getting out of the car.

She slings her arms around Harry’s neck, bidding farewell as if she’s going abroad and not just an hour away. But Harry doesn’t laugh, he hugs her back just as tight, inhaling the freshness of her skin—desperate to keep her scent with him until she gets back. He presses kisses into the side of her head, warm palm rubbing her lower back—usually he might be reassuring her with gentle words but right now he can’t find it within himself to do so.

He doesn’t want her to go.

And he’s a grown, adult man—not some lovesick teenager. She’s going for three days. THREE. But Harry still hasn’t said I love you and each departure feels more and more dangerous.

“You’re gonna have such a lovely time,” he pulls back to kiss her cheek and her lashes flutter like little butterfly wings. A knuckle down the bridge of her nose and teasingly flicking underneath to make her giggle. “Text me when you arrive, okay?”

“Yeah,” she hums, less than subtly leaning in, hoping he’ll kiss her like they do in the movies. An incapacitating kind of kiss. And Harry delivers like it’s his profession, devouring hands overwhelming in their cradle of her head, directing her movements as he teases the corner of her mouth with a gentle press of his lips. He wishes he could take more time. He wishes Niall weren’t right outside the fucking window probably simpering at the sight. He wishes he could give her more than just a chaste sponging of their mouths, followed by a flurry of departing pecks. 

He wishes he could just say the fucking words.

A knock sounds from behind Harry’s head—knuckles on glass—and the muffled sound of Niall’s teasing, “Get a move on, you two! We’ve got to leave today,” and Harry meets Y/N’s gaze, rolling his eyes obnoxiously whilst she laughs. Their bubble has been popped, and she’s opening the car door, bounding over to her friend all foolishly as she playfully berates him. Harry’s mouth curls up into a small smile, sliding out of the car and silently getting Y/N’s suitcase whilst amusedly shaking his head.

He even gets a coy, “Thanks, handsome,” a twinkle in Y/N’s eye as she embarrasses herself in front of Niall to make Harry’s heart jump. The two men hug and pat one another on the back, exchanging pleasantries and agreeing that it’s been too long. But it’s unnecessary to hang around, and Niall makes some comment about how he needs to take care of something he’d nearly forgotten, so Harry pulls himself away and tries not to watch Y/N in the rearview mirror as he pulls back out onto the road.

It follows him around for the rest of the day, his lack of courage, of flexibility. The fact that a more than capable CEO—a dominant—couldn’t say I love you to his partner. He’s not embarrassed, no it runs deeper than insecurity, but he’s frustrated. And Harry has never been irrational but perhaps Y/N has been rubbing off on him because he finds himself starting to panic.

What if there’s an accident? There’s an accident and Harry never gets to tell her… He has to stop those thoughts before he finds himself calling her up to demand her life status, and then again thirty minutes later, and another thirty minutes. But it’s not so irrational, he can’t help but believe. Accidents happen all the time—and Harry can’t stand going any longer without telling her how bleak his life would be without her.

It doesn’t help to scroll through social media. A fucking philosophy. Not when life starts showing you godforsaken signs. A friend getting married here, a newborn baby there. Everyone coupled up and happy—basking in love without boundaries. Love without hesitation and fear. Harry wants to give that to Y/N. He has that love for Y/N, and he’s positive she has it for him too.

So he exits out of Instagram and starts to look through his own personal social media—his camera roll. Harry has more photos on his phone of Y/N than he does his parents, his sister, his friends. The folder he’s titled simply with her name holds a number of images that might indicate he harbours strong feelings for the girl.

In their short but staggering relationship, thus far, Harry has taken seventy two photographs of Y/N. More if he were to count the ones he deleted after a panicked spam to capture the moment before it passed. He swipes through them slowly—one of Y/N asleep in his bed, naked back pretty in the morning light. One of her sitting across from him at their favourite café, caught off guard in an authentic smile that he can never get out of her when he asks her to pose. He treasures that one. A photo of her laying on lucious grass, arms and legs spread out like she is trying to make some sort of snow angel without the snow. A photo of her wet from the pool, droplets littering her skin as she sunbathes unaware—and then a subsequent photo of when she spotted Harry with his phone directed at her, and scrunched her nose up in disgust. He’d looked at that one for ages.

He wonders what she’s doing now. Knows they arrived not long ago, from her bubbly text message adorned in exclamation marks and emojis. Wishes he could’ve seen her reaction when they pulled up outside the place—a luxury health spa. The perfect place for a neurotic who has an affinity for smelling and feeling nice. She had sent him screenshots; the reaction she’d had over text when Niall admitted to her how he’d booked their visit.

Y/N this room is incredible omg how did you get us in here with such short notice?

Niall right??? don’t need a spa just need this bedroom I BOOKED IT IN HARRY’S NAME LOL no I’m kidding, I’m kidding… okay, I’m not kidding but I phoned him straight afterwards I knew he’d be fine with it  I paid him for my room and stuff don’t worry desperate times called for desperate measures and I knew his name would get us a stay

Y/N NIALL YOU ARE INSANE YOU CAN’T DO THAT how did you have his card details what the hell??? actually don’t tell me i don’t want to be liable by association when you get arrested or whatever

Niall aiding and abetting? is what it’s called, I think ANYWAY YOU WORRY TOO MUCH HARRY IS FINE WITH IT now HURRY UP!!!!! I want to go the in hot tub 😋 in the*

She’d followed the photos up with thank you, harry. wish you were here to enjoy it too x—and it had only made him miss her more.

Y/N and Niall's luxurious long weekend goes by too quickly. And despite her words being true—that she wished Harry could be with them—Niall, unsurprisingly keeps Y/N wonderfully distracted. It’s a relief that she hasn’t become insufferable since dating someone. That she hasn’t turned into one of those people who bring up their partner in every. single. conversation. That she’s not just moping around waiting to go home and ruining Niall’s enjoyment. Y/N actually finds herself to be… content. 

Yes, she misses Harry. She misses sleeping in his bed, in his arms. She misses walking into a room and seeing him just existing. But it doesn’t stop her from lounging in the hot tub with Niall and giggling over gossip. It doesn’t stop her from going to a pilates class and instantly regretting it. It doesn’t stop her from getting a massage so good she nearly falls asleep—although she may admit to pretending the woman administering the massage is in fact her dominant, with suddenly much smaller hands—but that’s neither here nor there.

And when Monday morning rolls around, she’s loose-limbed and fresh-faced—and very much excited about seeing Harry again. What she doesn’t know is that he’s been excited about seeing her again since he dropped her off… and is having the closest thing to a mental breakdown over their lack of communication. 

He wakes up disgruntled; a night of tossing and turning and bags slowly procuring under his eyes. He wakes up and showers. He eats and he glances over his emails. He’ll be ‘working’ from home today, without a doubt. 

It feels as though the only thing that can capture his attention is the clock—each hand ticking slower than the last. Y/N won’t be home until midday at least, but Harry can’t find himself able to concentrate on anything else.

It seems the universe has it out for him, when he switches the television on and Y/N’s favourite rom com blares through the speakers. During her favourite scene, of course. He wants to switch it off—not through distaste but through yearing—through painful reminder. But he can’t; not only because he adores the movie too but because the scene in which Y/N loves so much is just that. The climax of the film, the moment everybody has been waiting for—the love confession.

“For fuck’s sake,” he curses to the empty room. Because it’s typical, isn’t it? That coincidence would strike at this moment in time. That out of all the channels and all the TV shows, the films that could’ve been on at eleven thirty on a Monday morning, it’s this one. He doesn’t really watch it. He’s seen it enough times to know what happens. But it helps him decide something. It helps him ignore any and all previous stances on the matter—fuck making her say it first. 

Harry knows she loves him and he gets in his car to tell her so, leaving the television murmuring quietly—two besotted characters lost in an embrace to the sound of his front door clicking shut.

Niall drops Y/N home at approximately the same time Harry leaves his. Of course, Y/N doesn’t know this, and she would’ve appreciated a warning—maybe the chance to have a cup of tea and unpack her case first. But she’s feeling vibrantly recuperated—thoroughly pampered and sucked into the blissful dreamworld of a weekend at a spa, and it hardly crosses her mind to question why Harry turns up so chaotically.

Why he knocks on her door instead of just coming straight in, why he tugs her into him as though she’s just been rescued, why he pulls back just to ask a less than sensical question. "Why won't you say it to me?"

Perplexed silence. Y/N's fingertips linger on the door handle as she tumbles back from his embrace, her gait once relaxed and happy—now stiff and unsure. Somewhere in the back of her mind she thinks Harry’s just wasted all of his money paying for that long weekend.

"Harry?" It hasn't clicked yet, what he's talking about, but it still sits heavy in her gut—heavy and unanswered.

"Why won't you say it, darling?" He looks desperate... it doesn't compliment him well; it makes Y/N nervous. Harry is a suit without creases, shining shoes, perfect hair kind of man, but right now he vibrates on her doorstep in two day old sweats and hand combed locks. In fact, he can't seem to keep his fingers out of those runnels—creating new ones with each breath Y/N's voice fails to break the silence.

"Say what?" She practically begs it. Say what? Please, please, please. Tell me, let it be okay, let it be simple. "I'll say anything you want, Harry," it doesn't evade her that perhaps she should hear him out first. But it's as she whispers the commitment that she realises it. That she would say anything he wanted to hear… for Harry, Y/N would perform absurdities.

Usually shimmering jade now refuses to glisten in the light, green from a marsh or a bog. Y/N misses the viridescence. Harry releases a breath, lashes swatting heavily against his under eye. "You know, you— I need you to know."

And then… suddenly, she does. Suddenly, she’s kidding herself if she pretends she doesn’t know. It clicks—it clicks and Y/N’s heart stutters. This is cruel of Harry, so cruel. He sent her away to relax and now he’s setting up something fanciful just to make a mockery of her.

“That’s not fair,” she wobbles, in word and posture. Her knees start to feel weak, her chest tightens, the image of Harry before her—still hovering outside—starts to thicken. Y/N takes a step back, and Harry one forward. He shuts the door behind him, free from the chill of the wind, now trapped inside.

“Not fair? What do you mean?”

This—this isn’t how Harry talks, this exasperation, this urgency. He takes care of her, he tells her what she means when she speaks. Y/N doesn’t figure that out on her own. Harry always… he always knows. Why doesn’t he know?

Y/N turns her back on him when the corners of her eyes start to burn. A pathetic breakdown of emotion, she thinks. “You must know I’ve just been waiting… waiting for the day. Been so patient, my love. Please talk to me.”

“I can’t,” her words swallow one another, throat thick and wet. 

Harry rushes round to see her, his eyebrows uncomfortably pulled towards the centre of his face. There’s a migraine brewing behind his eyes. “Yes, you can. You can, darling,” chilled palms hold her head up. Y/N wants to shake them off but the temptation is smothered the mere second it arrives. “What are you so afraid of? S’just me.”

“Can’t—can’t… can’t,” scalding tears tip over her waterline, streaming down and over the knuckles of Harry’s thumbs as they brush over her quivering cheeks. She inhales a shaky, shallow breath. “Need you. Need to keep it—this—safe.”

“Why wouldn’t it be safe, Y/N?”

“I’ll ruin it, I’ll—I’m not—” she closes her eyes, “You can’t possibly—”

“—Love you?”

