another-one-yes

Hogwarts House Friendships

Gryffindor x Gryffindor
“Remember that one time when we went to-”
“Yeah and we ended up-”
“And OH MY GOD REMEMBER HOW WE CRASHED THAT-”
“CELEB’S WEDDING AND OFFERED FIREWHISKEY TO THE PRIEST WHILE DRUNK? HOW COULD I FORGET?”

Gryffindor x Hufflepuff
“I’ve always loved snow and snowboarding sounds fun, but…”
“Okay, let’s do it”

“But…”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be here to keep you safe”

“Somehow, I don’t think that I’m the one who’ll get hurt…”

Gryffindor x Ravenclaw
“There is a 98.46% chance of getting hurt”
“I guess I just have to be the 1.54%”

“That’s not how-”
“Too late”

Gryffindor x Slytherin
“You suck”
“But you swallow”

“Did you just-”
“… I love you?”

Hufflepuff x Hufflepuff
“Guess who got all fifty Disney movies?”
“… You know what this means?”

“Obviously.”
“Disney marathon slumber party in an hour. Let’s do this.”

Hufflepuff x Ravenclaw
“Ugh… But I’m in the middle of a book”
“C’mon you need to go socialize”

“But but but”
“And have you been procrastinating to read again?”

Hufflepuff x Slytherin
“I swear that bitch is going to suffer”
“Shh it’s okay you can do that when you take over the world”

“I mean I just hate when people judge me because of my family”
“SHE DID WHAT NOW”

Ravenclaw x Ravenclaw
“Dude when you’re done with that book I have another one”
“Ahh yes please gimme”

“…”
“…”

*content silence while snuggling and reading by the fireplace*

Ravenclaw x Slytherin
“So I may or may not have intercepted this coded message…”
“…”

“…”
“Let’s do this”

Slytherin x Slytherin
“I’m fine don’t worry”
“… I know you’re not”

“…”
“C’mon, I have some lavender oil and butterbeer. That’ll help.”

I’m already tired of hearing all the hate about Rhaegar looking too much like Viserys.

First of all, incest or not. Genetics are genetics. Believe it or not sometimes siblings look similar to one another *gasp.* And yes we hear in the books about how handsome, smart, strong, musically gifted, etc. Rhaegar was. But come on from the side profiles we get of Rhaegar. The man is nowhere NEAR ugly. I mean I for one sometimes I catch my side profile in the mirror and I have to look away before my eyes bleed. So lets all agree that he is not eye bleedingly hideous.

And secondly, can I just take a moment to somewhat put you in the shoes of a young Viserys? Prince Viserys got to experience 8 years of King’s Landing. He got to live in a palace with his mother father and older brother Rhaegar. Of course it wasn’t sunshine and rainbows but that’s a discussion for another day. Viserys knew Rhaegar. Viserys got to see him joust, play the harp, read, etc. Rhaegar was going to be the future king of Westeros. No doubt that Rhaegar was his role model. Have you ever seen a little sibling look up to their older sibling? They try to copy them constantly because they want to be just like them.

But alas, one thing leads to another and Viserys has to experience the deaths of both his parents and his heroic big brother. Plus he is exiled to a far away land with his newborn sister. How traumatizing would that be for a little boy? Now, I am not saying that Viserys would have been a good king. He grew up feeding on every lie he was told about the Usurper who stole his family’s crown. His own innocent, childish memories got twisted from years of yearning for revenge and power. Yet, a few of his memories still pull through unscathed. That being the memory of Rhaegar. Viserys mimicked his big brother’s appearance because deep down he still wanted to be like him; to be the king Rhaegar never could.

So in the end, what I am saying is that Rhaegar does not look like Viserys, Viserys looks like Rhaegar.

My Parents Going Through My Tumblr
  • Dad: Why do you post about us?
  • Me: People find you guys funny.
  • Dad: Funnier than you so I get it.
  • Me: Dad.
  • Mom: You should watch your language.
  • Me: My language? I was quoting you!
  • Mom: That's no excuse.
  • Me: Y'all make no sense.
  • Dad: What's a...Jamilton? Is that one of those ships you talk about?
  • Me: Yes. Jefferson and Hamilton.
  • Mom: Ah yes. They have more sexual tension than you and that 'friend' of yours.
  • Me: Mom oh my God.
  • Dad: Is Lams another one?
  • Me: Yes. Laurens and Hamilton.
  • Mom: Well he did shoot someone for Alexander. Even I wouldn't do that for your father.
  • Dad: Yeah she - wait, what?
  • Mom: Oh look people can comment of these posts of yours!
  • Dad: No no let's get back to the previous -
  • Mom: Would you look at that - we're more popular than you AJ.
  • Dad: HA!
  • Me: Oh my God...
  • Me: I mean no one believes y'all said it so.
  • Dad: Well...
  • Dad: That's rude...
  • Mom: You're rude.
  • Dad: The hell woman?

