footballer words

you know i was writing a big post about how i admired 17776′s take on the whole future utopia thing being shown as simple and domestic.
that the human race being rendered immortal, thus allowing time for world peace to be a true and normal thing was really interesting, and dont get me wrong, it really is, but i was rereading this and something about Jason’s project plan made me have second thoughts

its not so much the content of the plan thats disturbing but how its written??? maybe i’m looking too deep but the scribbles and how its displayed is just mildly disconcerting 

especially when you realize new york is completely underwater (?) and people are fucking flinging themselves into tornadoes for the sake of football there is just definitely something weird going on in the underworks of this whole thing

I hate people who say girls only watch football to impress guys. Nope, I watch it because I actually enjoy it, and because I want to stare at their massive asses lol bye

Simple minds

REQUEST: hi !! could u write a really fluffy henry x female reader fic where he kinda confesses to her all blushy and flustered and they go out on their cute first date and she’s really sweet and he’s flustered the whole time but makes a move at the end sorry if that’s too much lol but thank you !!! I really like your blog ! <3

A/N: I am a giant slut for fluff prompts but Henry Bowers is a bitch to write in character for these things. So it might not be as fluffy as you want it. This is part one of two. The second one will have cuter scenes, I promise. [Part 2]


Closely linked by history and similar interests, Vic and Belch have been with Henry through every crush the boy has experienced. With many of them being superficial and almost always fleeting, they’re unsure if they’ve ever seen him genuinely like someone before. If he ever did, he hid it well behind a callous persona; a good chance why his romantic relationships never blossomed into anything more than one-sided disdain.

“The arcade got a new game.”

“I don’t get paid till Friday.”

“Take some kid’s lunch money.”

It’s a scripted conversation. One that varied depending on the news but never progressed past anything that could hold Henry’s interest when you were present. The introduction to Careless Whisper plays stagnant in his mind as watchful eyes follow your every step with a friend by your side. Just looking at you makes his stomach turn and he can’t pinpoint if it due to disgust or infatuation.

“Bowers.” Patrick hits the daze’s blonde in the arm, causing him to be abruptly jarred and defensively jaded.

“What?”

“We’re skipping next period for the arcade. Let’s go.”

Henry waves off the offer, watching you say your goodbyes to you friend then detouring through the door nearest to where his gang stood. Without much of an explanation, besides a brisk “Go without me.” He ditches them, ducking into the class the two of you shared for that period.

He takes the desk right behind yours and sets the trap. “Shit.”

On cue you turn your body towards him and quip a smile. “Lemme guess, you forgot your homework?”

He smirks. “How didja know?”

“You have a bad habit of ‘forgetting’ it every day you deign to show up.” Strategically placing your purse on his desk, you shuffle through a folder labeled MATH in crazy curly type handwriting and hand him your finish homework.  You find it remarkable how fast he can copy your notes without leaving chicken scratch in his wake. It’s the kind of ability that comes from years of experience in cheating off other students. Not that you were one to judge. Your whole middle school social life was anchored around those who would let you copy their homework. It was only fair you pay you debt to society.

He finishes in record speed and you half expect him to walk out like he’s done so many times in the past that it doesn’t occur to you that you’re staring.

“See somethin’ you like?”

Your eyes widen, slightly embarrassed of being caught, but to answer his question, yeah. Your lips part ever so slightly when you tilt your head a calculated degree. “Did you always that silver earring?” Extending your hand towards the metal jewel, the pads of your fingertips marking their path with goosebumps as they brush against his cheek and neck.

He almost wants to lean into your touch. He almost does, but you pull away too quickly at the sound of heavy footsteps entering the classroom. The telltale steps settles down the class noise signaling that class will begin shortly.

Your teacher, Mr. Allen, opens class with a vague threat about his cheating policies, though he doesn’t mention any names, Henry catches an intended glare behind the rim of his glasses directed at the two of you. He can only assume you see it too as you slouch in your sit, making yourself as small as possible. It doesn’t stop him from handing in his plagiarism, practically daring Mr. Allen to do something about it.

And he does.

The next day you find yourself in detention, accompanied by seven other students, three of them belonging to the Bowers gang, the leader himself included. You take a seat next towards the window, a good two rows away from where the boys sat.

Whispers, too low to be registered by the supervising staff’s hearing aids, come from the gang’s vicinity as Henry laments his girl problems with the only two people that have been by his side from the beginning. Unfortunately, it was very much a blind leading the blind scenario since not a single one of them have had an actual relationship with a girl since elementary.

While your ear drums were far superior to that of your authority, you still can’t quite make out what their saying and though you don’t fault Henry for getting you in this mess, you knew the risks, it irks you that he gets a social club and you’re stuck bored for an hour. Pondering what to do, you find satisfaction in making a paper football with the words ‘whatcha doin’?’ scribbled on the front. You flick it, shielding a soft giggle behind your hand when it bounces off Henry’s head.

Eyebrows raise and he glances back at you, the sun casting a halo glow over your body so much so it hurts to look at you directly. Reading over the note, he writes back on loose leaf notebook paper, crumpling it up and tossing it back at you.

None of your business

Can I make it my business?