The mere suggestion of it punches the air from her lungs. Despite the fact he’s not saying it to her, it might as well have the same effect. She shakes her head, dislodging a tear.

“I love you, Y/N.” She shakes her head harder. “I love you so much.”

“No,” it’s a thick, ugly cry. “You can’t, I’m— I’m no good, I’m annoying.”

And Harry… Harry does something borderline offensive. Harry laughs in her face. He laughs loudly and he laughs boldly, carving out a crease in between Y/N’s eyebrows.

“I love you,” he says again. And he feels so, so miraculously light, after fretting over it for so long. After hearing her only excuse be that she doesn’t feel deserving of it… well. Harry doesn’t think that’s so hard to help her with, after all. “I love you.”

“Stop,” she weeps, face begging to hide but Harry’s hands hold it up. He’s just a blur before her.

“Hey, hey,” the pads of his thumbs are soaked but that doesn’t stop him from trying to wipe her face. “Look at me—come on, pretty girl, that’s it.” Y/N can feel her bottom lip wobbling. “Do you remember… a few weeks ago, when you were upset—”

Y/N snorts—she can’t help herself—the self-loathe overrules.

“—Oi. Yes, I know, don’t say it. You were upset and you accidentally dropped that plate, yeah? You remember? And I bought you flowers and you felt bad the next day because you didn’t notice?”

Yes. Yes, she remembers that. She’d felt so bad. So embarrassed when she’d asked him where they’d come from, and he’d admitted he wanted to give them to her yesterday when he got home. Too wrapped up in her own despair to realise—too selfish, and dramatic, and ridiculous—

“Hey—don’t think about it, I’m not— I mean,” he stops and sighs, rakes his hand through the back of her hair. “I buy you flowers with meaning, yeah? Yellow tulips, white gardenias…” Y/N nods slowly, confused but fond of the memory of those yellow tulips indefinitely. “Those flowers I bought a few weeks ago… they were red roses, baby. They symbolise love—they mean I love you. And I was going to tell you if you’d asked but… well, it didn’t happen—And I’m not blaming you, I’m not, but I can’t not say it anymore. And I need you to want to say it back to me darling.”

Y/N starts crying again—she never exactly stopped but the tears had paused momentarily to allow Harry his room to speak. But now? Now they’re under no semblance of control. She paws at his t-shirt, words garbled but he knows what she’s saying, “I love you, Harry. I love you s-so much,” and it’s never sounded more beautiful. It’s a mess, and it’s far from romantic—snot and tears coalescing into one big disaster—but Harry still kisses her.

He kisses her and he smiles, laughing when she laughs through her sobs—saying it over, and over, and over again. “I love you,” he whispers, and she echoes it back through waves of emotion. “You’re it for me, you know that?” And Y/N can’t bear to hear it. She’ll still struggle to believe him, for many months to come, they’re both sure.

“But—” she pulls back, swipes furiously at her face with no impact, “—the roses— they died, Harry. Does that mean your love died with them?” It’s a ridiculous notion; of course Harry laughs. “Shut up!”

“I didn’t say anything!” He’s grinning, and Y/N can’t help but mirror his expression. How could she stop her lips from twitching upwards at such a sight? Harry tugs her to his chest, squeezes her so tight she might just get stuck there, and holds her for as long as it takes for their heartbeats to return to normal.

And when they do, he tucks his lips against the top of her head and asks, “Does this mean you’ll quit your job now?”

Y/N takes a moment to ponder her reply… and then he… he feels her smile into his chest before she leans back and looks up with the prettiest, cheekiest, little grin, “Maybe,” ducking out of his embrace and starting to slowly waddle backwards, “if you can catch me.”

Harry doesn’t even do her the courtesy of a head start.

#harry styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles smut #harry styles one shots #harry styles blurbs #harry styles angst #harry styles fluff #harry styles fanfiction #domrry #writing #mutually beneficial #dom!harry

[yandere-toons]

Matthew Patel

Romantic Headcanons – Yandere

WARNING: violence, death, implied stalking, mentions of religious concepts, toxic mindset.

From the moment you invite Matthew into your life, he will carry that memory to his deathbed. The bond you forged that day is unbreakable and immortal for him: he will go blind to all other reasons for living, consumed with rage at your absence, and ecstatic at any sign of your favour.

Talk of other suitors sends Matthew into a frenzy from which he will not emerge until this obstacle to his happiness is laid low. Dispute over the value of certain traits leaves Matthew resentful—of himself for not being better, of the other person for possessing what he lacks, and of the universe for cursing him with such horrid luck.

When such a person speaks your name, Matthew is driven by his own insecurities to loathe them. The sound of their voice becomes like a cheese grater to his ears, a reminder of how close he is to losing his world for the second time, and from thence into a sound he will fight to the death to silence.

The look of this person, particularly when they light up at the mere mention of you and receive such a look in kind, is a ghastly thing. Matthew's takeaway is one of doubt and bad memories, of all the similarities to Ramona's waning interest that he had been too immature and inattentive to rectify. He vows not to make the same mistake twice.

Seemingly overnight, Matthew transforms from a brooding presence lurking in your shadow to a wellspring of offers to solve even the smallest of issues. He makes a habit of dropping to one knee and delivering a Pagliacci-esque soliloquy about how deep his affection runs, professing that you've become his whole world and that to lose you would leave him with nothing.

Despite your promise not to "betray" him, as Matthew so graciously puts it, he fears it would be a mistake to let his guard down. He believes you were sincere at the time, but Ramona's flippant attitude has left him anxious that you may change your tune and turn your back on him for no apparent reason.

For years, Matthew sought answers as to why she hurt him: on bad days, he blames her for playing with his emotions; on worse days, he blames himself for not trying hard enough to become someone she wanted. Now that he has another shot at human connection, this earth will burn before it slips away from him.

Matthew's actions arise from a peculiar sense of justice: he views himself as retribution sent down upon all those who have wronged you. By daring to replace him, their way of looking after you is inherently and unforgivably flawed. Someone who could, in reality, be quite decent will devolve in his mind into a parasite who takes advantage of you.

Whether they are cruel or kind-hearted, what obsesses Matthew and keeps him stewing for potentially years is the notion that they've robbed him of his one chance at happiness. So long as they keep you company, he sees his future darkening.

What should be a private affair, Matthew turns into a spectacle: he takes to the stage in his most flamboyant attire and declares war, goading his enemy to meet their doom at his hand. Everything, from the venue to the battle itself, is a power play, a performance art in which he displays his prowess for all to admire and envy.

Once he has struck the first blow, there is no version of events where Matthew shows mercy or admits defeat. The harder they fight, the prouder he is to butcher them. Their death will be a triumph, a testament to the fact that he is strong enough to win this war. Anyone who rolls over in the face of his challenge must not be truly committed to you and therefore deserves to feel his wrath for stringing you along.

Coming to over the shiny remains of his enemy, Matthew forgets his rage and revells in the thought of having the sole being who brings him happiness. Ready to pick up where he left off and confident he's earned that right, Matthew throws himself at you and proclaims how thrilled he is to be together again.

Matthew struggles to move beyond the past and to envision a future where he is alone. Having spent much of his life pursuing others, Matthew has no concept of living for himself. He stakes his survival on the volume of applause at the end of every performance, and in the home environment, his tendency to cling to petty recognition has taken root in all interactions.

This emotional hunger reveals itself in the unnecessary extremes to which Matthew proves his devotion, convinced that the obsequious nature of his company and continual sacrifices gives them meaning. He jumps at every opportunity to be near you, no exceptions, afraid that missing even one will be termed neglect and spell the ruin of his life with you.

At his best, Matthew is an unrelenting thespian who serenades you with ballads and calligraphic poetry. But at his worst, he is an unstable and violent creature full of pent-up rage, who conspires with Daemonettes to bind your soul to his, making it virtually impossible to give him up for another.

Do anything you want with my work, but never make me boring!

#Matthew Patel #Scott Pilgrim #Scott Pilgrim vs the World #Scott Pilgrim Takes Off #Imagines #Reader Insert #Yandere #X Reader #Yandere x Reader #Yandere Imagines #Yandere x You #Yandere Headcanons #Gender Neutral Reader #Scott Pilgrim x Reader #Matthew Patel x Reader #Yandere Scott Pilgrim #Yandere Matthew Patel #Yandere Writing #Fanfiction

[popponn]

a bit of red. [childe x reader]

summary: your nose was bleeding. all while Tartaglia never once looked away.

notes: childe is a feral battle maniac but has traits of a genuinely good husband material. the mix is a funny fatui guy. those are the only thoughts that exist as i write this down. warnings: light blood and injuries, sfw, blood licking, reader and childe’s relationship is best described as "complicated frenemies with something going on", reader’s gender unspecified.

“Oh, they got your face, huh?” Tartaglia asked, cheerful in a very wrong manner as he put a hand on your shoulder.

Without sparing him a glance, you could already feel the taunting smile in his tone. You gave him a muffled grunt as a reply, your hand still busy rubbing your bleeding nose as you glared at your own feet. You really should have paid more attention to that one guy with big wood.

Also, why didn't Traveler tell you she also asked for the Eleventh Harbinger's help for today? You really weren’t in the mood to spend alone time with him for—

“—are you listening?”

A hand grabbed your chin—rough and quick, yet not harsh enough to hurt you—pulling your head to turn to your side where Tartaglia had already stared at you with an unamused frown plastered on his face. You knew, logically, you should have slapped his hand away and gotten ready for combat—you have enough brain to remember that Tartaglia is a seasoned fighter and a shady person meshed into one no matter how friendly he acts towards you. Yet, at the same time, you found yourself blanking out the moment you met his eyes.

“Really, don't you at least know that you shouldn't rub your nose when it's bleeding? That's common sense, you know,” Tartaglia said to you. It felt like he was scolding you like a child.

You, whose head was still filled only with empty statics, could only reply to him with a dumbfounded blink. “Huh?”

Tartaglia raised an eyebrow, his face still wearing the uncharacteristically serious expression. “Come on—they didn’t hit your head that hard, did they? It was only a wood to your face, I had hit you with something harder than that.”

Which wasn't wrong. He pretty much already threw lightning bolts and hydro blades to your face numerous times during your regular scuffles with him.

“I…” you opened your mouth. You wanted to defend yourself, but you had to acknowledge the fact that what you did was indeed pretty dumb. “…I was not thinking.”

Hearing your response, Tartaglia looked at you exasperatedly. It should be insulting, considering it's Tartaglia—but seeing the obvious fondness in his face, you found yourself once again being unable to react much. Or perhaps, it was because of how you had come to notice that his hand had moved away from your chin, when he pressed his thumb lightly and softly against the skin above your lips, wiping off the blood that still trickled down from your nose with a lopsided smile befitting of his charming, youthful face. A few moments passed, and you continued to let him without any chirp of complaints.

Then, slowly, at some point, that smile shifted into a different one—wider, sharper—as his eyes darkened without moving away from your profile. “…well, the blood does suit you though.”

“Hu—?!”

Within a second, there was a mouth and a pair of lips on your face, right above your lips and below your nose, as you felt a hand forcefully drag you forward by your collars. It happened so quickly, sparing you not even a second to react as a tongue—Tartaglia’s—slithered out and licked a few droplets of blood off your face, smearing out some of them in the process. Your eyes were wide open as Tartaglia pushed his face against yours and dragged his lips down. Ending whatever the fuck he did with a light peck on your lips.