but onto a more serious note, the biggest reason as to why the holy trinity are so important is because, they are all minorities. friendships between minority groups, they can be groundbreaking. monumental. instrumental. historical for building a new wave of change that battle and fight prejudices and stereotypes.

in even, sana and isak, you have 3 people all coming from different minority backgrounds, each having a label that society boxes them in, reduces them down into, minimises and dismisses their struggles. 

in even, there’s representation of a boy so creative and ambitious who dreams of making movies, and has bipolar disorder and is bisexual/pansexual, who is also deeply interested and has willingly studied into islam. in isak, you have a studious science enthusiast, so into his biology and theories of evolution and parallel universes but living in the now, present moment too, and is gay. in sana, you have a young muslim woman of colour, just as studious as isak in her sciences, and very very passionate, and extremely successful, in basketball. 

together, the 3 of them coming and forming one trio, can breakdown discrimination on so many fronts: homophobia, ableism, racism, islamophobia. discriminations that need to be fought against, in the CURRENT world we live in. that, you know what, indeed! a muslim girl can be best friends with 2 boys who are in a relationship with one another! that yes, a boy with bipolar disorder can learn the qur’aan in arabic, and it doesn’t mean it isn’t valid. that yes, a boy that is gay can peacefully be friends with a muslim girl. all these little things sum up to form something so huge, that society can do nothing but talk about it, raise awareness about it, because it cannot be avoided.

why? because these people exist. in very large numbers. mentally ill people exist. muslims exist. lgbt+ people exist. we are EVERYWHERE. and we have finally found something that we can identify to that represents us. of course we are going to talk about it, in the masses, especially when all these minorities intertwine and form such a pure, strong, solid friendship that goes against so much of what society has taught us that, “in fact, these people will never be able to mix peacefully.” 

we exist. we will raise our voices. we will cause hype and make noise about it. and society will have no other option but to accept us and change their mindset.

this friendship is so so so important. so important.

8

#wentworthmiller. The most courageous and fearless person I have ever met. A man that shuns adulation and the glare of celebrity a private man who  has zero interest in affirmation of any kind. He doesnt need it he knows who he is where he’s going. He stands true to himself regardless of the consequences. His integrity is unmatched his desire to follow his own path his way is truly inspiring I haven’t seen anything quite like it. I’ve learnt so much from my bro. People ask us constantly whats the reason behind our on screen chemistry. It’s impossible to articulate but what I do know is, there is zero #ego between us never has been. We care for one another deeply; yes like brothers and simply want the best for one another. He is like a brother to me a dear friend that I would do anything for as he would me. Love ya mate. Thanks for this crazy fucked up amazing journey we are experiencing together. #legend- Dominic Purcell

questions tag!

this should be the last one i haven’t responded to yet?? yikes i’m so sorry but thank you wonderful @haedreamers for the tag <3

1. nicknames: Cee, Catt
2. zodiac sign: born on a cusp, virgo-libra!
3. height: 162.8 cm (sigh)
4. orientation: honestly who knows anymore
5. nationality: ukranian-lebanese
6. favorite fruit: all of them
7. favorite season: fall-winter (i can’t pick)

Keep reading

darcyglasses-blog  asked:

I saw your recent response to the question concerning the supposed romance between Spock and Kirk. And you said that we would never know unless Gene Roddenberry rose from the grave. As compelling as your argument was I just never got that vibe from The Original Series. I have always felt that Gene's ideas were groundbreaking and revolutionary. I think that if Gene meant there to be a gay couple he would have had the balls to write it right out. Then again it was a different time. Love your blog!

but like

he did have the balls to write it

The origin of t’hy’la: Gene Roddenberry came up with the name in his novelization of Star Trek: The Motion Picture. The word “t’hy’la” is Vulcan and means ‘brother’, ‘friend’ and/or ‘lover’. 
The use of t’hy’la: “Jim! Goodbye, my…my t’hy’la. This is the last time I will permit myself to think of you or even your name again.”
“And on the bridge - Kirk! The mere name made Spock groan inwardly as he remembered what it had cost him to turn away from that welcome. T’hy’la!”

Roddenberry: “I definitely designed it as a love relationship… That was the relationship I tried to draw. I think I also tried to draw a feeling of belief that very few of us are complete unto ourselves. It’s quite a lovely thing… where two halves make a whole.”

Interviewer: “There’s a great deal of writing in the Star Trek movement which compares the relationship between Alexander and Hephaistion to the relationship between Kirk and Spock - focusing on the closeness of the friendship, the feeling that they would die for one another…”
Roddenberry: “Yes, there’s certainly some of that - certainly with love overtones. Deep love. The only difference being, the Greek ideal - we never suggested in the series - physical love between the two. But it’s the - we certainly had the feeling that the affection was sufficient for that, if that were the particular style of the 23rd century.”

we certainly had the feeling that the affection was sufficient for that

we certainly had the feeling that the affection was sufficient for that

we certainly had the feeling that the affection was sufficient for that

Look what I’m working on…

Serendipitous Fate 

Chapter 23 - Unofficial Preview (spoilers)

The most rational thing that Marinette could figure was that she was dreaming. Or maybe even in the midst of a nightmare. Yes, a nightmare. That was the only conclusion that made sense.

