i want to have her legs


“You’re in trouble kitten..” he growls.

“Me?” She knows damn well what she did but playing innocent was her game. The sweet kind hearted queen rarely ever got out of line with the Demon King, but when she did she made sure everyone knew.

“Yes you.” He saw right through her masked innocence. Sometimes he wondered if she was actually a sin herself. He couldn’t bring himself to actually hurt her, and yet she tested him. “What have I said about that…” his eyes glazed over seeing just how high those denim shorts rode up her legs. “Choice of attire? You think I want every swinging dick around here staring at you?”

(Y/N) sighed heavily. Of course he didn’t want anyone staring at what was his. Balor was extremely possessive to the point where she believed he would make her wear a sign that said so.

“Come on, you’re always parading yourself around in those trunks which by the way doesn’t leave much to the imagination.” She saw the amused look on his face.

“So this is a payback for people looking at me? Didn’t know YOU were so possessive.” He began walking towards her slowly.

“Well I don’t exactly appreciate all the women openly drooling over you…and the guys, some of them too.” She felt his finger tips glide along the exposed skin of her thighs. “Ya know being all hot and seductive won’t always get you out of trouble.”

Balor grinned.

“Oh no no no, you’re not turning this around. You’re the one that’s going to be punished.” His grip on her waist tightened. “Belt, paddle or my hand. Pick one.”

Her face turned red.

“Can we go with all three?”

I think the thing that’s been keeping me going the most is curiosity. I have never been skinny. I have no idea what I’ll look like. I’ve never seen my legs smaller than a size six. I don’t know the shape of my own bones. I don’t know my own body, but I want to. I want to see the girl hidden beneath the fat. The girl that everyone adores.

I will see her someday

Because someday I’ll be her

Spartan!Blake, holding a knife to a target’s throat: You have fifteen seconds to tell us what we want to know. I’ll consider your life afterwards.

Target, spitting blood onto Blake’s visor: I ain’t telling you shi-

Spartan!Yang, firing eight shots from her magnum into the target’s chest: Don’t be rude, punkass.

Spartan!Blake, stabbing her knife into the newly made corpse’s shoulder: YANG. I COULD HAVE MADE HIM TALK.

Spartan!Yang, with a shrug as she reloads her empty magnum, placing it back against her leg: Why bother, Weiss and Penny got the info from his datalogs already.

Spartan!Weiss, looking up from a computer, sounding almost offended: Winter helped too.

Spartan!Yang: Besides, you were gonna kill him anyways. I know how you work.

Spartan!Blake, angrily contacting Ruby over coms: Ruby we have a problem here. Our target-

Spartan!Ruby, cutting Blake off: Just kill him. Weiss, Winter, and Penny got all the data we needed. Extraction in 10. Yang, we’re levelling this place to the ground.

Spartan!Yang, gives a cheerful pat on Blake’s shoulder as she walks by her: Welcome to the UNSC sunshine, enjoy your stay.

Spartan!Blake, angrily tearing her knife back out, sheathing it after wiping off blood: Hmph. The White Fang would’ve at least ransomed him.

Spartan!Weiss, after plugging something into the computer she was working on it quickly sparks and fries itself: That’s the difference between our organizations I suppose. Our respective need for credits.

Spartan!Blake, muttering to herself as she watches Yang drop down a bomb: Was a whole clip necessary though?

men who dress in traditionally feminine clothing and wear makeup: the fact that no one wants to date me is bigotry against me as a nonbinary femme, and i will write dozens of think pieces on why it’s oppression to consider me unfuckable :(((

women who literally just exist naturally without shave their legs and/or armpits: sup

Did I Shave My Legs For This?

Today I witnessed men mocking a woman for having hairy legs and underarms. I have something to say about this.

Firstly, the shaving of legs is a new fashion trend. It was done a bit in the 20′s, but honestly, it wasn’t until the forties that anyone gave a damn. Before that, no one saw your legs, because they wee covered in skirts. Men didn’t even know women HAD legs.

Slight exaggeration, but still quite meaningful.

In the last 70 years, men have gone from not knowing and not caring one bit about female body hair, to completely transforming their ideal feminine counterpart into a hairless model. Men like to tout masculinity as being impervious, but I’ll warrant you, you can watch them evolve with the feedback of marketing scams run on their little mammalian brains.

Did Queen Victoria have shaved legs…well, let’s first establish that yes, she did actually have legs. But were they hairless? During her 60-odd year reign, did she employ some servant to come pluck out her hairs?

Did Queen Elizabeth have hairless legs? 44 years of reign, at the time the longest reigning monarch of British history, but no, you’re right. She probably had the Lady of the Royal Chamber rake on a good lather before she went out in her Spanish farthingale.

Did Cleopatra have a straight razor? Did Helen of Troy? These are two women who literally destroyed nations with their beauty and the lust men had for them. Do you think they had shaved legs? What about their underarms?

Now, yes, there were traditions of removing hair. The Roman women, for example, plucked their hair out of their underarms, but I promise you…no one sat about for hours having their legs plucked with tweezers. And if they did, they had a lot of time and money to spare.