And when you finally find it in yourself to breathe and blink once again, Tartaglia’s face was already somewhere further away from yours. You still tried to process what just happened when you spotted the self-satisfied look he wore—not too full of his brand of odd brightness, all while the way he licked at his lips and wiped the leftover red away with his fingers told you enough. Faintly, you could still feel the heat of his hand from the tight grip he let remain on your clothes.

Tartaglia looked at the almost invisible red on his gloves for another moment. Silent with a look you were not quite ready to decipher just yet. Your whole body still stood stiff, frozen by something that was both surprising and pleasant that crawled through from the insides of your spine.

This was not the first time for the both of you to have your lips smashed against each other—but this would be the first time Tartaglia wore a look like that when doing so.

Good Archons.

“What the fuck, Childe.” You snarled at him, almost spitting in every syllable. You glared harshly at him, deciding to focus more on the stunt he just pulled instead of humoring the stupid thoughts your head was starting to come up with. You were not dealing with that when there were unconscious treasure hoarders laying around you in some foreign nation’s wilderness.

Tartaglia, hearing the way you angrily called him by his title, finally seemed to be back from whatever odd trance he just had. Within a blink, his expression switched into one that was far more innocent. A few creases away from confusion, but at least he still had enough decency to manage out a nervous laugh as he let go of your clothes. Still carrying his usual air of confidence, he rubbed the back of his head and offered you his usual smile—secretive and untelling no matter how sweet it looked.

“Wow—okay. I mean, sorry. I don’t know what suddenly got over me—ha ha ha!” Tartaglia apologized as if he was some adorable first date who got too much into the heat of the moment and kissed you. It would have been much cuter if he was not some rascal who just licked the blood on your face. As if it truly was something out of adolescent impulsiveness, Tartaglia took out a handkerchief and offered it to you. “Here, here—let me wipe that blood off you for a bit. Want me to press on your nose for you too? Oh, wait, do you need to sit—”

“That was disgusting. That's common sense,” you spat at him without making an attempt to stop him from dabbing his expensive silk handkerchief on your face, letting the young Harbinger step into your space once again.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I really am! I really wanted to help you—I didn't mean for it go to like that!” Tartaglia insisted nonchalantly, repeating his apology as he swiped the fabric across your nose and cheeks. “But, yeah.”

You glared harder at his sudden pause, “But, yeah—what?”

“It really looks good on you,” Tartaglia said, breathlessly and honestly, never once stopping from tending your face as if he was caressing you. A sincere smile—resembling a loving one yet not quite one—etched itself on his lips as a shadow of something flashed along with it. Once again, it nearly stunned you again.

If only it wasn’t about you having a nosebleed.

Trying your best to not take a sharp, angry deep breath, you decided to grit your teeth instead. There were certainly many different thoughts that heat up your whole head for many each their own reasons. However, first thing first—

“Okay, we are done!” Tartaglia loudly cheered as he pulled his hand away from you, taking a few steps back away whilst looking at you like some proud handiwork.

“Thanks,” you blandly said, before turning and walking away, “now, let's go. We still have a few more camps to do for Lumine.”

Following your steps easily, Tartaglia returned to his place beside you prior and nodded enthusiastically at the thought of more fight. “Right! Aah—hope the next one is—”

Coldly, you cut him off, still walking calmly beside him, “Tartaglia.”

“Hm? What?”

“For the next camp, go get injured or something.”

Tartaglia made an offended noise at your suggestion. “Hey, I said sorry already! No need to—”

“I will make sure to return the previous favor when you bleed,” you said, cutting him off again without a hint of joke in your tone. Your eyes stared straight at his startled ones.

Tartaglia held the look of rare surprise for another few seconds. He seemed to be truly caught off guard—but not for long, as with a barking laugh, he returned your words with a wide grin you had seen he wore numerous times in every battle the two of you shared. “Is that so?”

You silently cursed at Lumine once more for making you keep working together with him. Many times enough that you could reply unflinchingly. “Of course. So go ahead—do something funny.”

“Will bleeding from any place work? Is it only for one wound or is it for every wound I get?” he asked, interest displayed clearly in his tone. Of course, the battle maniac had started to treat this like some recreational excursion. “I’m quite sturdy, you know.”

You didn't even try to humor whatever he truly meant by those. As the next camp and chest came into view, you spared him a glance, eyeing him through your peripheral.

“I wonder,” you said. “Depends on my mood and how funny you were, maybe.”

“Oh, really,” Tartaglia mocked out a swoon, readying his blades as they formed in his hands. “You truly are the best sometimes.”

#genshin impact x reader #genshin imagines #genshin x reader #genshin impact #genshin scenarios #childe #tartaglia #genshin ajax #childe x reader #tartaglia x reader #ajax x reader #genshin childe #i love you since 1.1 and i still wonder why is your name so many #this wasn't how i plan to debut a genshin man but here we are. this is a warm up piece that got a bit out of hand #anyway i miss him so much already ue ue ue

[wyyvernn]

SFW Headcanons - Haytham Kenway & Shay Patrick Cormac

A/n: Little Haytham and Shay things and mannerisms that they do with or without their S/O. Sfw but there is a soft mention of Shay being naughty HAHAHA

Haytham

- Gives no reaction to distaste or disgust except the slight wrinkle of his nose or creasing of his brows to something that displeases him.

- Often clasps his hands behind his back, it is one of his most signature mannerisms. Others include standing tall with his back as straight as a board, and you can see the pride and arrogance dripping off his form. Coughs into his fist after winning an argument.

- Haytham has only a few he cares about or becomes interested in, and in truth those who don't come under that list, he barely notices, maybe even shrugs them off.

- If his S/O has poor posture or slouches a lot, then he lightly scolds them, tells them that it's not good for their back, and he will promptly give them lessons on how to stand straighter, walk with confidence, walk with purpose etc. And he will smile just the slightest when progress has been made.

- On the topic of love languages, Haytham believes that actions do more than words. So little acts of service like opening the door for you and allowing you to pass through first, or actively seeking out an item that you lost some time ago becomes somewhat of a thing for him to do in his free time. (Yes, I'm referencing that one time when he hunted all throughout Boston to find Benjamin Franklin's missing almanac pages.) Quality time is something he seeks out with his S/O too, the fact that he can be around you brings him silent joy. He doesn't even need to be touching you, you could be in the same room together and reading book on opposite sides and he's content.

- Carries a handkerchief to wipe the blood off his sword after impaling an enemy. And he cleans it off with elegance like he didn't just slaughter the fuck out of a man.

- Flashes his enemies a smile but it's more taunting and filled with condescension than the ones he sends his S/O, which are warm and kind. Either contain some kind of purpose, mostly his face is unreadable and lacking in emotion.

- Tips his hat like a gentleman to any lady he passes, and his lips curl up just a tad when he watches them blush and walk by him. He knows that he has that effect on women.

- Will not tolerate disrespect towards him or his S/O and it's one of the few things that triggers a physical reaction from him. Although, the most he will do is shove the offending person against a wall with an iron grip, his piercing eyes darkening as he lectures their ears off. Makes sure you're alright afterwards.

- His scent is like smoky wood fire combined with the hidden notes of something that's quite difficult to place but it's a charming smell, and very distinctive. So distinctive, in fact, that you would know when he turns a corner just by catching a small whiff of him.

Shay

- Lets his S/O take the helm of the Morrigan sometimes, especially when he sees them so excited. He'll step away and allow them to grip the wheel before coming up from behind and placing his hands over theirs, guiding you to steer the ship.

- Yes, that funny little bed in his cabin does get used and not just for sleeping. On more than one occasion has Shay dragged you by your arm to his cabin when his crew were too occupied in a tavern.

- Has a habit of showing off, particularly when he was an Assassin. Now he's less boisterous, less boyish but he maintains some of those traits and it really is quite charming, if a little laughable when he flexes his muscles at you after hunting a shark.

- More perceptive than others give him credit for, I think he pays attention to many things in the environment, might smile at a bird's nest or grin when he notices a whale.

- A passionate man, will absolutely ruin the person who insults him or his S/O. He's quicker to anger than Haytham, more reckless but it's something endearing even if gets a bit too much. Shay means well.

- Loves languages of his include physical touch. He cannot keep his hands off his S/O and they often find his palm wandering down from their waist to grip their rear, which earns him a light smack on his chest but he grins and shrugs it off. Sometimes he pulls them in his lap when he's going over plans for the Morrigan. I think he's very fond of quality time as well to the point that he's ecstatic that his S/O is by his side on his ship always. Oddly enough, there are many things to do on the open sea that don't involve just steering a wheel and looking at all the pretty little fish.

- Strangely, he wears a frown in public. It could just be his resting face but it's hard to tell. You like to bring your thumb up to his brows when he's unsuspecting and massage the crease away until he realises what's happening and he lets out a small chuckle, gently batting your hands away.

- Fights many men at once and at no point does his grin ever drop. Whether it's a bar fight or when he's juggling through his weapons, he will show his enjoyment and it's really quite menacing and ridiculous at the same time.

Bonus - Poly

- Together, both men work very well. Both are deadly on their own but with Haytham's intellect and Shay's efficiency, they become their own army side by side.

- Both are considerate of their S/O, Haytham is more calm and gentle towards you and Shay, rough and energetic. They balance each other out when one becomes too much, but you enjoy their company regardless.

- It's never a tug of war between them, every thing between each of you is carefully calculated to be equal per Haytham's request. Shay might become more wanting of your company but even he knows the line not to cross.

- Come night, and the three of you are snuggled closely together. Admittedly, Haytham prefers to sleep beside only one of you but even he can't refuse having both. Shay doesn't care at all and will happily join you both together.

- Quiet kisses and hushed words of affection become a daily thing when no one is around but the three of you.

- Random little thing to point out but Haytham's ponytail is lower and Shay's is a bit higher.

#haytham kenway #haytham kenway x reader #shay patrick cormac #shay cormac x reader #assassins creed iii #assassins creed #assassins creed rogue #shay x reader x haytham

[thithesandofferings]

Piccolo x reader MDNI 18+ Daddy Kink

Was waiting on my fries when i decided to make this.

Piccolo doesnt always understand human traits all the time. Comes with the territory of being an alien he assumes. Some words mean others and multiple phrases can be indicative to a hint. Humans cant really get the essence of not saying whats on their mind, or keeping feelings to oneself. He's never really cared either. Its very easy to ignore the side looks and the tense shoulders when he says something that requires them to be truthful.

He hasnt cared. Not until you.

You twitter around his peripheral constantly. He wants to hear every syllable pass through your lips, he wants it on his darkened skin. To feel the worshipping ply of your laughter against his lips. He thinks that he'd like to learn every word and nuance you have to offer when you look at him like that. He thinks he knows you inside and out, every word ever spoken he has imbedded deep into his mind, carving and slicing- making room for only you.

Its a normal day when it happens. He asks you a question- he cant even begin to imagine what it was now, and you respond off handedly "Sure thing, Daddy". It has him pause briefly. You say it so casually that he doesnt even think you even knew what you said.

He ruminates on it for days, anger, confusion and a indiscernible heat resting in his belly. He knows for a fact that it is termed as a human paternal figure, but the way you say it...has him antsy.