Yet, it was the little things that contradicted what she would like to think was certainty. The cool feeling of the porcelain toilet lid seeping through her shorts and searing her skin like a burn. The familiar grain of the hardwood floor beneath her feet. The soft murmur of voices in the other room. But what was most jarring was the too-close sound of scissors shearing through hair. It wasn’t consistent like everything else. It stabbed through her ears like a dull, choppy blade—like being sick with the flu only to be shaken every few seconds.

She wanted it to end, but was afraid that if she said anything, she’d be forced to recognize what was real. So, instead, she stared at the floor as chunks of black hair fell softly down around her feet, the weight gradually lifting from her head with each sharp, grating slice of the scissors.

Her mother’s hands were gentle as they sifted through her hair, evening the strands and snipping at flyaways. Until, finally, the shearing stopped.

Finally, Marinette could close her eyes and convince herself that none of it was real.           

That everything was fine.

“How does it look?” Her mother’s voice, though even and calm, was nearly as jarring as the scissors had been. Marinette snapped her eyes open to see that a hand mirror was being held out in front of her.

Out of expected habit—because her body knew motions well enough to substitute for her lagging brain—she reached up and took the mirror, before holding it up so she could see the reflection of the back of her head in the large bathroom vanity.

“It looks fine,” she replied, voice rough from misuse. No more pigtails. Though her heavy bangs remained, the back and sides of her hair had been trimmed within millimeters of her head, so as to even out where Queen Bee as cut away the strands during their battle.

Queen Bee… The battle…

Marinette didn’t want to think about it.

She wasn’t too torn up over the loss of her hair—she’d had short hair before. Not this short, but it’d grow back. There were worse things, after all.

“Marinette,” her mother said softly, touching her shoulder. She sat down on the edge of the tub a moment later, so they were facing one another. “Are you alright?”

She didn’t want to talk about it. She didn’t want to think about it.

Changing the subject to anything else was better.

“You were Ladybug before I was, right?” she asked, despite already knowing the answer

Sabine’s hold tensed on her shoulder, before her hand fell away. Much like her gaze did, becoming distant as she peered to the side.

“I was. But that… was a long time ago.”

“You’ve known I was Ladybug this whole time,” she determined.

“I realized it shortly after your first encounter with Hawkmoth, yes. I’d know those earrings anywhere. And the ring too.” She took a deep breath. “I knew Adrien was Chat Noir the first time I met him.”

Which was before Marinette had known.

“The miraculouses extend their users lifespans,” Marinette went on. “How old are you?”

“Much older than I look,” Sabine replied, finally looking back at her daughter and able to wear a small smile. Yet, Marinette said nothing, and so Sabine gave in. “I turned 97 this year, one year younger than Gabriel. I was Ladybug for most of my life.”

“Is that how you and Mr. Agreste know one another?”

“Yes. Gabriel is… a very old friend. We fought together during World War II, myself, him, and… And we stayed together for many years after, the three of us. Then the four of us.” Reaching up, she touched her forehead, looking wearied. “Thinking so far back really makes me feel my age.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Reaching out, Sabine patted her knee. “I’m not nearly as old as some.”

“Cas! Cas! Don’t do this to me, Cas.”

Dean kneels in the dirt next to Cas’s inert body, the rough fabric of the trenchcoat gripped tightly in his fists. It’s been minutes–hours?–since they came through from the other universe, since Cas… Dean doesn’t know when he started crying, but his face is wet with tears and his throat is raw from sobbing and pleading with Cas.

“Open your eyes, Cas. You cannot leave me. Not again. Open your eyes. Open your eyes. Open your eyes…”

He is still whispering the words, his voice nearly gone, when Sam pulls him away.

***

“Cas.”

It’s been over a week since they burned Cas’s body. Dean’s mind won’t let him sleep; he still sees the flames every time he closes his eyes. He feels the heat licking at his skin, cracking his lips. Now he sits on the cement floor of the parking garage; it’s the coolest place he can find.

“Where are you, Cas? Can you hear me anymore? Is it hot where you are? Is it cold? Where do angels go when they…”

There are tears on his cheeks again.

The barest whisper: “I miss you, Cas.”

***

On a hunt, a werewolf pack closing in.

“Cas! We could use your help!”

Sam jerks in surprise, barely escapes a snapping jaw.

The fight is brutal. Dean has a gash on his arm, Sam a badly bruised rib, but all the werewolves are dead. They make their way back to the Impala, Dean muttering, “Where are you, Cas?”