Do you know who Boudicca is? She was an Icenian queen during the first century. She led a rebellion against Roman factions at Londinium. 

Famously, she said, “This is done with the resolve of a woman. Men may live as slaves if they wish.”

She leveled three Roman outposts, well-established settlements. And came to Londinium with an army decked out in stolen Roman arms. They razed the city to the ground with fires so thick that an ash layer still exists in the stria of the City of London to this very day. As she rode through the old city on her chariot, with her Roman spear in hand, poised to launch it through the throat of a fleeing patrician, did she pause her assault to wonder…

Did I shave my legs for this?

As the man fell to the ground, choking on his own blood and the ash from the searing fires, do you think he looked up at this queen, this woman defiant and majestic, and thought, “Ye gods, what hirsuit underarms!”

I wonder how many plucked Roman women were trampled by that carriage.

I wonder if Anne Bonny, the notorious pirate ever was mocked by her male crew for having a fluffy undercarriage.

I wonder if when Annie Oakley, at 15, beat her crackshot future husband at a shooting contest, he looked at her little knees and thought, “Not this one. She’s too furry.”

I wonder if Anne Boleyn was beheaded for wearing a pair of furry britches beneath her skirts.

I wonder, if while He suckled as an infant, resplendent in holy fire and divinity, the newborn Jesus Christ, tucked His wee face to the crook of His Virgin Mother’s arm and let out a squeal at the ghastly sight of her unshaven underarms. Or if when He was installing himself in her abdomen, He gave a moment’s pause to think, “Dear Me, what am I doing, shoving myself into this horribly hairy wench?”

The answer to all of these is…No. Of course not, you fucking idiot.

Body hair exists for a reason, you stupid semi-hairless apes. Don’t you ever wonder why you still have it? I will tell you why. It provides necessary warmth, not just with insulation, but with the way your anatomy functions. Air catches the hairs and lifts them, causing a tickle that forces the follicle to swell into goose flesh, warming the skin through motion. It provides protection from the sun. And in the regions where it is thickest, it guards against the elements, keeps out parasites, and keeps your sensitive areas like your eyes, from being drowned in sweat. It even cushions and reduces the likelihood of heat rashes and chafing in the parts of you that touch. Hair is important. It wasn’t just Sampson who gained strength from it.

And I wonder, if while Sampson was laid low, his power sapped, if he looked up at the gorgeous Delilah with her treacherous shears and thought… “Why didn’t she pluck her eyebrows!”

Power is walking into a room with nothing in hand, and doing just fine.

Beauty is standing as you are, but embodying all that is graceful and powerful about the female condition.

And judging a woman on a trend that is younger then my oldest knee-length hemline is an act of such supreme stupidity and transient masculinity that I cannot even describe how ridiculous I find it. But men are the ones who are rational, yes? Men and all their manly manliness are immune to fads and trends and “girly fashion shit”, right, “bruh”?

Women have hair on their bodies same as you. You seem to do just fine wearing yours. Why do you begrudge her hers?

I say we start a new trend, where females begin to harass the worst offenders for having hairy legs. I shan’t be pleased if in 70 years, I am not seeing all men in shorts looking like the backside of a baby from the knee down. I want to see hordes of women tracking down these men who label a type of deception as beauty, and demanding they carve off their top layer of skin and fur. I want to hear these men who cannot see valor, fortitude, strength, and hair as beautiful, squeak when they walk.

And then I want all humans to embrace that which makes them soft and healthy, and stop rewriting history by turning it into one inglorious quest for vanity.

Bruise [ IX ]

Genre [Rating] : Angst [M]

Length: 6k

Pairing: Chanyeol x Reader

Summary: He wasn’t yours, and you weren’t his, but that couldn’t stop your heart from believing otherwise.

Bruise Masterlist

Originally posted by loverkoreanasian

Red was the color that painted your skin through the sleepless night alone. Your eyes grew red from the endless stream of frustrated tears that dripped down your temples. Your cheeks changed hue from rawness, the sleeves of your sweater scratching away at them until they near bled. Your phone battery drained to zero, red painting the icon when you stared at it, debating calling him so his voice could fade your consciousness. Your lips drew too much blood to the surface when you bit down on them to stop another sigh from slipping out, desperate for it to all stop. Desperate for everything to be a dream you could wake up from rather than something you had to deal with when the sun rose back up into the sky.

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hello it’s me again, there’s this musical called “daddy long legs” which if you haven’t heard of it already, go look it up asap


So I’ve recently joined a new group, which we are about to start a game of Storm King’s End. I will be using letter to represent random players.

A: You know, the oldest storm giant looks like Ursula.

B: She’s wearing a dress, and we can’t see her legs. She might be.

C: Please let her sing Poor Unfortunate Souls to Lemon.

((Lemon is a dragon that we homebrewed. He’s an acid dragon but his acid is lemonade. We are expected to eventually find him and have him as a pet.))

C: yeah, she can reveal under her dress that there’s really tentacles and lift us u-


C: what why?