So he asks. And you widen those pretty eyes and even he can feel the heat of your cheeks as you stutter out that you didnt mean to- it just. He isnt helping himself when he clenches his hands so tight and demands an answer out of you. He cant explain why he's even feeling so- its just a word.

You of course notice the dilemma. Always able to see under the crushed eyebrows and clenched teeth. It's probably best if you help him out.

"Well...you always take care of everyone Piccolo. You're so good to Gohan and the group...and me. You take really good care of me" You know youre playing with fire when you get closer and whisper Daddy into his pointed ears.

And then hes gone.

"Say it again, come on- again fuck" He enjoys breaking you down. Making a crying mess of you on his pillow. Something has him possessed as he punches his fingers into you-uncaring about the way you clench your thighs around his wrist to push him away. He just presses you down wracking a sob out of you when he suddenly pulls away.

"Say it again or I wont make you come" It has you babbling out "please omg daddy please touch me" in a heartbeat, losing complete thoughts when he spreads you wildly and fucks himself deep inside of you.

"Dont cry- you said I take care of you so be good and let me do that"

#dbz super #dbz piccolo #piccolo #piccolo x reader #thithesandofferings #churchboxconfession

[voidindite]

Wither!Impulse Headcanons (updated)

Im not Super happy with some of the headcanons I've created for witherpulse, so. I'm updating them! (Plz help me spread my witherpulse propaganda </3 )

-Created by a wither glitching over the course of many months, his coding eventually rewriting itself into a player. Cause of glitch unknown, but likely a result of the server he was originally summoned on being full of hackers and conflicting mods essentially "breaking" his base code.

-As a wither, he has three heads. The extra two are wispy skulls that float over either shoulder. Wither corruption also marks his hands and face to darken the veins there, and there's visible bone on his fingers, ribs, and making up his tail. The corruption gets darker and spreads a bit when he's actively using wither magic.

-Has a large field of vision due to having three sets of eyes. Tends to get clumsy and has very poor depth perception if one or both of his skulls can't see for whatever reason.

-He "breathes" out of habit from watching other players do it. The way his chest and shoulders rise and fall has a very apparent sort of Wrongness to it. Even players who don't know he doesn't actually breathe get an uneasy feeling from it.

-Despite the fact that he's got a mouth full of fangs, his smiles are surprisingly friendly and contagious. And he smiles Often.

-Around new or unfamiliar players, he'll use glamour magic to hide his extra skulls, tail, wings, and wither corruption, often getting him mistaken for a skeleton hybrid instead because of his fingers still being bone. Doesn't seem to like anyone outside of Skizz or the Hermits to know he's a wither, though eventually stops using the glamour for the Life servers, too. When the glamour is up, he can still see through the two skulls, giving the feeling that he's got eyes on the back of his head.

-Can summon a skull into his hand that he can then propel in any direction with surprising force. It explodes on impact, applying wither effect to anyone who survives the blast; those killed by it drop a wither rose.

-Can be summoned like a normal wither mob, but since he's sentient he has the option to turn down the summon; if that happens, a normal mob will be summoned instead. This was how he first met Skizz (didn't yet know he could refuse a summon and was just trying to escape the server he first spawned on), and later the Hermits (were joking about summoning him, knew he was a good redstoner but never met him, he decided to humor them and accept it and has been a Hermit since).

-For Limited Life, the halos on his skulls changed to reflect the time he had remaining, the circles gradually losing "slices" depending on his time. All three sets of eyes will also change color to show his lives for the Life Series in general. Green looks downright odd, yellow looks Slightly Off because it's not his usual warm gold, red just looks downright sinister paired with his existing traits.

-Despite his tail being links of floating bone, it's surprisingly sturdy and can easily swipe someone's feet out from under them.

-Doesn't know why he ended up with wings after becoming a player. Thinks it may be a result of his coding attempting to make sense of his ability to fly, however.

-Reacts...poorly. to being trapped in bedrock. "Pranking" him with such a trap is liable to get the prankster threatened by a very angry Skizz and/or Tango. Bedrock specifically, no other blocks garner such a reaction.

#hermitcraft #hermitcraft headcanons #impulsesv #wither impulse

[darkdemeter]

𝑾𝑨𝑻𝑪𝑯 𝑰𝑵 𝑺𝑰𝑳𝑬𝑵𝑪𝑬

— 𝑫𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝒙 (𝑭) 𝑾𝒂𝒕𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒓! 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 —

────────────────┘

To the eldest as your charge, Death remained a permanently perplexing sort. This, from the wit of his banter and blunted sass, often leaves you fixated on the nature of his estranged and cold personality, however much you see the confliction of his inner turmoil within. But that is a personal affair you dare not intrude upon.

Most curious for a Watcher, Death often scowls in the closeted nest of his deepest thoughts. More so than not, Watchers tend to make a grand show of their power over the Horsemens’ leash, whichever sibling they hold to, it is but a taming of a trophy. A display, that in comparison to the feared Horsemen, the Watchers are the ones in power.

Darkened, boastful entities. Infectious, shadowy wisps that are bound and loyal to the Charred Council. Yet compared to the likes of your other wrist-shackled counterparts, you remain out of the way of his carnage-paved path. You don’t conduct yourself as a mouthpiece of sarcasm and venomous snark. Death already covers that trait and far more fittingly if you’re forced to confess. But no, you allow him his way without the threat of restraint, and maybe because he is the eldest of his siblings, he is granted that right.

But for you… well, the reason is not like that at all. At least, not entirely. You revere his strength and might, but in fact, you are also rather ‘young’. By this, you have very little experience amassed when chosen to govern a Horsemen; moreso that this is your first venture in doing so. You could also say you’re an admirer of Death. How precise he is in the midst of his outward battles, the radiance of his exuded power, it’s of little use to convince yourself otherwise by accompanying him as his so-called Watcher that you feel safe in his company.

And that is why you remain to that of a voiceless shadow. Quite literally. Upon first bindings to the one known as Kin-slayer, he has not so much as heard you utter a single word. And he knows not if he should be grateful or reserved. A Watcher that is silent?

He tries to not let it overcome his mind. But it's hard when he takes time of momentary rest such as this, to contemplate the path he treads and his next course of action, and then to lift his burning amber eyes to find you. Either staring at him or providing a level of cared attendance to Dust, adoring the crow’s purring chirps as his dark, crisp feathers quiver and fluff out.

When involving the former, all he can do is glare in return but that does little to deter you, gaze almost dream-like, as if you marvel at the sight of him in your muted presence. Though you may harbour a surmised amount of fear for Death, the dangers of other creatures scare you, and that fear only drives you closer to his side. Nights like this there crawls something sinister in the dark. It lingers there like a beast on the prowl. The wispy form of your blackened silhouette dances in hunched uncertainty, perhaps cowardly to the likes of his perspective, before a simple clutter of rubble ignites the last of your incited panic and you huddle to his side. Who better to protect you than Death? His scythes ring the song of victory without so much as a breath, the task of delivering those unto their demise one he is born and created to do.

Has been for many aeons. But he is still and undisturbed by the shifting of pebbles. He scowls, that much you can tell by the thinning of his amber eyes that burn with a thousand blazes of molten and fire.

“It’s nothing, little Watcher.” His voice is strung by the hoarseness of his remark, reprimanding you and your swiftness to scare easily. How often he’s marked you with such belittlement but you find yourself yearning for it. You interpret it as his term of endearment beneath that coarse exterior of his. Head fluttering in the direction of any miniscule note that sounds in the distance around you, you finally come from your hiding place, tucked close to his ribcage with a curious tilt of your head. Glancing from him to where you’d heard the noise, the trail of black at the end of your torso dances over his lap, stirring him with a chill that leaves a disgruntled noise to rise from his chest.

As ever the curious thing you were and that he’d come to know, your arms raise to bend at the elbows, nervously your tinged fingers ring together within your silent inquiry, Death takes an unseemly approach this time around; that of thoughtful gentleness.

“Nothing will come and harm you.”

This answer calms you. He tells by the fall of your shoulders that ease at his promise, and the way your head turns to view him with your eyes, glowing brightly as if you share with him a kind, thankful smile.

“So long as you don’t draw attention,” he quickly snips and that crinkle of your eyes wears away, that once illuminated smile within your gaze dims.

He’s not entirely sure if that was a necessity to add. By what logic would you draw attention to them? Half the time, your presence is invisible to the masked Horseman. Only made known in times where you guide him through his journey, a suggestive wave or push of his body to indicate a point of interest that may be of some use in his quest.

But other than quick outings to help him, watch over him, you don’t exactly serenade him with a chorus of banter he can combat with his own, and thus, enemies don’t take notice of your being there until you show yourself.

But nevertheless, he watches you hover towards him before coming to curl against him. Though he means to protest and brush you aside, you make yourself comfortable at his side and he’s forced to concede that this is where you plan to stay until you both are on the move again.

You sigh, the sound quiet and echoes faintly in the chamber of your enclosed, unmade mouth. Yet your jaw grows down in length as if to copy the motion to yawn and you rest your head against his shoulder.

“You know, you’re a very odd sort of Watcher,” he says to you, yet your eyes dwindle, slowly closing as you remain untainted by his words. They are not new to you. He’s commented a few times about your oddities. And you’re inclined to agree with a sluggish nod.

Still, he watches you, eyes cast upon you with a glare meant to intimidate you. But seeing the serenity of your peace when pressed to him, it comes to soften his gaze. Unexpectedly, something in his heart… beats. Blooms. A strange force threatens to dominate.

The blackened outline of your form fits to the line of his body, the fading tail at the end of your torso rests over in his lap.

Once certain that you’ve somehow drifted into some realm of slumber, his hand comes to rest along the ridge of your spine, he feels the pulse of energy within your shadowed, ethereal body.

The framing curtain of blackness that shrouds your head moves timidly like hair taken softly to the breeze. Much like a human, it is another quality that sets you far apart from the other watchers to relish in their power below the Charred Council’s will.

What Death finds himself now evermore torn and confused by, is the utterance of one word as you drift off into the sleeping abyss.

The quietness disturbed by a tune harmonic - angelic - that it fits not the occupation you find yourself in servitude under.

It is a word he often claims is in the interest of the balance only. That nothing else restrains him to such an esteemed and honourable title.

“Protector…”

#female reader #darksiders #darksiders fanfiction #death x watcher reader #darksiders death #x reader #death x reader #death x female reader #purely self indulgent #*cough* anyways #darksiders 2 #darksiders x reader #imagine darksiders #Death/Reader

[aftongkier]

Howdy, podcast side of Tumblr.

I forgot to share this here, but on the 30th (yes, I cut the deadline that close) I uploaded an explanation of the Extinction from hit horror anthology podcast The Magnus Archives as part of my ongoing series analysing the Entities one at a time. For this, the penultimate episode, I wound up going way further into detail than I expected, resulting in the video analysing the least significant Entity being the longest in the series. Whoops.

As always, here's a breakdown of the art, for the curious. Although he isn't an avatar of the Extinction (in fact, he seems to be actively fighting against it in most of his appearances), it felt wrong not to do Adelard Dekker for this piece. I really wanted to play around with colour and contrast in this one, and I think it turned out pretty nice.