“Dean,” Sam says softly, “Cas is–”

Dean’s glare stops him cold.

***

Dark fields fly past outside Baby’s windows, and the sky above is a flood of stars. Dean is blind to all but the road and the steering wheel.

Led Zeppelin plays on the radio. Ramble On. This isn’t on the tape he made for…

“This used to be one of my favorite songs, Cas. But it’s all about goodbye, all about looking for something more. That was my life, always saying goodbye. Then we found the bunker, so we kinda had a home. And I thought–I hoped–someday I’d have you too.”

The song had ended while he was praying. The Impala’s engine and her wheels on the road are the only sounds until Dean’s gasping sobs fill the car.

He pulls over to the side of the road.

Cas.” Dean chokes on the name. “I wish you could hear me.”

***

It’s been 37 days since Cas…left.

Dean is off on his own again. He hunts with Sam, but between hunts he can’t seem to stay still, just like he can’t seem to close his eyes. So he drives. When he realizes where he is, he makes a sound that is almost a laugh.

Pontiac, Illinois.

He takes a few wrong turns, but eventually finds his way to the barn. It is, surprisingly, still standing. He expects to find the inside littered with beer bottles and the like, but there is nothing. Maybe all the signs and sigils scared off the local miscreants.

Memories wash over Dean in a rush.

Sparks.

Wings.

Stabbings.

I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.

I’m an angel of the Lord.

This is your problem, Dean. You have no faith.

Dean falls to his knees, head bowed. Remembering. The awesome sight of Cas’s wings, filling the entire barn. The way his eyes seemed to look into Dean’s very soul. The feeling of being known, and chosen, and wanted.

He aches for Cas, so even he is surprised by the words that tumble from his lips.

“Chuck. I don’t know if you’re listening anymore. The bible says–and yeah, Cas told me to read the bible, so I did–that you’re everywhere at once, so maybe you can still hear me even off on your family vacation.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not good at this. I sound like an idiot. I’ve gotten used to praying to Cas, but he can’t hear me anymore. Lucifer, he…” Tears flow from Dean’s eyes.

“I’m broken, Chuck. I can barely stand. You need to give him back to us. We need him. And not because he’s a fighter, or because he’s an angel, or because he’s a part of our team. You need to give him back because…” Dean takes a shuddering breath. “You need to give him back to me. Because I love him. He’s not my brother, he’s…he’s everything.”

His voice is raw, thick with tears.

“I never got to tell him. Please, Chuck. Please. I don’t know what else to say. Can you hear the sound of a heart breaking?”

***

Chuck blinks.

“Well, what do you know. Too bad I’m not writing any more books. I love character development.”

He twirls his finger in the air, and the dust motes form a spinning vortex. Atoms join, coming together to form more and more complex molecules until, with a tiny breath from Chuck, the angel stands in front of him.

Chuck gestures. “Sorry about the tie. Dean seem to like it backwards, though.”

Cas stands bewildered, patting his coat, touching his face, ruffling his hair–deliberately avoiding the place where the blade pierced his chest.

“And the tape is still in your pocket. I know it’s important to you.”

Cas’s hand flies to the inside pocket of his trenchcoat. When his hand closes around the familiar piece of plastic he relaxes slightly.

“I don’t understand,” Cas says. “I was…gone. Again.”

Chuck points at himself. “Did you forget who I am? Or how many times I’ve done this for you?”

Cas’s thoughts still haven’t caught up to the present. “But why?”

“Character development.”

Cas tilts his head, puzzled. “I don’t–”

“Nevermind,” Chuck says, chuckling to himself. “I just need you to deliver a message to Dean Winchester, okay?”

Cas nods, eyes bright. “Alright.”

“Tell him…tell him…no, on second thought, just go. I think he’ll understand. A picture is worth a thousand words and all that.”

Cas nods again, still not understanding, but willing to go. Chuck reaches out, gently rests his hands on Cas’s shoulders.

“One more thing,” he says. “It was never a punishment, Castiel.”

Cas’s eyes widen.

“You always believe in me. I keep bringing you back because I always believe in you too.”

***

Boards creak. Feathers rustle.

Dean’s head jerks up.

“Dean, why are we here?”

Dean cannot speak. He pulls himself to his feet, his eyes never leaving Cas’s. He walks to Cas, and when they are standing close enough to touch Cas says, “What about personal space, Dean?”

“Are you real, Cas?” Dean breathes. “Are you really you?”

Understanding, Cas flexes his wings. Blue-black feathers flash. No demon or shapeshifter could fake that.

“Good,” says Dean. “Oh, Cas. I–”

But there are no words. He pulls Cas into a hug, holding him like he never wants to let go.

“Thank you, Chuck,” Dean whispers. “Thank you.”