No

Must be some real embarrassing shit

You watch him struggle with his reply; Belch and Victor tussling over the paper with him in a vain attempt to ‘help’ him with a witty come back. It was only a joke but with each passing second it becomes clear that you’ve hit a nerve.

When you receive his note you’re convince they’re joking. Flustered but convince. There was an attempt to scratch out the words FUCK YOU written in his handwriting, not that it surprised you, Henry was never much of a wordsmith. Underneath it however was a more blockish handwriting , one you’ve never seen before.

Wanna go out?

There were two boxes beneath it, one labeled YES and the other FUCK YES. You look over to see Belch and Victor snickering  and pointing with both their hands at their fearless leader who was now nose to the desk and arm curled tightly around his face flushed red from anger and embarrassment. You answer back with a box of your own.

Only if you pay

Deal

Henry doesn’t talk much on your date. Whether because of nerves or lack of interest you can’t tell, but he nods at all the right moments in your stories, asking follow up questions that are never too in-depth but prods you to keep the conversation alive.

He takes you to a movie theater that—of no surprise to you, his friends also happen to be at. Belch hands you and Henry tickets he already bought. The quizzically look you gave Belch was enough for Henry to answer on the teen’s behalf, “Don’t worry, he has a job.” His hand moves to the small of your back and guides you into the theater, not allowing you time to overthink it.

The two of you share a large popcorn, Victor having the ingenious idea for Henry to use that as an excuse for you two to touch like in those cliché romantic movies. Not counting on Henry to be so engrossed with the movie he doesn’t even try to make a pass at you. During the second lull in the film, he stretches his arms above his head and you take it as a signal, leaning in ready for the classic sneak-an-arm-around-the-date maneuver, only to feel like an idiot when his arms come back down, crossing over his chest.

This motherfucker.

There was a murder in that theater that day. Your confidence had been shot and Henry Bowers was the culprit to pull the trigger. Not once has he tried anything on you. No cat calls or suggestive remarks or a forceful kiss against your consent—Not that you wanted that but—. You know what he’s like, you’ve seen him at school, on the streets, shouting lewd comments at other women. You know for a fact that he ate out Beverly Marsh in public behind an alleyway the first time they talked. So what’s wrong with you? Where you not pretty enough or was your gut right the first time and all of this was just a horrible joke that’s been taken one step too far?

For the rest of the date you mourn over the blow; talking softer, becoming more aloof and over all distant. And Henry, being the man he is, doesn’t pick up on any of it.

To be fair, he was facing down his own demons. His mind kept drifting off to that moment in class, when you so boldly reached out to touch him. You had only grazed him but he always figured your hands were soft. No amount of moisturizer could ever turn his farm labored hands into what yours were and he was constantly reminded that late at nights under the privy of his sheets.

It takes an astounding amount of self control not to get a hard on just standing next to you, the way you sway your hips or how your low-cut dress exposed the curves of your cleavage. He wanted so badly to fuck you in the alley between the theater and Aladdin’s but you weren’t like the other girls he’s been with. And not in that pseudo better than other girls bullshit way. He’s sure if he actually took the time to know those one time flings and whores he’d find you shared similar traits with all of them. In some bizarre way maybe that’s what attracted him to you, that you were a collection of traits and personalities that made his heart skip a beat with a simple smile.

“Well… this is my house.” You crack a half smile.

“Uh, yeah.”

“I had a good time, we should do it again sometime.”

“Yeah.”

There is a beat of silence, giving him plenty time to make a move on you.

Nothing.

He looks at you with a weird look on his face. Like he isn’t sure how these dates are supposed to end. Did he expect you to invite him in while your parents were staring from the windows?

“Ok…”  You swallow down you pride and fear and anything else holding you back and using his arm as a balance, place a soft kiss on Henry’s cheek. Then you make a dash for the door, face flush and burning up, you can feel a mist of sweat cover your forehead, yelling out in a broken pitch “Bye!”

The kiss, no matter how chaste, was enough to push him over the edge. A bulge swelling in his pants on the way back home, pressing against the seams, and he reaches down to adjust himself in his jeans. He knew it. Even your lips were soft. Henry could only imagine what other parts of you felt like.

Next time, he thinks. Next time he won’t have to imagine, he’ll know.

dancing in the street in barcelona (a hector bellerin imagine)

Originally posted by pppper

we’re going somewhere where the sun is shining bright

just close your eyes, and let’s pretend we’re dancing in the street in barcelona


“It’s cold.”

It was a sentence you’d become accustomed to, considering how many times you felt the need to say it. Enough times that you didn’t even need to think, didn’t even need to feel the cold wind whip around your arms, before spluttering it out.

Keep reading

me listening to pats fans complain about two losses
thursday night

you hold my face in between your hands and kiss me like you’ll never leave again. we’re walking through a crowded park and it feels like spring even though it’s seattle and it will be another few months before the sun comes back. i’m tired and you’re as awake as a four-year-old riding his bike all around the neighborhood. we’re watching kids play football from behind chain-link fences and it’s getting darker and we’re smoking cigarettes and talking about god and our friends and passing out in garages. you’re still the love of my life. i thought that being 500 miles away would erase you from my memory but even alaska wouldn’t be far enough and i woke up this morning with you and a shot of tequila on my mind. somewhere along the way i learned to live with the aching piece of you that follows me wherever i go.

-d.k.