I dressed Dekker himself in a grey suit with silver accents, because I wanted him to feel very ordinary. Dekker is one of the most human characters in TMA, never seeming to fall to any Entity despite interacting with them very frequently. More than that, he's about as close as TMA gets to a true hero, being at least a comparatively strong force for good. Silver, then, I chose both because it compliments his suit very nicely and because it has mythological and traditional precedent, especially in European folklore, as a deterrent for evil or the supernatural. One of Dekker's most interesting traits is his persistent faith, which I knew I had to include somehow, so I gave him a silver necklace with a cross on the end. It's simple, but it works. The only pop of colour in his otherwise monochrome dress is the tie around his neck, which I've coloured green to show his connection to the Extinction. I know I needed at least a bit of colour, and a neon, toxic green is the colour I associate with the Extinction, so I used a darkened, desaturated form of it for his necktie. I always pictured Dekker as a slender, angular man, which I've conveyed in his face and body. I wanted to give him hair that stood up a lot into short points, and while I considered making them a bit rounder, in the end, the pointed tips just stuck. Finally, there's the glowing green in his eyes, which is, of course, another allusion to the Extinction. Not to imply that he's being guided or influenced by it, simply that he sees it. He was the first to catalogue it, and, admittedly, they do stand out quite nicely against the shadows over him.

In the background, I knew I wanted a skyline with a mushroom cloud behind it, but, as I was working, I decided to make the buildings different references to Extinction episodes. Before I get to that, though, I have to talk about the colour scheme, which is mostly pale green. This was both, again, because the Extinction's colour, in my mind, is green, and because it contrasted nicely against the reds and oranges of the blast. Starting at the leftmost building, it references MAG 144: Decrypted, with numbers running down the side and an antenna on top to send out its encoded message. The next one over is a reference to MAG 175: Epoch, being a massive, Empire State-esque building with abandoned boxes and detritus scattered on its landings, alongside a few more... "living" manifestations. There are only five statements which are the MOST likely Extinction appearances, so, for symmetry, I had to pick an extra statement to throw in. This wound up being MAG 65: Binary, since it's a fan favourite and plenty of people theorise that it actually was related to the Extinction. To get the idea across, I put a few distorted faces on large screens, though I do regret not lightening the entire building up a bit. Across the empty space, we find a reference to MAG 156: Reflection, designed to mimic a large carnival sign and featuring tall windows with thin creatures in them. The windows could have been a bit smaller, but I worried that they would seem too similar to the next building. Speak of which, that brings us to the MAG 134: Time of Revelation reference, being an apartment building in a French architectural style (I don't recall which one at the moment, but I know it was a specific one) filled with figures in the windows, some of whom are half melted into walls or floors. Finally, the last building is a reference to MAG 149: Concrete Jungle, with a rounded roof to mimic the circular shabonos of the Yanomami people and a large, concrete serpent for... obvious reasons.

I think that about covers it. If you've read this far, I hope you enjoyed, and get yourselves ready for the final episode of Entities Explained dropping later this month. With that, all I have left to say is good night, Tumblr people!

#youtube #magnuspod #the magnus archives #the magnus institute #the magnus pod #the magnus protocol #tma #magnus #tma fanart #the magnus archives fanart #tma art #tma podcast #tma spoilers #tma entities #the extinction #tma the extinction #extinction #the terrible change #the future without us #the world is always ending #adelard dekker #mag 134 #mag 144 #mag 149 #mag 156 #mag 175 #mag 5 #mag 65 #mg 84 #mag 114

[unperceivable-future]

Narcissus [Pilot]

Hawks/Keigo Takami x Reader

Content warning: My own take on the Hanahaki Disease. English is not my best language. Foul language. Angst. May not feel like a Reader-insert considering that Reader has a given quirk and other parameters (except appearance) [I'll be updating the list as I go]

Synopsis: In a world where humans have further evolved into having redundant traits, you are simply trying to survive life while assisting the Winged Hero.

Note: This story concept smacked me on the head when I was having a sad girl moment.

0 1...

===============

"Don't forget your meeting with the chairwoman at 2 PM." You remind Hawks as you hand him a stack of papers for him to go through and sign.

"Yeah, yeah. Of course." Your boss grumbles as he goes through a casefile.

In a world where humans have further evolved into gaining superhuman abilities, meta abilities as they have first been coined, comes in a rather redundant trait.

You personally think that quirks are an interesting evolutionary trait. They vary and therefore cannot be pinpointed to selective pressures in nature. It is not akin to peppered moths darkening due to the soot that comes with the Industrial Revolution, quirks were random and have no basis.

So did the abilities of humans coughing up petals after petals when they feel strongly for another person.

You have worked with Hawks three months since he started his hero agency. Fresh out of college and simply through nepotism, maybe a little bit of genetic luck. Your quirk and your family ties were what links you to the Wing Hero.

"I'd appreciate it if you actually read through the reports since, you know, Madame Witch herself would like to know how your last mission went. In full detail." You add in annoyance.

You watched him start as a new hero, a new agency and simply a company you joined through the recommendations by your mother. A mysterious boy that came out of nowhere much like you did if anybody were to take tabs.

"When have I actually not?" Hawks retorts, he looks up to you with such a charmingly playful smile.

"Would you actually like me to list that out for you?" You huff out. It took a while for your relationship with your boss to stabilise.

You joined Hawks' hero agency a few months after the agency itself started. Hawks was anal at first, absolutely all over the place after just firing his fifth assistant in the three-month period his company was set up. He grilled you, put you through so many tasks with mind numbing filings and organising paperwork as his previous assitants simply could not keep up. He was intimidating and a bit pissy, already forecasted for you to fail and to be tossed away but you managed. In fact, you exceeded his expectations, having been able to be a step behind him and sometimes a step before.

When you hit your second month in the company, he actually became a bit nicer and more relaxed. Perhaps it is the fact that you were able to clean up the administrative mess that was caused by the start-up of his business plus the fact that you're coping quite well under the pressure of his ever growing popularity and high demands. And that you memorised his personal likes and dislikes.

And now four years later, your dynamic with your boss is much like you being the nagging mother, constantly reminding him of the mundane tasks of hero work while also picking up after him.

"What does next week look like?" He asks, still reading through whatever casefile the Hero Public Safety Commission handed him some time ago.

"No meetings but your new sidekicks are joining in so you're---"

"Training them, yeah, got it." He sighs, snapping the folder shut and shoots you a tired smile.

It is admirable how Hawks can withstand the pressure of being the number 3 hero despite his young age. He breaks records of being the youngest and fastest while looking so cool and effortless that spectators are under the assumption that he is an under challenged prodigy.

But he is not. He is simply human running on constant adrenaline and stress.

"I'll go grab you some coffee. You might wanna look alive for when the chairwoman shows up." You offer, turning your heels and making your way out of his office.

"Have I mentioned that you're such an angel?" He calls out and you can hear the grin in his voice.

"Many times." You retort like clockwork.

He always tries to make himself look like he has got his shit together despite his age. And honestly? That's definitely why a lot of the people in this country cough up sunflowers when they think of him.

#bnha hawks x reader #keigo takami x reader #hawks x reader #bnha hawks

[yanderes-galore]

Oooo! Silent Hill! I'll see what I can do, yeah ^^ James compares you to Mary, but that doesn't entirely mean you're female for those who were worried. Also, my prompts were used! I think I got his character pretty well considering Silent Hill 2's story.

Note: I feel REALLY good about this one!!!

Spoilers for Silent Hill 2

Yandere! James Sunderland (DBD) Prompts 8 + 38

"I could look into those eyes forever...."

"My life has been so barren without you...."

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Delusional behavior, Unhealthy forms of grieving, Implied forced advances, Choking/Suffocation, James can't get over his dead wife, Guilt, Forced relationship, Self-doubt.

His mind is still spinning. One moment, he was running from his conjured tormentor through the fogged streets of Silent Hill. The next?

The fog darkened to the point he couldn't see... soon waking up in a realm completely new to him. A dimension so much worse than Silent Hill itself.... Part of him wonders if he was finally sent to hell.

But hell wouldn't have someone like you beside him.

Or maybe it would... with what you do to him he wouldn't be surprised if this was the world torturing him. You remind him so much of Mary... to the point he feels this is his form of suffering. His mind was twisted as is, this realm only made it worse.

You made him feel sparks in his heart. A feeling he's wanted to suffocate soon after Mary died. He isn't deserving of it.

Ignoring such desires only made him endure more torture. Each time he looks at you, he sees traits of her. Such feelings only crack his psyche even more.

You don't see his red flags. You never had time to look for them. As far as you were concerned, you needed to treat him like a fellow survivor.

You had no idea simply helping him would cause him to sink deeper....

Even if James wished to ignore his desires, he can't. Sitting next to you by that fire only makes him fall harder. Those eyes of yours... he wants them on him.

He wants you to only look at him. He wants to worship you. He wants to use you to forget his sins.

He wants you to forgive him for anything he might do to you....

He's a broken man unable to be mended. As a result, he clings to you. Maybe he sees you too much as Mary.

Isn't he pathetic? Unable to get over the death of his wife whom he killed himself?

He's driven mad from his grief. There is no curing him. For that... he's sorry.

He's sorry if he hurts you.

"My life has been so barren without you...."

His breath is heavy. He can barely hold himself back. It's as though, as he presses you against the long dead tree, he's in a trance.

Which is scarier with his hands wrapped around your neck.

It's as though he doesn't see you...

He sees Mary.

All he can think about is Mary...

Mary...

Mary...

Mary...!

To silence his thoughts, he drowns himself in you. Your scent, your voice, your eyes....

You make him feel amazing, yet pained.

You yourself are his new tormentor...

All he wants is to love you...!

"I could look into those eyes forever...."

He mutters those words like a promise before kissing you harshly. He wants to drown his guilt in you. But why stop there? He wants drown himself in you.

He wants you to suffocate him with your touch until he can't breathe.

"James...!" You croak, his grip on your throat tightening.

The sound of his name tumbling from your lips fuels his desires. He wants to forget all about it... he doesn't want to think of Mary.

Make him forget about Mary!

Assault his senses, fill him up with your love! He's a desperate broken man. He needs you... he wants you...!

Yet he's just crazy... delusional.

Completely oblivious to the fact he's killing you.

"The hell are you doing!?" A survivor screams at him.

He's yanked off your gasping body, already yearning again for the sweet taste only your lips can bring. Begrudgingly he's brought back to reality, slapped hard by the survivor that saved you.

He hears them scream psycho.

He can't deny them.

His eyes flick over to you, breathing heavily and staring at him in fear. He wants you to forgive him for hurting you....

That'll never happen, he tells himself.

You never deserved anyone anyway.

He sits defeated on the ground, the other survivor consoling you. He was never good at consoling anyone, either.

You don't deserve him.

No one does.

Once again, he's unhappy and left with no comfort.

Once again, he blames Mary for all of it... even if his late wife did nothing wrong.

He's a monster and should be treated as such.

#yandere dead by daylight #yandere dbd #yandere silent hill #yandere james sunderland

[cherryjuiceblues]

MUTUALLY BENEFICIAL 5 SNEAK PEEK :D

The house doesn’t smell like curry.

And that’s the first thing he notices when he steps inside after a long day. Harry always makes a point to relish in the view of his home before he enters its threshold; warm and bathed in light—the clear signs of life pouring out of the windows and across the driveway. Y/N cradles his heart in more ways than she shall ever know but simply remembering that she is here, in his home, keeping it safe whilst he’s gone… It does irrevocable things to him.