Later we’re talking further and she goes

DM: If you want something homebrewed or added, I’ll consider… there’s just some things I won’t add.

C: so mayb-


Gotta Get Better. (Pt. I)

Summary: Singers, Y/N and Harry, have been in a relationship for 3 and half years. Comfortable around each other, the couple have been there for each other during a lot, that until life decides to turn upside down.

Italics are flashbacks.

“You have been together for a year, is that correct?” Miranda, the interviewer for Vogue asked you.

You smiled, nodding. “Yes, it is.”

“And how would you describe Harry? Does it ever get hard with both of your careers?”

You took a breath, “We’re both doing what we love and it was basically how we met. I would never describe our relationship as hard, just needs a bit more effort than normal ones because of our careers and distance but like, we love each other and that’s all that matters. You know what they always say, distance makes the heart grow fonder.”

“So now what? You’re leaving? That’s what you’re going to do?” You followed Harry who was storming through the apartment, jaw clenching before snatching his car keys. “Harry, just talk to me, goddammit!”

Harry stopped, shutting his eyes before sighing and looking behind him where you stood, lip quivering as you fiddled with his oversized sweatshirt’s sleeves that you had worn. “I need to think.”

“And I need you to think with me, Harry.”  

“Harry, you look great. Does that have to do with a certain someone?” Jimmy Kimmel asked, making the 3 boys snicker and Harry to chuckle under his breath, looking at his mates for help.

“Uh, thanks for the compliment.You’re looking rather dashing yourself.” He replied smoothly, trying to stifle his wide smile.

“Are you trying to be sneaky? It’s not working.” Jimmy shook his finger, pursing his lips.

Harry felt Liam slap his back as his mates laughed at him. “Not so quick.” Louis said, laughing.

Harry blushed, shaking his head as he looked at his lap. “It has to do with my incredible mates and wonderful fans.”

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Dragging out some old art with a new addition

I guess I never shared these here, but Clawdeen, Draculaura, Abbey, and Frankie were all finished like….. 2 years ago? And I did Spectra today (drag her around her arms and legs are transparent-ish). I wanted to have a crossover style wise and turn the lovely ghouls into princesses.

Might do more? Maybe? Who knows. Not I.

pitviperofdoom  asked:

Hey so I've loved your Retold Fairytales for some time but I just binged your entire Gods and Monsters and I??? love Styx. A lot. And I'm curious about Hephaestus and Styx growing up as best friends in the Underworld. If you could work your magic when you have the time, I'd love to see a story about them!

Styx does not have a home in the underworld, not really. She has a room in Hades’s palace, of course, and a nook in Hecate’s house.  Charon has a cottage by her river, a humble thing for a being of such great power, and she’s shoved her way onto his narrow bed and curled into the warmth of his chest more than once. She darts through the horrors of Tartarus, and plays in the Elysium Fields.

All of the underworld is open to her, and she’s lived here the entirety of her existence. But she’s yet to find a piece of it that feels as if it belongs to her, that doesn’t feel borrowed.


Hecate brings home a baby with no legs beneath the knee and wide, curious eyes.

Styx adores him instantly.

Hecate is a busy woman – her duties in the underworld keep her constantly moving, and she spends much of her time shrouded in her secrets. She is the goddess of magic, and there are things that only she can do, things that other people can’t even know about. She is not a person with much time to spare, and babies take a lot of time.

Hades watches him often, directing the traffic of souls and overseeing construction with the child held to his chest. Charon fashions a sling, and the baby sleeps against his back while Charon ferries souls across her river.

Time passes. The baby is not like her.

The baby grows.


Hephaestus is a child, and he lives in a dangerous place. His aunt raises him, and she is a busy woman who does important things, and it seems to him like nothing in their home is safe to touch, that it is all cursed or corrosive or even, at time, sentient.

The palace is not much better. Hades always welcomes him, has a warm smile for him, but is too busy to linger. He walks on wobbly legs of glass that Aunt Hecate fashioned for him, and they allow him to walk, but they pain him too. He cannot run or jump, he cannot explore the edges of the underworld like he so desperately wants to because his legs are delicate, clumsy things. They are glass, and they shatter too easily.

“Don’t be sad,” a voice says in his ear, and he’s grinning before he even turns around. Lady Styx is there, smiling at him. She looks to be his age, although she is much older, and she has black skin and grey hair and eyes. Her skin is the color of her river’s water, and her hair and eyes the color of the foam when it rushes too fast. For as long as he can remember, she has always had kindness to spare.

“I’m not sad,” he says stubbornly. “Aren’t you busy?” She is a goddess, one as powerful and important as his aunt or Hades. He wants to grow up to be just like her.

She shrugs, “My river knows what to do. Do you want to go on an adventure?”

“Yes,” he says instantly. The only time he’s allowed to explore is when Styx is with him. If his glass legs break, she can carry him, and if anything tries to attack or hurt them, she can stop it.

She grabs his hand, smiling. It’s cold. She’s always cold, the same icy temperature as her river. “There are volcanos in Tartarus. Have I taken you there before?”