Whipped...Boyfriend?? (Pt.5)

I want to take the time to thank my lovely @harryimaginedstories for nudging me in the right direction with this one. I was a bit conflicted in terms of which direction I wanted to take it, but she was able to settle my doubts. Thank you, love!

Without further ado…




It was impossible not to be so entranced by such a beautiful boy. A beautiful man. A wonderful human being. A decent human being, who taught the world how to be kind, even if they didn’t realize they were learning. He loves people the way they deserve to be loved, making sure to let them know it was okay. It was okay to be loved and to fall in love, that’s what we live for after all. But this boy lives for so much more. This man lives to make others happy, because that’s where he finds his own.

He’s a breath of relief, to see such maturity in a young person; it leaves others in true awe. The way he presents himself, with such confidence that could make you shrink into yourself, feel small. But he has the ability to pull you right out of that state of mind. He’ll make you feel like you’re the most important person in the world. He’s kind and sensitive and all that a man should be.

It was impossible not to notice him. It was impossible not to get caught up.

And it was impossible not to fall in love.

***

He was by no means perfect though. He had a temper. He had a tendency to disregard certain things, even though he didn’t mean to. He could be the life of the party one minute, and a great introvert the next, keeping to himself in an intriguing way. He was intimidating, but he had that aura. He would make you feel like you needed to be his friend, like you needed to know him and be a part of his extraordinary life.

He had spots and blemishes on his face, but make up covered that up well. When he was particularly tired, the circles under his eyes added to that imperfection. He had a bit of a lazy eye, but you couldn’t really tell unless you were dead on staring, and even then you would most likely get lost in the icy green of them, specs of gold.

***

But they never saw him like Y/N did. They never lay next to him like she did. They never felt the warmth of his skin like she did.

They never got to experience him in the morning like she did. She took notice to it all.

How his hair was lighter in the sun. A golden brown, or maybe blonde, that had her fingers running through the soft strands with little to no notice that she was doing it. His eyes, bright and excited, crinkles on the corners even though it was seven in the morning and all Y/N wanted to do was go back to sleep, but Harry was a morning person, and plenty times she failed to lull him back to sleep after the sun rose.

The dip on his cheek prominently deepened with every laugh shared, every joke told, every happy moment lived.

His lips, just like in the photos, and how the world sees them. Pink, and enticing. The way that he spoke, the way that his lips moved and pursed around every word, it was hard not to notice.

They never felt those lips like she did. They touched her hands, her fingers, her neck. Her ears, her hair, her forehead. Her temples, her eyes, her cheeks, her nose. Anywhere but where she wanted to have them for the amount of time they were best friends. Until finally, on that glorious night, they touched her lips. After that, she experienced the gentleness of them when he’d get home from work and lay a kiss on her waiting lips. She experienced how rough they could be, pressed tight against her own after long days apart. She experienced them on cold days, or nights. And never minded when they were chapped.

They were cold, they were warm. They were hers.

He was mesmerizing.

***

And they never saw him fall like she did.

Takes a grand deal to make a great man fall, but it takes even more to lift him back up.

Countless times he’d safely look to her to make his days better, until he realized he didn’t deserve her. Not after what he did.

***

He was superman. He was untouchable, indestructible. But only to the public.

Behind closed doors. Where everything happens.

Her touch couldn’t help him that night.

Her begging and pleading couldn’t save him.

Her love could not save them.

***

What did she do?

What did she not do?

Little did she know, it’s what he had done.




It honestly can’t be any more embarrassing. She should’ve let Harry accompany her, hell; she should’ve shot him a text, or called him while she was still in the loo. And though more often than not she’s able to handle herself, she should’ve really just trusted her gut and asked Harry to meet her outside.

It’s not as bad as it could be though, and in all honesty it might be her fault. But the dress just seems too expensive and she can’t believe she ruined it. She’s almost certain she would have burst out in tears if the woman behind the bar hadn’t gone around to help her dry up, but never the less the stain is still prominent, and she’s wishing and hoping that it’ll be an easy fix when she takes it to the cleaner once they get back home.

How was she going to explain what happened. So you see, I sort of kind of maybe definitely stumbled a bit because you know, alcohol, and maybe sort of definitely bumped into that lady over there and completely drenched myself in red wine.

“Harry.”

His eyes went wide before he’d even taken a proper look at her.

“I’m sorry.” The whisper came as a shock.

She was beginning to get teary eyed because again, she cannot imagine how much this dress must’ve cost Harry.

His sigh of relief goes unnoticed, and in two long strides he’s stood in front of her.

“Wha’ ‘appened, love.”

At this moment, he really seems to have forgotten about the problem at hand, and only hopes Y/N won’t ask who he’d been talking to.

“I’m sorry. It all happened so fast and-” the words get caught in her throat.

He takes a look at the wine stained fabric, a thumb rubbing over the damp spot as if it would help clean it any.

“No, kitt'en. S'fine. Nothin’ t’ fret over.”