But today, perhaps he’ll admit that it does less to soothe his weary head as it does most days. When the only thing getting him through the workday was the promise of a beloved meal, prepared with love, steaming—waiting for him when he got home—and the scent doesn’t immediately hit him in the face… he worries. He worries for his sanity and for Y/N’s wellbeing. He worries for the words he might say on an impatient, empty stomach.

The tension between Harry’s brows radiates throughout his entire skull as he rolls out his shoulders and prepares himself for the conversation he’s going to have to have in approximately ten seconds. He can hear Y/N tottering around in the kitchen—and that almost makes it worse—that she’s in there and yet he can smell… he can smell something sweet. Something—

His feet lead him to the scent, hoping his nose is mistaken, forehead tightening at the sight he is greeted with.

“What’s this?” His cadence is concerning—unclad with his usual charming lilt—swathed in this new, murky tone of impatience. “Where’s m’dinner, sweetheart?”

Y/N twists around from her place at the sink, lips turned downwards unlike her usual welcome of a happy, relieved smile. And her reaction, Harry will later accept, is a valid one considering his complete lack of greeting—when he is usually so full of soft lilts and gentle caresses.

“Oh—” she scoffs, words tumbling out uncharacteristically, “because ‘m your housewife, now?” And—regardless of whether Y/N had already been labelled as such by Harry’s own employees, she has a feeling his eyes would’ve darkened all the same. His immediate, deathly silence does more to terrorise her than any garish attempt at horror (although that successfully scares her too).

She’s wondered what it would take for him to have his moment. Harry’s patience has always been such a relief—the most gentle person in Y/N’s life—a trait previously severely lacking and one she now cherishes every day.

And she knows his reaction isn’t unjust. She should have made him dinner, ready to eat as soon as he stepped foot inside—just like she had promised earlier in the day. With a smile on her face. She can’t quite explain why she made a cake instead. She’d had every intention to do as she’d said, was on her way to the kitchen to get started, in fact. But then she’d opened her phone, scrolled through Pinterest for just long enough to become distracted, to forget her initial quest, and to become enamoured by a heart-shaped sponge cake instead.

Y/N understands Harry’s anger. But it’s still upsetting. She feels as though she has committed something worthy of jail time. Her stomach churns, previously dancing butterflies dispersing with a single brandishing glance over her way. They’re replaced by heavy, heavy bricks—weighing her down, immobilising her completely as she watches Harry inspect the kitchen with beady eyes.

“You made a cake?” He asks, already knowing of the answer; the evidence stares him straight in the face—accompanied by the debris—a crime scene of flour and icing sugar, bowls upon bowls filled with remnants of batter. She opens her mouth, abandoned by sound, swiftly closed when Harry continues on his own; unneeding of Y/N to have a conversation.

“Does it taste like fucking Korma, darlin’?” And she doesn’t like it—the way he weaponises the word she associates so closely to her own identity—the one he uses more than her own name. He’s upset. And it’s her fault.

“It—”

“—Don’t. Just—” he sighs, swiping his heavy palm over his forehead, “—be quiet.”

#mutually beneficial #sneaky #sneak peek #harry styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles one shots #harry styles smut #harry styles imagines #harry styles blurbs #harry styles fanfiction

[cefalodankovsky]

Kaeya and pierro shared design leitmotifs and possible in game connection

Spoilers until Caribert, no Fontaine exclusive content is discussed.

Before anything I must make clear that I’m comparing Kaeya ´s standard outfit and the Pierro design from a winter night´s lazzo, I won’t use direct images from leaks but i have compared Pierro ´s skin color to the other Harbingers using leaked character explorations and beta designs.

There is something that has bugged me since winter´s night lazzo; and that thing is the shared leitmotifs between pierro and Kaeya, While the fandom has discussed at length if Pierro could be Kaeya ´s father or other family member, I too want to analyze the similarities between the designs, how that could connect them in game, exploring popular ideas and even proposing some of my own on the way.

From top to bottom I will point out and explain in more depth all the similarities I found, using these two images as reference and to make everything more clear.

- Differently colored hair strand matching each other’s hair color. This is quite interesting because all other Khaeniahns we’ve met so far have blonde or a light hair color, making Kaeya the exception, But the fact that Pierro also has a blue strand in his other wise standard hair means that either Pierro ´s hair was originally blue and turned white due to aging, making them both exceptions to the known Khaenriahn genetic traits and possibly connecting them as family. That white hair is a result of abyssal corruption, which would make sense as Pierro has had most likely more abyssal exposure than Kaeya, which would explain Kaeya ´s strands. Or we could reverse this and propose blue or darkened hair is a result of abyss influence, while this might sound outlandish at first, abyssal influence in game has been mostly shown by darkened colors like blue or purple, the only issue would be why Kaeya has had more abyssal exposure than Pierro. This could also be just a way to connect them visually.

- Half of their face covered, seems to be an homage to king irmin the masked king. The three Khaenriahn characters that share this trait have some connection to royalty (Royal knight, Royal advisor, Descendant to The regents that usurped King irmins ´s throne)

-Fluffy scarf? (I don’t know what to call it) in contrasting colors. I must note Kaeya ´s design is prominently asymmetrical, both as a way to create interest and to contrast his conflicted and divided thoughts. (In fact one side seems to represent the abyss with the strand, eyepatch, and the fluffy covering similar to an abyss mage, and the other his loyalty to Mondstand, with the Favonius matching cape and what seems to be a lovelock, a hairstyle used to show their loyalty to someone or something)

-Diamond shaped space in their outfit near their chest, possibly just a way to invoke the diamond shape in their designs , the shared motif of Khaenriah.

-Similar Lapels in their coat with the same shape that reach their torso, a central piece on both of their designs. Can’t really llly tell if Pierro ´s is just one lapel or two lapels and the upper one is hidden in the fluff (Like Kaeya ´s lapels on his left side)

-Star in the middle of their torso

- Shared color scheme but reversed in key places

-Comparatively darker skin to other Characters, Clear in Kaeya ´s case, harder to see in Pierro. Comparing Pierro ´s skintone to other harbingers its clear he’s at the very least visibly darker, even in some leaked design exploration where he sports a coat more similar to Dainsleif´s and a lighter skintone that first thought. The date of the designs are unknown and neither is if they are final but even then the skintone is darker (second image, pierro is the first circle, dottore the second and Columbina de third ) I also must note that while Kaeya is darker skinned, its also known he is partially tanned (alluded trio in a Traveler character story where they wonder if kaeya has a tanning mark behind his eyepatch.

What does all of this mean?, I’m going to note some of the most popular theories and some wild thought as an extra.

-Possibility 1, its all just a coincidence: While some similarities can be explained with shared Khaenriah leitmotifs and pure chance, the fact that a not insignificant part of the fandom thought they were related just by seeing their designs must mean a significant amount of the design must reflect the other.

Possibility 2, Kaeya and Pierro are related most likely his strangled father or an uncle. Would explain the skin and hair color as well as while intentional similarities in their designs. The kaeya ´s father idea was the most common theory, but with pierro being a royal advisor rather than a royal as well as the past voice of kaeya ´s father in the 3.1 event seeming different to Pierro's, it has lost popularity.

It is still possible they are related and Pierro was just far from being the throne heir, also giving him a possible vendetta against the Alberichs and in the case of an uncle might serve as a future Hamlet reference, as well as being a popular trope in general .

-Possibility 3, the motifs are meant to show Kaeya.'s connection to the fatui rather than to Pierro himself. Some of the motifs are shared both in Pierro´s design, the harbinger coats and Kaeya's design. Often also mixed with the second possibility. Could also be a foreshadowing to a possible betrayal by Kaeya. Personally I don’t really see this possibility if not mixed with second one because the most definite proof is specific to Pierro. A counter argument is the shared motifs between Kaeya and Childe. Like Kaeya. ´s never ending performance constellation having the same name as Childe. ´s boss theme, especifically before using foul legacy, also the shared eye motif between kaeya and the fatui.

-Possibility 4, Kaeya is somehow a Clone of Pierro. (Either biologically or just his creation imitating someone else. I’ve seen this theory proposed but I haven’t thought much about. It honestly, this is usually mixed with the father theory.

Extra!: Possibility 5 (Originally thought by a friend of mine but i think its pretty interesting and tried to fill in the gaps), also the least likely but still fun to explore. Kaeya and Pierro are the same person. In Genshin the idea of rewriting the past has is present, mostly seen with Wanderer, his quest also shows changing the past via the Irminsul will end up in essentially the same result. (Wanderer changed the past erasing himself, but the ones that had to die still died), Also seen with Nahida and Rukka. With the cyclical nature of time in Genshin and the journey of the twins, It is possible our twin had a similar journey as us just for everything to be reseted (The cutscene of the abyss sibling shows Mondstadt being destroyed). kaeya could have tried to change things in Khaenriah via the Irminsul but eventually failed ending up in the destruction of Khaenriah. This would explain why Pierro knows about fate´s plans and why he had advice to try and avoid the destruction.This would explain the shared motifs in the fatui and Kaeya´s uniform, as well as physical similarities between the two. Personally I don’t think they share a vibe, and the explanation is quite convoluted and makes several assumptions, It’s still a fun idea, and i quite like it though. I believe we still lack key information to make a clear and definite decision, but the similarities are still. There and we can still try to approximate ourselves to the truth.

#originally from my reddit #genshin impact #genshin theory #genshin thoughts #genshin kaeya #genshin pierro #genshin fatui #genshin lore #genshin spoilers

[blue-eli]

The Sheet™️

notes under cut:

-Ventus and Kairi are singlehandedly responsible for all of the others with blue eyes and I think that’s funny

-original/KHUx Ventus had green eyes! When Xehanort split him in two the colour also split into blue (Wayfinder/BBS Ventus) and yellow (Vanitas). They are both extremely weirded out by this, as far as both of them are concerned they’re eyes should be green.

-Sora was born with grey eyes with a green starburst he inherited from his father! He lost them as an infant when he helped Ventus post-split, when they turned blue (pre-Vani Sora) which was quite a shock for his parents lol.

-when he was four taking Ventus (and Vanitas) into his heart proper ended with him gaining his green starburst! His blue also darkens a bit. These are the eyes he has for pretty much the rest of his life.

-Kairi’s eyes are the only ones that never change, she keeps her dark blue from start to finish.

-Naminé got Sora’s blue while Roxas got Kairi’s! Both have little green flecks from Ventus too :)!

-Xion’s eyes are a mix of Sora’s lighter and darker blue (from pre-Vani, and post).

-post Sora (or Kairi in Naminé’s case) everyone gets more flecks!! Symbolic flecks!

-Roxas and Naminé both get flecks of their somebody’s eye colour!

-Ventus gets flecks of Sora’s blue, while Vanitas gets flecks the colour of baby Sora’s green starburst. Vanitas’ represents the idea of him coming to terms with not ever being Ventus and accepting just chilling in Sora’s heart (tho the fact he has these eyes at all DOES suggest he gets out), while Ventus’ is like a visual representation of the mark sheltering in Sora left on him as well as the fact that he joined together with Vanitas but STAYED his own person. He will never be that green young Ventus again and he never wanted to be.