He shakes his head, and in the next instant they’re gone.


Styx and Hephaestus manage to get in all manner of trouble, including, but not limited to: accidentally giving Cerberus two extra heads, devising and implementing a manner of torture for Tantalus that is so brilliant Hades can’t even get mad at them for it, and figuring out it is possible to surf of Styx’s rough waters with glass legs, but only if you’re very, very stupid and have the goddess in question by your side and laughing so hard she forgets that her primary job here is to prevent you from dying.

When he’d found them, Hades had given them the worst admonishment he knew how to give: a disappointed frown. Hecate had laughed and told them to be careful of his legs.

Hephaestus’s childhood had its bright spots. Almost all of those bright spots included Styx.


Hephaestus looks older than her now, a young man when she is, as always, a child. He’s gotten quieter as he ages, his dark eyes permanently thoughtful.

“You shouldn’t come here without me,” she scolds, sitting down beside him. He doesn’t respond, swinging his hammer down on glowing metal with a boom loud enough that the volcano shakes with it. “You know Hecate doesn’t like you going into Tartarus alone.”

“You were busy,” he says, not accusatory, just a statement of fact. “Here, cool this for me.”

She sighs, but cool water rushes from her hands and onto the superheated metal. It hisses and steams, but when the air clears Hephaestus holds it up and appears to be satisfied. “Must it be in a volcano? We can make you a forge in safer part of the underworld.”

“Volcanos are useful,” he says, the same answer he always gives her. “I have more of these to do if you want to stick around.”

Helping him build whatever he’s currently working on is pretty boring. But he’s her friend, and it must be important if he’s risking his life by going into Tartarus on his glass legs to do it. “Sure,” she sighs slumping down to sit crosslegged next to him. He pats her on the head, which she’s all prepared to be insulted by - she’s a kid, but she’s not a kid – when she sees his lips curled up around the corners of his mouth. He’s making fun of her on purpose, which is still annoying, but is less hurtful than him treating her like a kid just because he looks older.


The first set of legs that Hephaestus makes for himself are made of iron. They’re not as pretty as he’d like them to be, but that’s all right. He can run in these legs, jump in them, fight in them. He is no longer a being made of glass, no longer someone who can be easily broken.

Styx is the first person he shows them to. He leaps and somersaults in them, something he could never do before. She’s delighted at first, smiling and clapping, but by the time he finishes, arms out-thrown and beaming, she’s wilted. She sits hunched and tries to keep her smile in place, but it’s trembling.  

“What’s wrong?” he asks, kneeling in front of her. “I thought you would be happy for me.”

“I am!” she hiccups, and now she’s crying, big fat tears that he wants to wipe away but can’t. She cries the water of her river. If he touches them, he’ll burn. “I am happy!’

He risks it, tugging the end of his sleeve down to quickly wipe her left cheek, then ripping it and throwing the cloth away as it burns. “You don’t look happy.”

“You’re going to leave,” she says, and he goes cold. “You have legs, and now you’re going to leave, and I’m not. I am the Goddess of the River Styx, I must stay with my river. But you’re going to leave.”

His heart breaks seeing Styx cry. He loves Hecate, loves Charon, loves Hades. But if there is one person in this realm he can truly call family, it is her. They share no blood, but she’s the only sister he’s ever known. “I’ll visit! You can visit me too. I wasn’t born here, Styx. Hecate isn’t my mom. I was born on Olympus, and I can’t hide in the underworld from Hera forever. I don’t want to either.”

“I know!” she says, her breath coming in stuttering gasps as she tries and fails to stop crying. “You’re so smart, and all the things you make are amazing. You need to go out there, so other gods can see you, so that people can see you. I just – I’m going to miss you.”

He’s a god – a little river water won’t kill him. He pulls Styx into his arms, ignoring the pain in his shoulder as her tears burn through his skin. She resists for a moment, then goes slack, throwing her arms around his neck. He says, “I’m going to miss you too.”


Hephaestus does not want to cause an uproar. He’s had fantasies of storming Mount Olympus, of confronting Hera, of doing any number of foolish, stupid things. But he is not a foolish, stupid man.

Hecate has picked out a volcano for him already, one she tells fits all his requirements and is not in the domain of any other god, even the lesser ones. He will go slow. He will build, and improve the lives of the mortals. Temples will be erected in his honor, tributes placed at his feet, his name on all their lips. He’ll build his power the hard way, until they can ignore him no longer, until Hera and Zeus have no choice but to offer him a place at their table on Olympus.

But not yet.

For now, he builds something else, something even more important.


“Can I open my eyes yet?” Styx asks, pouting.

Hephaestus’s hands are on her shoulders, pushing her forward. “No.”

She scowls. She can tell they’re by her river, in a bend where no one travels through, but that’s it. Her knowledge of the geography of the underworld is always in relation to her river. “What about now?”

“Yes,” he says.

She wasn’t expecting it, so it takes her a moment to blink her eyes open. “Did you make this?”