She wipes a stray tear from her cheek with a knuckle, a single sob huffing out.

Harry kisses the top of her hair line, a chuckle lightening the tension he’s sure she must be feeling.

“S'not funny. Aren’t you upset?” She looks up at him dolefully, “I ruined it, H.” She pinches the fabric in between her fingers, pulling at it just a tad to emphasize the mess.

But Harry can’t help but smile, “s'okay, love. I’ll buy ye’ another one. I’ll buy ye’ ten if ye’d like. S'no problem.”

He smiles wider, in attempt to reassure her that it’s not a big deal, he’s not mad. And only when he feels her relax does he shrug off his jacket, slipping each arm out before reaching behind her and settling it over her own shoulders.

“Now c'mon,” he grips the lapel between his fingers and gently pulls her closer, pecking her pout, “let’s get ye’ t'the hotel.”

***

A shower is very much what Y/N needed. The alcohol in her system seems to have evaporated along with the headache that was beginning to creep up. The noise outside has settled, allowing her to sit in bed in peace and quiet, the only sound being that of running water as Harry took his own shower.

“Have any of tha’ body wash ye’ use, pet?” It’s just like Harry to step into the shower unprepared.

“Running low, gonna have to use your own, babe.”

She wasn’t really, she always makes sure to pack more than needed when they go on trips. But she likes how Harry smells, and if denying him her own scent meant she’d be able to cuddle up to fresh, sometimes minty smelling, Harry, then so be it. He can scold her all he wants once he comes out and finds that she does in fact have plenty of her own body wash.

“Can ye’ han’ me a towel?”

Of course.

Y/N thinks he does this stuff on purpose sometimes. Whether it be 'can ye’ hand me m'towel, love’ or 'left m'loofa on the far end of the counter’, for some reason or another he always seems to forget something at shower time. Sometimes he even lures her into the bathroom with the smell of whatever bath bomb he feels like indulging in. And she’s not completely dull-witted either, nor a woman with no needs. So even though she huffs because 'Harry, really? Next time I’ll let you come out for it yourself. Teach ya a lesson and learn once you slip and fall on your ass,’ she can’t deny she hasn’t fantasied.

And she must admit she does get that tight knot just below her belly button every time she slips into the bathroom and catches a glimpse of his silhouette behind the curtain. Or a tingle, that will have her thighs clenching at the sight of him in the tub, bubbles long gone, bare ass on display. And he’ll tilt his head up and pout his lips slightly, silently asking for a kiss after she’s handed him the bath bar he oh so conveniently left on the bathroom counter. But he’d never turn over, because despite his own needs, he didn’t really know how she would react, never even tried.

“'Lo?” She’s brought out from the lusting thoughts, jolting in place before scurrying over to the room’s dresser and pulling out a white cotton towel, aware that the water’s been turned off.

“Here.” It’s cute, how she’s peeked the door open just a bit, slipping her hand in and waving the material without once looking into the room.

“Ye’ can come in, love.” Harry chuckles, body hidden behind the curtain.

“Should really stop forgetting the towel.” But he can’t help it, he always thought if it got her mind wondering, maybe it’d help ease her along. But that was then, before he’d gone and had sex with somebody that wasn’t her. Now, all he wants is to find the appropriate time to tell her.

“G'na make a note of tha’.”

Any other time she’d be quick to rush out, but right now. Right now she’s looking at him in a way he doesn’t think she’s ever looked at him. Eyes lingering, sizing what little of him she can see through the shower curtain. He notices how her bottom lips drawls out from between her teeth. And though he begins to feel himself growing, he can’t help the guilt washing over him all over again. So he breaks eye contact, and slides the curtain closed.

***

Why it took Harry a good ten minutes to finally come out of the bathroom, Y/N’s got no clue. Surely it couldn’t have taken more than three minutes to wash his teeth. When he does finally come out, he doesn’t make eye contact, instead she watches as he walks around the room from where she sits on the bed against the headboard, collecting every piece of clothing he wore tonight and hanging it appropriately on hangers.

She watches how the muscles on his back flex when he moves his arms. She watches the swallows high on his chest move to the way he breathes. She smiles at the way the damp strands stick to his forehead before he slides his fingers through and back to remove them from his eyes. She admires the stern look on his face as he fumbles to button his suit jacket, lifting it up to inspect it before hanging it inside the armoire.

Her eyes trace over his tense jaw, the dimly lit room allowing her to see the chiseled structure of his face. She bites the inside of her lip, eyes following the drops of water trailing from the tips of his hair, to the side of his face, to his collarbones, past his chest hair and down his abs before being absorbed into the white material. Her eyes linger lower, noticing how the towel hangs dangerously low on his waist, enough that she can see his happy trail.

A hand moves to settle between her thighs, already feeling the heat that’s worked up.

What sends her over the edge is the evident outline of his bulge, and when he turns sideways, the noticeable tent-like bump has her toes curling and thighs pressing closer against her hand.