-Xion!!! Gets!!! All the colours!!! It’s what she deserves<3 I imagine she actually started getting them when she accidentally started stealing memories, but they would have looked a bit more chaotic and patched together then. Now she has pretty flecks circling her pupil and her dark blue is now a starburst!!! The only person’s colour she doesn’t have is Kairi rip Kairi

-Naminé has the palest skin colour and Xion has the darkest.

-Sora and Roxas are the only ones to share a skin-tone, everyone else has unique shades, even wayfinder Ventus has a different one to original Ventus.

-Ventus and Naminé have the same hair colour!

-Roxas definitely is blonde because of Ven but he inherited some ginger from Kairi.

-Similarly, Xion got her black from Vanitas but her exact shade is actually unique!

-no fucking idea where Vanitas got his black tho,,,

-Sora inherited his hair from his Moma<3 its a smidge lighter then hers but it’s hers<3

-og Ventus, wayfinder Ventus, and Vanitas all have slightly elongated pupils, which was a daybreak town trait, that they’d share with the other Dandelions. They can also see slightly better in the dark; Vanitas especially, this means his pupils contract so much in normal daylight he looks snakelike. Everyone else is normal<3

#kingdom hearts #heart hotel #kh headcanons #kh sora #kh ventus #kh kairi #kh xion #kh namine #Naminé #kh roxas #kh Vanitas #kh #khux Ventus #digital art #blue boi draws #fanart #this started as me going ‘there are too many characters with blue eyes in kh’. I have not changed anyone’s blue eyes #(except og Ven and baby Sora but considering those change I don’t think they count) #I have... SO many headcanons #I do headcanon other blue eyed characters to have different shades (off the top of my head Terra and aqua and technically Riku #but that’s technically canon) but the heart hotel got to keep their blue #the ‘Roxas has Kairi’s eyes and Naminé has Sora’s’ was a headcanon I stole but I don’t remember who from #I love it a lot tho. it’s cute #if Ven or Van got their green back it would be Vani because Ventus got the rest of the body in the divorce I think he deserves it/hj

[robotnik-mun]

leam1983 replied to your post “What’s in a Name?”

In the meantime, I'm still intrigued by the least-discussed part of Ivo's development, which is how he went from his tiny, dark pencilstache as seen in the earlier flashbacks, to his gravity-defying facial hairdo.  Did his research into prosthetics include something as vain as capillary enhancements or prosthetics? If so, which gonzo shades could he have tried and abandoned before settling on red?

Heh, well, the Doylist explanation for that one simply would be that he has a dark mustache when he’s younger because it was a fact established back in the ‘gag’ days of the book in Issue #17.

You gotta wonder what was going on in Nate Morgan’s mind when he chose to take Julian on as an assistant even in the face of the “King Gong” incident...

Anyway, point of order! The Sonic book could be weirdly continuity heavy even when it came to stuff from the book’s earlier years, and as such... Julian has a small, dark mustache and that’s just how it worked for him.

Plus its possible that, in a small way, this might have been retconned by Tales of the Great War, which depicted Julian’s younger self have a more, shall we say, appropriate ‘stache-

Watsonian explanation? Well, I read somewhere that in the recent Sonic movies, Robotnik actually dyed his hair and mustache black, so hey, maybe for whatever reason Julian decided to dye his own mustache black before letting it revert to its natural colors and growing out to what it is now. As to why it is that way? Well... both his ancestor Brutus and grandfather sported similarly ginormous mustaches, and even his dad had a pretty impressive set of facial hair.

I would note that Ivo’s mustache, much like Julian’s, was also dark colored.

So hey, how about this- both the Kintobor and Robotnik bloodline contains a trait for Absolutely Massive Mustaches and Julian hit the jackpot there. And just as some people can start off blonde before their hair darkens out to brown as they get older, maybe something similar happened with Julian in that his facial hair started out dark colored before naturally changing to orange as he started to hit his middle years, and he decided to purposely grow out it once more to more closely resemble his grandfather. It’d be consistent with this theme of him wanting to emulate the guy, after all. And then there’s the fact that Robotnik technically isn’t a human but an Overlander/Human hybrid (which honestly is probably redundant). Given that, it may be down to it being a quirk of Overlander biology.

Though at the end of it? There comes a point where the Cartoon Logic must be taken at face value, and so, Julian starts life with a small, thin pencil stache ala Walt Disney before it grows out into being a cluster of pipe cleaners glued to his upper lip, and that’s just how it worked out for him.

#Sonic the Hedgehog #Archie #Dr. Robotnik

[priestessofspiders]

My Son's Reflection Is Wrong

I have always been afraid of mirrors, ever since I was a young child. I knew it was irrational of course. I never was afraid when I would see my reflection in a puddle or on the darkened window of a shop as I walked down the street. It was specifically mirrors which made me uncomfortable. I always feared that I would see something other than myself looking back at me.

This explains why I was less than thrilled to find the large, antique silver mirror in the bedroom of the house I was renting. Were it my own place I would have thrown it out then and there, leaving it on the curb and relying solely upon the mirror in the modern and well-kept bathroom for all necessary reflective purposes. Alas, I didn't think my landlord would think too highly of his tenant tossing out expensive antique furniture, so I contented myself to simply move it into a spare room.

I had moved to the house for the simple reason that it was fairly cheap and I didn't have much other choice. My husband passed away earlier that year due to a heart condition, leaving me simultaneously a widow and solely responsible for the care of my son, Chester. Fortunately, my husband's life insurance policy turned out to be reasonably generous, but I still needed to downgrade our living situation if I was to take care of Chester without another source of income. Beyond the obvious fact that I have now been left to raise a child without the assistance of a spouse, there is another reason why I cannot supplement my funds by taking on a job; Chester is autistic.

I want to make it very clear, I'm not an "Autism Mom". I loathe the self-absorbed whiners who spend every spare second complaining about the immense burden of raising an autistic child, who bellyache endlessly about how difficult their lives are. I hate all the videos of exasperated parents recording their child's meltdown on camera, to show to all the world how difficult it is for them. I am disgusted whenever I see some selfish moron recommend ABA "therapy" to keep unruly autistic children's more unconventional behaviors in check. My son is not a cross to bear, not a weight on my shoulders. He is my child, and I love him.

I won't deny it can be difficult sometimes, but I can only imagine how hard it is for him. I find the terms "high functioning" and "low functioning" are relatively useless descriptors. Like most things in life, it is a tad more complicated than that. Chester is, generally speaking, nonverbal, and I've never known him to say more than 20 words in a single day. In addition, he tends to get overstimulated quite quickly from loud noises, and often flaps his hands as a form of stimming, especially when he is having some difficulty expressing what he wants. The only behavior of his which ever actually frustrates me is his elopement, which in the context of autism means that he has a tendency to wander off or run away whenever he feels stressed. We work around these traits, and I think generally I've been able to make life quite comfortable for him.

Chester has always shown quite an aptitude for reading and writing, despite his relatively young age of only 9 years old at the time we moved. When he needed something that cannot be articulated through gestures or single words, he would write it down on a whiteboard I've given him for this purpose. To help with his sensory issues regarding loud noises, I purchased a set of ear plugs for him, the same sort that one would wear at a gun range to prevent hearing loss. These generally aren't necessary within the confines of the house, but on those occasions when we do go out in public, I genuinely think they help him quite a bit.

Given his condition, combined with the relative isolation of our new rural home, it has been necessary to homeschool Chester, though that hasn't really been any sort of a problem. Before I got married I spent a few years teaching elementary school, so I already have the required skills. I've always believed in a somewhat more active approach to learning than some of my peers, and since our new home is located directly next to a forest, this was fairly easy to accomplish.

The house itself was rather old, built in the 1920s if my landlord was to be believed. While recently renovated to a more modern standard at some point in the preceding decades, it still has an air of oldness to it, something in the angles and general structure of the place. The main feature that seemed significantly out of place was the wrought iron fence that surrounded the house, a far cry from the traditional wooden fence I was used to from a life in the suburbs. There was no formal gate that led out to the forest behind the house, just a gap in the fencing with a small pile of rusting iron posts nearby. I never asked the landlord about it, but judging by a stump outside the boundaries of the backyard, I assumed a tree must have fallen down and damaged it.

Children don't want to sit still and be lectured, they want to be outside, to run around and be active. I'd always try to teach Chester his lessons in a way that connected to the forest. I'd lift up logs and show him all the squirming creatures underneath so I could teach him all the differences between them. I'd have him count the rings of a fallen tree and teach him about the things that happened in the tree's long and storied life. I know that sometimes he would get bored, while I do believe kids love learning, I'm not an idiot. I know that sometimes children just want to run and play, but I genuinely do believe he got more out of our lessons in the woods than he would have gotten from a traditional school environment.

Even outside of the context of Chester's lessons, we spent a lot of time in those woods, slipping out through the gap in the fence into the forest beyond. There was something so peaceful about that place, it felt remarkably untouched by the civilization that bordered it. I'm not sure exactly how far the forest extended, but it always seemed to go on forever, like if you just kept walking you could go the whole rest of your life surrounded by trees. I always kept a fairly close eye on Chester when we were out there. As much as I loved the place, I did often worry that he would simply run off, but there was never anything stressful enough in the woods to make him do so. The only real concern was to make sure he took of his shoes once he got back to the house, as otherwise he would track dirt inside, making quite the mess.

Things went on the way I described them for about a year after my husband's passing. In between my caring for Chester and all the mundane errands of modern life, I attended therapy and worked to move on from the loss. I began to make peace with the fact that he was gone. Chester and I celebrated his 10th birthday out in the woods, moving to the backyard once night fell so we could finish off the evening roasting hot dogs over the firepit while I read him some relatively tame ghost stories. Chester didn't like scary movies or violent video games, but gently spooky stories, the sort that send a pleasant chill down your spine, made him quite happy. I believe I was reading out The Mezzotint to him when we heard the music.

It was a soft, strange sound, a faint piping emanating out from the forest beyond, gentle yet eerie somehow. The faint notes reminded me of the sound of panpipes, but not quite. If I listened very closely, I could almost discern a faint drumming as well. Chester looked out into the darkness beyond the fire, flapping his hands gently. He didn't seem upset or scared, just faintly awestruck. "Fairies", I heard him whisper.

I felt somewhat uncomfortable as we both looked out into the blackness of the forest. The sound of crickets had died utterly as soon as the piping began, and we sat in silence, listening to that peculiar and otherworldly performance. It felt like something out of a dream, and I don't think it would be possible for me to recall the melody in any real detail. It was ephemeral somehow, slipping through the cracks of my memory like water through a sieve even as I listened.

At some point the music ceased, and the crickets returned to their chirping. I led Chester back inside and tucked him gently into bed. I've never been especially afraid of intruders, given how far away we were from any major population center, but that night I double checked that all the doors and windows in the house were firmly locked.

- - -

I didn't sleep well that night. I'll admit I'd still not gotten used to sleeping alone, and often had difficulty falling asleep, but this felt different somehow. It seemed that whenever I was close to finally falling unconscious, I'd see a shadow pass across the wall, or hear something just on the very edge of my perception, something that reminded me faintly of music. Whenever I'd jolt up in bed, looking or listening for what I thought had disturbed me, there was nothing there. At some point I must have finally fallen asleep, because found myself blinking out the daylight from my uncovered window, groggy and irritable. My skull throbbed with a terrible headache. My alarm clock hadn't gone off, it seemed to have become unplugged in the night. Possibly in my tossing and turning the cord had somehow come out of the socket.