“Hecate helped,” he admits, “I wasn’t sure what to do for things like curtains and windchimes. Do you like it?”

It’s a house. A small one, not much bigger than Charon’s. It’s made of obsidian, but not several pieces put together. It looks like the whole things was carved out of one massive piece of obsidian. The walls are black and smooth and shining. There’s a large, round bed in the center that’s a pale blue, the chairs in a deep purple, and her curtains are a soft yellow. The house is black, but Hephaestus has filled it with color, given her a rainbow tucked in every space. Copper pots hang in the kitchen, and there are signs of his forging everywhere – in the cabinets, the door knobs in the shape of flowers, the singular windchime hanging in her open window, even though there is no wind here.

“Do you like it?” he repeats. “I know you tend to just – end up wherever, but I thought you should have a place that was just yours. If you want something different I can change it–”

“No.” She swallows and touches her wall, the silver design in her walls that he must have inlaid himself. “It – it’s perfect.” Quieter then, “You gave me a home.”

No place in the whole of the underworld has ever felt like it belonged to her. This one does. It doesn’t feel borrowed.

Hephaestus ruffles her hair, “It seems only fair, since you did the same for me. This realm wouldn’t have been my home without you.”

They’re smiling at each other, and the tension she’d been carrying ever since she realized Hephaestus would be leaving drains out of her.

He’s older now, almost an adult, and he’s leaving the underworld. But he’s not leaving her.

“You’re my best friend,” she tells him, in case he’s forgotten.

“Good,” he tells her, “because you’re my best friend too.”

gods and monsters series, part xxiii

read more of the gods and monsters series here


Haii, is it okay if you write smth with Steve where the reader drops off their younger sister at the Snow Ball the same time Steve drops off Dustin but Steve offers to take the reader home but they end up at a cafe or smth and talk abt the crazy stuff that happened (fighting the demodogs and all that) and end up confessing to each other??

Steve Harrington X Reader


Summary: You weren’t usually so bold but you really had to talk about it.

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The First-Ever Hijab-Wearing Barbie is Designed After Olympian Ibtihaj Muhammad
Barbie created its first hijab-wearing doll modeled after Olympic fencer Ibtihaj Muhammad

Barbie’s breaking barriers! Ibtihaj Muhammad was the first-ever U.S. Olympic athlete to compete wearing a hijab at the 2016 Rio Olympic games. And now she has her very own Barbie — the first to ever wear a hijab in the brand’s 58-year history.

A one-of-a-kind doll made in her likeness was unveiled at Glamour’s Women of the Year Live Summit Monday, as the latest doll in Barbie’s “Shero” line (that would be female heroes), a program that celebrates boundary-breaking women intended to inspire the next generation.

Muhammad joins an impressive roster of other “Sheroes” including Ashley Graham, Zendaya, Kristin Chenoweth, Gabby Douglas, Emmy Rossum, Trisha Yearwood, Misty Copeland and Ava DuVernay and calls the opportunity “super humbling.”

“I’m excited to just partner with a brand that I know honors powerful women who are breaking barriers and whose sole goal is to impact the future leaders of tomorrow,” Muhammad tells PeopleStyle. “To be included in this conversation is very humbling and I’m over the moon about this whole thing.”

The athlete worked with Mattel every step of the way in the design process and says her resemblance to the doll is uncanny. (The Ibtihaj Barbie will be released to the public in the fall of 2018.) “It’s so cool to see myself in this little doll form with my fencing uniform on,” she says. “It says my name on the back and it has a fencing mask and the little sabre. I just love it.”

Something that she made sure her doll featured was a realistic sense of her body type and her signature eye liner. “I know that as an athlete I have larger legs — these strong legs that we use, especially fencers, to propel ourselves into lunges — and it was important for me to have my doll be as close to my likeness as possible. So I wanted to have athletic toned legs for sure. I’m also really big to into eyeliner. I like to think of my eyeliner as a shield of power; I not only wear it to the grocery store but I also wear it to compete. I wore it to the Olympic games, so I wanted my Barbie to have the perfect winged liner and also to wear a hijab.”

The importance of representing the first-ever hijab-wearing doll is not lost on Muhammad. “I think its revolutionary for Barbie to take a stand in this moment that we’re in – and I would say, as a country, to have a doll wear a hijab and be the first of its kind,” she says. “There has never been a Barbie doll to wear a hijab before. I’m really excited to have this moment happen in my life and also for all these little girls now who can shop for Barbie doll that may look them, may wear a hijab like they do, or like their mom does, or like a friend does. But also have kids who aren’t Muslim, who don’t wear a hijab, to also have the opportunity to play with a doll that wears a hijab.”

Not only does her Barbie represent a whole new population of women, but it opens many more doors of creativity for children when they play with Barbie. “I come from a pretty small sport that a lot of people had the opportunity to learn about last summer at the Olympic games and now to even have fencers in the conversation,” she says. “It’s cool to have Muslim girls in the conversation, to have African Americans as fencers is also really cool. I feel like we’re just shattering all the little glass ceilings here.”