“Harry.” She doesn’t mean for it to come out sultry, but it does and it has Harry giving her his full attention.

She’s on her knees now, walking on her knees to the edge of the bed where he’s standing at.

He can feel his breath hitch at the touch, her fingertips ghosting over the 17BLACK tattoo down to the butterfly on his tummy before she’s rubbing her thumb over the Might as well by his v-line.

Before he knows it, he’s exhaling a low moan into her mouth at the feeling of her fingertips trailing down his happy trail. They stop at the top of the cottony fabric. He forces his eyes shut when the pads of her fingers continue trailing down until her palm is against his growing erection and he’s bucking his hips forward.

He feels her smile against his lips. And it’s then that she starts a slow up and down motion, her hand working on his length.

Harry grips at either side of her hip, pressing the tip of his tongue against her slightly parted lips, and when she opens further, his tongue slips in to work against hers.

It’s been a while since he’s had a hand other than his own touching his cock, and although he’s denied of full pleasure because of the thick material around his waist, it’s better than him having to tug one out in the confines of a bathroom. 

The attention her hand is giving his cock is enough to have him in a daze. But he can feel her uneasiness still, not doing much other rather running her palm over his member, so he sets a hand over her own, squeezing it to cup over his cock, the knot in his lower stomach tightening as he detaches his lips from hers and throws his head back in pleasure.

His breathing has become jagged, eyebrows knitted in hopes to restrain the throbbing of his cock.

He feels her replace her hand with his own, and Harry can do nothing but lightly squeeze at the head.

She kisses from his shoulder, to the protruding vein on the side of his neck, and back down to the crook of it, hands trailing up to his chest. When she bites at the skin, the hand that was soothing the ache on his cock goes to her hair, and suddenly his eyes meet hers again.

“Need you.” It’s what she whispers as she presses herself closer, hips meeting his in an urge to feel him, her lips reattaching to his. This causes Harry’s hand to slip down to the curve of her bum where it meets the back of her thighs. And he’s pressing them firm against her bum, his own clenching in an attempt to press himself closer to her, wanting her to feel what she’s done to him.

She takes his body along with hers as she begins moving backwards onto the mattress until she’s completely laying down with Harry on top of her, holding his own weight with his forearms flat on the mattress. His hair, once too short, falls over the sides of his face, eyes downcast and nostrils flared.

He moves to hook a thumb inside her boy shorts, but doesn’t make any effort to slide them down. Instead, he holds it there.

Y/N starts to feel the pressing of his bulge against her mound, and her back arches when he grinds into her. The built up frustration is causing him to grip at her hip a tad too tight, but Y/N’s moan at the feeling only causes him to rut his hips harder.

Although Y/N might be a virgin, she’s not a complete saint. She’s spent countless times reading up on the pleasure that is sex. She’d often get off at the thought of Harry, hands gripping her bed sheets as she wrenched and moaned until she reached release. But she’s never been confident enough to take that big step. Not with Harry, not with anyone else she’s dated.

And she never thought it would feel this good.

Her legs hook around his waist, craving to have him closer, and he’s attaching his lips to her neck.

“Pet.” His whisper is mixture of frustration and pleasure.

All she can do is moan.

Soon enough, he’s pushing himself off of her.

Did she do something?

But he doesn’t say anything, moves to sit on the edge of the bed, trying his best to ignore the throbbing of his cock, well aware that he won’t be relishing in the pleasure of release. A hand runs through his hair before it settles on his lap. And then he’s letting out a sigh and bringing the heels of his hand to dig at his eyes.

“Everything okay, H?”

He’s waited so long for this. But he can’t. He won’t.

He needs to tell her, but where does he start.

He hears her yawn, and he can already imagine her kneeled behind him, hovering over his body.

But she doesn’t say anything, wraps her arms around his neck from and presses a kiss to the shell of his ear.

“Don’t have to, if you don’t want.”

But he does, he wants to. Just not like this.

He reaches behind to caress at her hair and presses his temple against her forehead.

“Not tonight, pet.”

She doesn’t say anything after that, so Harry stands up to walk to the dresser, grabbing a pair of briefs and making his way into the bathroom.

When he comes out, his Y/N is asleep, curled up in the middle of the bed, oblivious to the silent tears running down his cheeks.

He’s made up his mind. He’ll tell her tomorrow.

He stands at the side of the bed, looking her over, the guilt eating at him.

He manages to wedge himself in between her and the mattress without waking her, bringing her to lie against his chest, holding tight.

But the tears don’t stop.

At 4 in the morning he’s still awake, no sign that he’s growing tired. He’s trying to memorize all of her, his eyes and hands scanning and ghosting her sleeping figure.

She looks so pure. A sob racks his body, and when the next one threatens to shake him he inhales deep when he feels her stir against him.

How could he have done this to her.