It was in the late morning, far later than I usually woke up, and Chester was frustrated because he hadn't had breakfast yet. He didn't say anything, but he seemed glum and looked at me with justifiable annoyance and hunger. I did my best to prepare him some scrambled eggs and bacon, but in my pain and fatigue I managed to burn the bacon and cook the eggs to an unpleasant, rubbery consistency. I deeply regret what happened next.

I swore about the bacon, the eggs, the pan, the stove, the landlord, my dead husband, anyone and anything that could conceivably be even somewhat to blame for the ruined breakfast. I know it was wrong to react like that in front of my son, I know it was immature, but I was tired, in pain, and just wished desperately I could go back to bed.

When I'd finished with my profanity-laced rant, I heard the back door closing and looked out the window to see Chester fleeing out into the forest, visibly distressed.

"Shit," I muttered to myself, and ran out the door after him, calling for him to come back. I tripped on one of the fallen iron fence posts and fell to the ground, knocking the air from my lungs. When I recovered enough to stand up, Chester was long gone, vanished among the trees.

I looked through those woods for hours. As I've described earlier, I don't know how large the forest behind my house is, but it still feels odd that in all that time I never saw him. Chester's only 10 years old, he isn't some sort of Olympic sprinter, and the foliage isn't so thick that I could have lost him that easily. I kept wandering among the trees, shouting out Chester's name with increasing panic. Sometimes I thought I'd hear a branch snapping or a child's giggle, and I would turn about, desperately trying to catch a glimpse of the sound's source, but there would be nothing there. It was fairly far along in the afternoon when I finally decided to head back and call the police.

Despite how long I'd spent in the forest, it was a remarkably quick walk back to the house. It felt almost as if the walk into the woods was somehow further than the walk out. I opened the door and started moving to the bedroom to get my phone, when I suddenly saw Chester sitting on the couch, reading a book.

I nearly wept with relief and rushed to hug him, apologizing over and over for scaring him and asking if he was okay. I was so happy to see my son again I wasn't even angry with him for running off.

"I'm alright mom. I'm really sorry for running off, I was just scared. I won't do that again, please don't be angry" said Chester, tears welling up in his eyes.

I froze.

Chester rarely spoke more than a single word at a time. His longest sentences I could remember before this were maybe 3 or 4 words long at most. This was utterly unprecedented, and I had no idea how to react whatsoever.

"Mom? Are you okay?" he asked, looking at me with a confused look on his face.

- - -

The next week went by very strangely. To be very clear, autism isn't something that just goes away. It's not a disease, it's not something that can be "cured". And yet, Chester no longer showed any signs of his previous behavior whatsoever.

His personality seemed intact. The sort of things he now spoke aloud seemed relatively in keeping with the sentences he would have previously written on the whiteboard. He still had the same love of reading, the same interest in ghost stories, he still played with the same toys. In all respects he was the exact same boy as before, simply now he was neurotypical.

He didn't have to wear earplugs out in public anymore, and true to his word he never ran off when under stress. He didn't even flap his hands, he just kept them calmly at his sides. It was totally surreal.

One day I was teaching him his lessons out in the woods, and he told me "Mom? I think I want to go to regular school. I want to be with the other kids." I was completely taken aback. Chester had never showed even the slightest interest in going to a public school before this, and on the few occasions he'd had to interact with other children, he'd been far too shy to play with them. Of course I told him I'd be happy to send him to school, what else was I supposed to say? That night I sent off emails to the nearest schools in the area, asking about late enrollment.

It was the second week after Chester's sudden and unprecedented transformation that I began to notice something else that was strange. Despite the fact that we were spending a decent amount of time outside in the woods, Chester never left any dirty footprints in the house anymore. It wasn't that he had suddenly become more careful about taking his shoes off, he was still running inside with his sneakers on the same as he always had, but there was never any dirt or mud. I just assumed at the time he must have been wiping his shoes off while I wasn't looking, and in all honesty I didn't pay it much mind. It's only in retrospect, knowing what I do now, that this sticks out in my mind.

He also didn't eat very much anymore. He didn't snack at all, and whenever I prepared him his meals, he only ate very small portions. He never showed any signs of weakness or that he was losing weight, so I didn't bother him about it, there would be no point in forcing him to eat more than he wanted to, but it did strike me as very odd.

It wasn't until the incident with the mirror that I realized that it wasn't my son.

I was looking for some books I'd packed away in cardboard boxes in the spare room. There wasn't a lot of space on the bookshelf in the living room, so I tended to switch out the books on a semi-regular basis for ones kept in the spare room, aside from a handful of mainstays. It was while I was doing so that Chester walked over to the doorway and asked me where I had put his toy robot. I looked up from what I was doing to answer him, when I caught something out of the corner of my eye, something deeply wrong. It was the old silver mirror, pointed towards the doorway. It wasn't reflecting my son.

I turned to look closer, my words dying on my lips as I gazed at the figure in the mirror, the old terror I'd always felt looking into such things resurfacing suddenly and violently.

The thing was dressed in Chester's clothes, but that was about the only real resemblance the thing bore to him. It was a crude marionette, carved from untreated and unpainted wood, clumps of bark still clinging to it in places. The mouth had a jaw like that of a ventriloquist dummy, albeit with crooked teeth made from sharp flints jammed into the wood. I saw bits of old food stuck to the teeth and mouth, remnants of meals I had cooked earlier in the day. The eyes were simple holes with bits of colored glass, like marbles, held within. It was suspended above the ground by an inch or two by thick brown twine, like the sort one would use to close a package in days before packing tape.

I stared in stunned silence at the mirror before turning around, only to find Chester standing there, head cocked slightly in confusion. "Are you okay mom?" he asked, with concern in his voice. I turned once again to the mirror, seeing the horrible puppet thing once again. I wanted to vomit as I watched its jaw work up and down mockingly. "I'm sorry, I'll find it myself, I didn't mean to bother you" it said, before jerkily "walking" down the hallway to Chester's bedroom.

- - -

That night I watched "Chester" carefully in the bathroom mirror when he brushed his teeth, but there didn't seem to be anything strange about him at all. He moved like a person, not a puppet, and when I gently squeezed his shoulder I felt flesh and bone underneath the fabric of his clothes, not hard wood and bark.

I didn't sleep. Creepy as it may sound, I just sat in Chester's room and watched that thing lay in bed, snoring. It seemed to be asleep. I stayed there all night, just watching, until it woke up the next morning, asking me what I was doing. I didn't respond, and left without making breakfast. It's not like it would have needed it.

I wasn't even sure where I was going at first, I was just driving to clear my head. I eventually realized I was en route to an antique store the next town over. I'd visited the store a few times before, looking for bits of furniture and the like immediately after moving. I didn't know why I was headed there now, but it felt almost as if I were being drawn there somehow. I pulled into the parking lot and left my car, pushing through the shop's door with the tinkling of a bell.

I wasn't sure what I was looking for, I just wandered the store in a daze, looking around all the various bits of junk and knick knacks with disinterest. The whole store reeked of musty books and wood polish, the smell lulling me into a sort of trance as I meandered among the shelves stacked with discarded history. Eventually though, I found something that struck my eye. It was a small old hand mirror with the telltale tarnishing of real silver. It seemed to call to me somehow, and in my numbed state I didn't even fear the blank-eyed reflection that looked back at me. I picked it up and looked at the price tag. 50 dollars. More than it was worth, but not too unreasonable. I picked it up and brought it to the counter, paying in cash.

The store's proprietor, a thin old woman with graying hair and enormous spectacles, chuckled at me as she rang me up. "Planning on making a vampire hunting kit ma'am?" she asked.

"What?" I replied, the completely bizarre question startling me out of my stupor.

"Just a little joke. Halloween's coming up, and once a few years back I had a gentleman come in here and buy up all sorts of strange stuff. I asked him what he needed it for, and he told me he was going to dress up as Abraham van Helsing for the occasion. He said he was making a vampire hunting kit. One of the items he bought was an old hand mirror, rather like this one. He asked me if it was real silver, and I told him yes, but asked why that mattered, I figured silver was always the sort of thing one would use for werewolves, not vampires. He told me that the reason why vampires didn't show their reflections in mirrors was that in the old days they were made of silver, and that silver was a symbol of purity. He said that if vampires were real and walking about nowadays, they'd be reflected back just fine, since nearly all modern mirrors are made with aluminum. Doesn't tarnish I suppose."

My mind flashed to "Chester" brushing his teeth in the bathroom mirror, face as normal as could be reflecting back at me, before recalling the terrifying thing I'd seen in the old silver mirror. The old woman must have noticed me go pale, she asked me if I was alright. I nodded and left with the mirror, driving back home.

I got back at around lunchtime, and the thing that pretended to be my son asked me if I was okay, and if we would be having lunch soon. I angled the mirror so I could see its face, and saw that crude puppet mouth wagging in vague time with its speech. I told it to wait at the dinner table, and that I would be with it in a few minutes. It did as I said, sitting down and pretending to read a book with its glass eyes.

I reached into the kitchen drawer and pulled out a pair of butcher's scissors. With the scissors in one hand and the hand mirror in the other, I walked up behind the puppet thing, carefully angling the mirror so I could see where the strings connected to its wooden body. I looked to see where the strings led, to see if I could get a glance at the puppeteer, but it just seemed to extend impossibly into the ceiling, passing through the plaster like a fishing line through water.

It didn't notice what I was doing until I'd already cut the first string, one connected to its left arm. It screeched in what sounded like pain, a horrible distorted cry that was a mix of mad piping and a child's scream. It swiped at me with the right arm, but I was too fast for it. After all, it was only wood and strings, and I was alive. I cut the other arm free, and both now fell limp at its sides. Next I went for the legs, snipping the strings both in quick succession. Glancing up from the mirror, I saw what looked like my son floating in the air slightly, mouth wide open as it screamed. I cut the strings connected its jaw and head, and the thing collapsed to the floor in a silent heap. The illusion had been broken, and all that lay before me was a broken puppet. Far away in the distance, I could hear the sound of pipes playing faintly in the woods, a haunting melody which I cannot quite recall.

- - -

I knew I couldn't go to the police with any of this. Who would believe a woman who claimed that her son had been replaced by a puppet? I'd be institutionalized at best, arrested for child abuse at worst, and that's assuming they ever managed to find the real Chester. I spent the rest of the day frantically researching on the internet, typing inane phrases like "child replaced puppet music pipes" or "puppet mirror child double" into the search engine, getting almost nothing useful in response, until eventually I came across some old website detailing European folklore. Specifically, the page on changelings.

I read about medieval peasants convinced their children had been replaced with those of fairies, how their real children had been taken to the woods to be raised by the monsters which stole them. I read of the ways one could protect oneself from the so-called "fair folk", of their hatred of iron. I remembered the wrought iron fence that surrounded the house, the conspicuous gap where a tree must have broken through as it fell.

I've written this in case I don't come back. I've written this so that if I'm never found, they don't think I just performed a murder-suicide in the woods out of grief. I love my son dearly, and I am going to save him from the monsters that took him from me. I can hear the hideous music of their eldritch pipes drifting through the trees, mocking me. I'm taking one of the broken iron posts with me. The tip is sharp as a spear.

#horror fiction #horror #horror story #mirrors #fairies #changelings