I Know

Okay so here we go, after some encouragement from the lovely @alltoowheeler I decided to post my first ever ST fic!

I really wanted to see Mike and El properly talking about their year apart and I was too impatient to wait for better fics so I decided to try it out lol!

(also threw some  #dadhopper in there too, after that scene of him interrupting the two in ep 9 I really want to see more of that)

It had been five days since the gate had been closed for good. The sunny and crisp November afternoon had been spent by finishing fixing and cleaning up the cabin; Steve hobbling on a ladder replacing the windows and not falling once (whether or not El had anything to do with it remains unsure), the kids being tasked to sweep the floors and Hopper constantly needing to tell them to get back to work as they got distracted every five seconds, and Jonathan and Nancy bringing over snacks for everyone. It was now starting to get late, the golden light of the early evening was shining through the cracks of the closed blinds (“We only have to keep them shut just for a little while now, kid.”) as people started to head out the door to go back home.

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Hi, I’m Tom

[Reader’s POV]

     Today was quiet in your small apartment, quieter than normal. It was nice for once because your mind had a break. Quiet time wasn’t your normal day to day routine. Work tended to be loud and have you taking a pain med after the first few hours. You were home doing paperwork in the kitchen. The light above you bright enough to see all the writing.

“How am I going to finish all these before he comes home?” you mutter to yourself looking at the pile of paperwork. The size of the stack making you doubt yourself. 

   The red pen glided against the paper quickly. Your eyes darting over towards the clock on the microwave. Sighing you set the pen aside realizing you have to get ready. Looking up due to your phone ringing. The sound of the chair scooting backward stings your ears. A shiver runs down your spine from the cold tile sending a sensation through your feet. Grabbing your phone you press the green button flashing on the screen.

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Baby Fever//H.S. Imagine//

So technically this is a continuation of this imagine but I decided to just make it it’s own story, thank you to the lovely anon who requested it!

As you were sitting back stage before Harry’s concert began you couldn’t ignore the flutter your heart gave. Harry interacting with Lux was one of the most beautiful things you had ever seen, he seemed so genuinely happy and caused a constant flow of giggles to fall from her mouth. You drowned out the screams of fans standing in the audience waiting for your love to go preform and began to think. You really wanted a child with Harry, you assumed he did too, but you weren’t sure how to tell him. As he handed Lux away to another persons arms you walked over and wrapped your arms around him.

“I really want a baby with you Harry,” You inaudibly mumbled into his shirt, at least you thought it was inaudible.

When you looked up his eyes were the size of golf balls and it didn’t seem like he was breathing. He opened and closed his mouth like he was going to say something but he stayed silent and just looked at you. He searched your face for any sign of doubt but instead he found a look of regret. Oh no, you thought. In one swift motion he pulled away from your touch and rushed to grab his guitar and stand behind the curtain. You felt a tear drop down your cheek, you looked down at your feet and tried to hide the devastated expression on your face. You sped walked to Harry’s dressing room and sat on the couch curled in a ball. Your thoughts started to fill the empty space in your head. Was that a no? Can I blame him for not wanting a baby? Maybe it’s too soon, i should have waited longer. Does he think i’m not good enough? Maybe he doesn’t want anything more than a relationship with me, maybe he’s worried it will mess up his career. So there you sat for the duration of Harry’s show, you cried a little bit but mostly you ate the snacks on the table and stared mindlessly at the TV. Your phone buzzed and you glanced at it, reading the text:

Love Bug: I have to stay late and talk with Jeff, meet you at the hotel?

You: Ok.

You really didn’t have the energy to type anything else, nor did you really want to. You gathered all of your things and stole a small chocolate that you didn’t get a chance to eat. As you opened the door you swung your purse over your shoulder and tried to look as content as possible. You whispered a thank you to the driver once you jumped into the car and slammed the door shut. The car was warm, you assumed the heat was on and you snuggled into the seat. The view of London occupied you while you looked out of the window and filtered your thoughts to think mainly positive. 

The car came to a stop in front of you and Harry’s hotel and you left the warmth of the car to be hit with cool, London air. It was somewhat relaxing as you walked to the hotel entrance and through the revolving doors. Once you were inside your room and in a warm set of pajamas you felt out of place, you had no clue what to do with yourself. You ended up wrapping yourself in the covers and listening to the sound of cars whizzing by the building. 

You must have fallen asleep because when you woke up you heard the sound of Harry picking pajamas from his bag lying on the floor. His air was in a messy but cute style and he didn’t even notice you staring at his side profile. You closed your eyes again and listened to the shuffle of him changing, you decided you wouldn’t bring the subject up again and you would eventually get over it. Maybe in the future you could still have a baby of your own. You felt a draft of cold air hit your back as Harry lifted up the covers and slid into his side of the bed. His wrapped his arms around you and pulled you closer using his leg, you noted how cold his feet were. 

“Hello, love.” Harry spoke in an almost whisper. 

“Hi, H.” You replied. A yawn escaped from you and you started to enjoy the warmth coming from Harry’s body.

“I hope she has your eyes.”

You were positive your heart stopped, “Huh?”