After she buries her face in the crook of his neck, he closes his eyes tight, squeezing her to him one last time before letting sleep overcome him.

And though it’s a long shot, he just hopes they’ll be able get through this.

***

When Harry wakes up, it’s to an empty bed and a note on the side of mattress where Y/N laid the night before. He takes the hotel’s notepad in between his thumb and index finger.

Went out for breakfast with Lou. Giving you a Y/N free afternoon so you can hang out with the boys. Already packed for our flight tomorrow. See you later, babe!(:

Although he really wishes she would have woken him so they could eat together, Harry knows he’s got to sort his guilt out. He can’t let another day go by lying to her.

***

How did they end up here.

She knew it wasn’t gonna be anything good. From her experience, nothing good ever follows 'we need to talk.’

But she could have never imagined this. Never in a million years could she have thought those words would be coming out of Harry’s mouth.

She’s in complete shock, hands trembling and heart pounding, pounding hard against her chest and she swears she can hear it echoing in the room.

“You-” She can’t say it, she can’t repeat it, but she knows there’s no way around this.

“You slept with someone else.” She’s making sure she heard him right. She wants to believe she heard wrong, but his following words further prove that’s not the case.

“I’d had too much t'drink. I-I didn’t know wha’ I was doin’. I can’t remember anythin’. All I know s'I woke up next to h-”

“Stop.” Every word he says, hang in the air, floating in her head because no, she refuses to believe her Harry could have done this to her.

He had been stood frozen in the middle of the room after insisting she sit down, and though she was reluctant and wary, she had, the soft sofa failing to ease the growing tension.

“Y/N.” His eyes are red, fighting against his sobs to explain to her, to try to get her to understand that had he been in his five senses, it wouldn’t have happened because he doesn’t have eyes for anyone else.

“Stop.” There’s nothing else she can say. She doesn’t want to hear about what, or how it happened. She doesn’t want details on the night Harry betrayed her trust.

Harry can see tear drops landing on her jeans, hands clasped together on her lap, making no effort to wipe at her eyes or her cheeks.

“It meant nothing and I-”

“Harry.” And the look on her face when she finally looks up at him, that look has him falling to his knees in front of her, reaching out to take her hands in his.

“Y/N, no.” His lips are quivering, the corners of them pulled down. “It meant nothin’. Ye’ can’t think fo’ a minute tha’ I wanted it. I love you. You know tha’.”

His heart breaks all the more when she bows her head back down and says nothing. She looks at their joined hands and gives his a squeeze.

“Tell me ye’ know tha’.” The crack of his voice tugs at her heart.

“M'sorry, love. M'so so sorry.”

Suddenly, it clicks in her head.

“No,” she whispers in sudden realization.

She pulls her hands away when she feels his lips rest on her knuckles.

“That day, that’s what it was. That’s why you were crying.” It’s as if it’s all come together. “You should have told me.”

“I wanted to. I wanted t'tell ye’,” he chokes on his words, “and it killed me to-”

“You’ve kept this from me this long.” It’s more like she’s saying it to herself, trying to wrap her head around how he could sleep next to her knowing what he had done.

“I wanted t'find the right time t'tell ye’. I didn’t mean for it t’-”

“Stop.”

She can feel his grip tighten on her thighs. She can’t do this. She can’t sit here and listen to his excuses.

“M'sorry for lettin’ it come this far. Pet, m'sorry. I wanted t'tell ye’. And then when I saw 'er last night-”

Is he serious? She was there? There’s a chance she might have had a conversation with the woman Harry slept with?

“Stop.” She really just wants him to stop.

“I was so scared. I didn’t know she was gonna be there. And I couldn’t have ye’ findin’ out like tha’. I couldn’t risk-”

She can’t take it. “Harry stop!” She didn’t want to yell, she’s never been one to yell. Their small tiffs never ended in yelling. But she knows this isn’t small, and she can’t be expected to keep calm.

He’s losing her, he feels it.

She brushes his hands off, pushing herself off the sofa and moving away from him to the door of the room.

“No,” he cries, tears welling up in his eyes, vision blurry, so he wipes at his them harshly with the back of his hand.

“Get out.” She’s opening the door, eyes fixated on the floor.

He sets his weight on the back of his heels for a moment, head in his hands. The only sound in the room being a mix of his ragged breathing and her sobs. He stays still, but only for a moment, until he hears her faintly whisper his name.

“Please, love-” he’s quick to get up, shoulders slumped as he cautiously moves to her, feet dragging.

“Out.” There’s no changing her mind.

She’s never felt so broken before, so betrayed.

And she doesn’t look at him, not even a glance even though she can feel his stare on her.

She listens as whis breathing evens, and lets him kiss the top of her hair before she’s shutting the door behind him.

Her world’s crashing around her, and all it took was one night with someone else. She wants the floor to swallow her whole. She wants this all to be a nightmare.

But it’s real. And it hurts.