“Our baby, I hope she has your eyes.”

“You…You want to have a baby with me?”

“Of course I do. And I hope she yawns like you when she’s tired, and giggles like you when you’re tickled. And I wonder if she’ll wrinkle her nose like you when she concentrates, or smile in her sleep like you do.” At this point a few tears had fallen from your eyes, clouding your vision of the window by the bed. You don’t think you had ever been more happy than you were at that very moment. You could feel Harry’s breath on the back of your neck ad he went on and on about all the little things he hoped your tiny creation would have. 

“How do you know it will be a girl?” You wondered. 

He planted a sweet kiss on the top of your head, “I just know.”

Part Two? I can’t get enough of Dad!Harry so let me know what you guys think! Don’t forget my requests and open and so is my inbox xx. 


REQUEST: Hey! Can you write a blurb where you and Harry are trying to have a baby and you find out that you can’t have one, and both of you are just heartbroken

When the doctor asked the two of you to come back into his office, you knew that something was wrong.

Harry had been cooking dinner the night before when the phone rang. It was Tuesday—the one day of the week that the two of you dedicated to having a meal together, no matter what else was going on in your lives. He was cutting up the vegetables as you sat across from him at the kitchen island, holding a glass of red wine. You didn’t exactly pride yourself on your cooking, so this had become your tradition: you would have a drink and watch as he prepared dinner for the two of you, and both of you would talk about your weeks. It was what kept you two connected.

That night, there was a disconnect.

You usually wouldn’t have answered the phone, but you knew that the doctor would be calling you and you were anxious to get the results. You and Harry had both gone in a few days earlier for testing—the two of you had been trying to get pregnant for almost a year now, with no luck.

“S’just to see if something’s going on, love,” he had said, running his fingers through your hair as you rested your head on his chest. “You don’t have to be scared.”

“I know,” you sighed, adjusting yourself so that you could nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck. You pressed your lips against the skin there, squeezing your eyes shut. “But what if there’s something wrong, Harry?”

“Then better to know now so we can do something, yeah?” He murmured, tracing patterns across your back with his fingertips. “We can do anything, babe. Together. I promise.”

When the phone rang, you and Harry both fell silent. You locked gazes with him from across the kitchen— you both knew what this would be about, and you were both nervous. He set the knife down and began to wipe his hands on his apron before you hopped off of the stool, forcing a smile onto your face.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

I just had a piece of cheesecake and it sparked a thought about sitting on the kitchen floor at 3 AM and sharing a cheesecake with Harry at the early stages of the relationship, sharing thoughts about life and what we'd want it to be. Talking about the idea of having a future together and what kind of wedding we'll have or names for the kids but all in hypothetical sense so we end up laughing and kissing with the sweet taste of the cheesecake still in our mouths.

He’s always loved her kitchen.

It’s small and fitting to her tiny flat and it joins on to her living room and it’s not large and it didn’t make him feel lonely, like his would do at 3 in the morning. It’s full of trinkets and it looks like it belongs on a page on Pinterest and it follows a scheme of red and white, with a few blacks thrown in, and there isn’t a hint of a dirty dish, except the plate they were sneaking pieces of cheesecake off, or a used glass, all but the tea mugs they were sipping out of, in sight. It’s warm, too, and he doesn’t feel the need to wrap up in a thick blanket or grab the black hoodie he’d thrown over the back of one of her dining table chairs upon his arrival the previous morning. The tiles don’t numb his bum to the point where he can’t feel it and his toes don’t feel like they’re going to fall off into chunks of ice and there isn’t a single goosebump appearing anywhere on his skin.

It wasn’t where he expected them to be, at 3 in the morning, but he had no complaints. Devouring a homemade Millionaire’s Shortbread cheesecake between themselves, one that was made for a party  that had been cancelled last minute, chocolate ganache clinging to their lips and crumbs, from the biscuit base, falling to the floor. He’s know her for 6 months, bagged her as his own just a little under 3 weeks ago… and she’s never looked more beautiful to him. Her hair stuck up in one of the messiest ponytails he’d ever seen, her body clad in a pair of white sleep shorts and a long-sleeved t-shirt that was a too large on her torso, and she had a face free of make-up. And even with chocolate beginning to clump at the corners of her lips, he was even more infatuated with her.

“Did I do good? Would Adie have liked this cheesecake?”

“She’d have been asking for more,” Harry grins, his teeth a little stained with the thick chocolate that hadn’t quite been devoured and introduced to his tastebuds, “it’s delicious. I never knew you were quite the baker.”

“You’re not the only one who used to be a baker, Styles,” she teases, nudging her foot against his with a smirk residing her lips. Only just being visible to his eyes.

“Ah-ah. Correction. I was the cashier of a bakery, I’ll have you know. I did pretty good. Gained a talent of slipping money from the tray,” he snickers, “I’m not all good voice and better looks. I have a talent for slipping the correct change out of a cash register and handing it over. You, my dear, are the baker between the two of us. A bloody good baker, if I do say so myself.”

Her cheeks flush pink and she couldn’t be more thankful for the darkened room around her. The minimal light being enough to hide the heat that flowed around her face.

“I didn’t do any baking for this though. It’s just mixing, pouring, spreading and using the fridge.”

“Well, Adie’s missing out on a lot,” he digs his fork into the circular edge of the cheesecake and pulls a piece free, the chocolate stringy and sticking to his chin as he wrapped his lips around the metal cutlery, “it’s so good. You’ll be on dessert duty whenever we have house parties or whenever we’re invited to mum’s for the weekend. If you can make a Christmas pudding, then, to my mum, we’re practically married.”

There’s a silence that swallows the room. Comfortable and relaxing rather than uncomfortable and wishing the ground would swallow them whole. The occasional scrape of forks against the china as they took more mouthfuls of the cheesecake that had slowly gone from a whole circle to a semi-circle with chunks taken out of everywhere.

“Do you-”

“You know-”

There’s soft giggles that erupt from within them as he pushes the plate of cheesecake to the side and shuffles towards her, taking up the space beside her and resting back against the cupboard. A knee bent up as his other straightened out, warm toes curling around hers as her head lulls to his shoulder.

“You first,” she whispers, slipping the fork back between her lips to lick the remnants of the dessert left behind, “you can go first.”

“Do you maybe, uh, do you maybe want to spend Christmas with me this year? I know it’s a bit early to think about, or even agree to, considering we’ve only really been together for 3 weeks but I’d really like to spend it with you,” his head tilts to the side, his cheek pressed against her head as her hand came to rest upon his thigh, “granted we’re together then. We could do two Christmases, if you really wanted to. We could spend Christmas with my family and then we could do New Years with yours. Or the other way around. I mean, no one has really made any plans because it’s only July and December isn’t for another 5 months but it’s good to get early planning in, right? Or we cou-”

“Shut up,” she giggles, lifting her head up to look at him, “if it’s okay with your family, and if there’s some space at the dining table, and enough to go around, then I’d really like that. My parents are always away for the Christmas holidays and I originally go to Adie’s place because we usually have Christmas dinner together.”

“That works out then,” he looks down at her, “what did you want to say?”

She shakes her head and presses a kiss to his cheek.

“It doesn’t matter now.”

“No, come on. Tell me,” she feels a nudge to her side and a sheepish smile appears on her lips, “tell me, love. Never know what I’ll say if you don’t tell me.”

“It’s nothing now. I promise,” she hides her face in his neck and shakes her head, “I was just going to tell you how I feel right now. How this feels so right and how I wouldn’t want to be doing this with anyone else. I don’t have any guy just come in here and sit with me in my kitchen and eat some of the cheesecake I made for a cancelled dinner-party,” she feels an arm snake around her shoulders and she cosies up closer into his side, throwing a leg over his thighs, “I just wanted you to know that. I think you’re the first guy who’s stayed the night. The first guy I’ve ever had, I suppose. Unless you count male friends. But that’s never for anything. Jus-”

“Hey, shut up,” he mocks, his lips pressing against her forehead, “I’m honoured. I plan on being the only guy you ever bring back here, you know that, yeah? Excluding your male friends, of course.”

“I wouldn’t want that any other way,” she hums in content and clenches her toes, “the right side of my bed? I want it to be your side. I want your body dent in my mattress. I want your smell on the pillow. The bedside table on that side? That’s yours to fill with whatever. I want boxes of condoms in the draw and an extra charger because you’ll always forget that and a bottle of your cologne on the top because you know it’s my favourite scent of yours,” she pulls her head from his neck and looks at him, “I want you to pick a favourite coffee cup and claim it as yours for whenever you stay over and I want you to leave clothes here, or boots in my hallway cupboard, so that you never have to leave to get more.”

“I want to leave a bottle of my shampoo in your shower, maybe some body-wash of mine, and get a toothbrush for when I stay here, because I can’t keep using yours, no matter how many times you say it’s okay,” he snickers, his nose nudging hers softly, “I want to ‘accidentally’ leave my favourite hoodie here, or leave my gym trainers here, so that I have to come here, to knock on your front door, to get them and to see you before I get busy with my day.”

Her nose pinches in disgust.

“And leave my hallway cupboard with the smell of your stinky shoes? No thank you.”

“My shoes don’t smell, you nutter.”

She snickers and pushes up from the floor, straddling his lap as she perched on his thighs, hands held tightly in his as she laced her fingers through his slender digits.

“I want to do this more often, you know? I want you to stay over more, and I want to stay over at your place, and I want to cuddle because you make me feel less lonely when I don’t have anyone around,” she admits, “I want us to watch reruns of Friends on a Sunday or your favourite rom-coms because you hate not watching the unexpected and like knowing what’s coming. I want to wake up to your pretty face in the morning and say goodbye to you when you have to leave me for work.”

He smiles and nods into the darkness.

“Think that sounds absolutely perfect. Life sounds so good when you’re involved,” he squeezes her hands, “god bless the day you spilt coffee all over my new boots.”

“Don’t remind me!” xx