loose mug




Sitting on the rug of your lounge floor you flicked through a beauty magazine which sat on the coffee table whilst making notes on your phone on the latest products you must try! You gently sipped tea out our Harry’s ‘loose women’ mug- which you was pretty convinced was his prized possession.

Harry was sprawled out across the black sofa behind you watching 'Spider-Man’ which had been featured on tv that night, you not paying attention to the film as it was 'way too late for you to be able to concentrate’.

“Y/n, quick!”

Your head snapped round to see what the problem was, leaving you to see harry which was head dangling upside down over the arm of the sofa, hair standing vertical on its ends and a slight grin spreading across his lips.

“Harry what are you doing?” You giggled taking in the sight in front of you.

“Quick babe c'mere,” he extolled, “we’re gonna be the next Andrew Garfield and Emma stone.”


“From Spider-Man! C'ere and kiss me quick! M'gettin uncomfortable here.” Harry gushed.

You scooted over to where his head dangled and placed you lips on top of his, leading your hands to cup his cheeks, fingertips wrapping underneath his jaw. Harry’s lips moved slowly over yours, running his tongue across you bottom lip giving him access to you mouth. The sudden heat to the kiss caused harry to knock his head back, calling his chin against your forehead.

“Ouch! Harry that wasn’t very romantic!” You mocked holding your head with you hands.

You both paused for a second until looking at each other and bursting into fits of giggles.

“Harry you’re such a dork, I love it.” You laughed clutching your stomach.

Harry took the top of your head with his hands and bought it to his lips, trying to kiss it better in between his cries of laughter.

“M'so sorry, didn’t mean it.” He let out a soft laugh at situation.

You pulled yourself up and placed yourself behind Harry on the, chest pressed against his back and arms round his waist. He wriggled underneath your touch, turning himself round so you were facing each other. He leant his forehead against yours.

“Guess I shouldn’t audition to be the next Spider-Man?” He affirmed raising his eyebrows at you.

“Not unless you plan on knocking out your co-star!”

“Shut up you.” He jested, burying his head in your neck, wrapping his arms around your waist.

anonymous asked:

Remember how Harry turned into a ball of sunshine and happiness the second he realized he was getting a Loose Woman mug and then Louis went on James Corden and pointed out which coloured mugs he still needed. My mug collecting Dads.

as a fellow mug enthusiast I want to see how many they’ve squirreled away… where from… they probably have ones from all over the world and also just like, ones they’ve stolen from friends and show sets fkfjfj

♛too much love to give♛

↳ Josh x Reader

Requested? | Imagine where you are in the bath with Josh and one of the sidemen walk in without knocking and sees you naked so Josh has a massive go and then cute fluff with Josh cause he wants to be the only one who can see you like that .I love you Chloe!♡♥♡♥♡

warnings | fluff, jealousy.

Keep reading

Finn| Heathens 2/2 |Bálor

Title; Heathens 2/2

Pairing; Finn Bálor/Reader, Demon!Finn Bálor/Reader

Words; 6,630

Summary; All that’s happened, it is enabling him to take exactly what he wants until he gets what he desires, we’ll be at his whim…

Warnings; NSFW, mentions of deals with devils, oral sex, DemonKing!Bálor has a dirty mouth, voyeurism kink and bloodplay if you squint hard, latex free, hair pulling, biting, violence, some post-assault trauma and aftermath 

A/N: repost from the old blog

Originally posted by thearchitectwwe

Keep reading

hawk-in-a-tree  asked:

Can I request Urban Fantasy AU?

this is a fic disguised as a headcanon

(in celebration of 100+ followers, I’m answering AU prompts! Prompts are closed, but thanks for sending so many in!)

00. The City of Altea is dangerous.

Things…lurk, here. Hunk’s sure of it. Passerby rush past dark alleyways, never taking the shortcuts after dusk. The Mainlit streets are the busiest; the Backlits are barely even that, so named merely as a distinctive title and less because of any actual light. If there are things lurking down the Backlits, Hunk’s never seen them. He’s not sure he cares to.

The city’s a normal place, really. Hunk’s afraid of many things (small rodents; theft; phone calls), but if he doesn’t think about all the ways this could go wrong, the city of Altea’s not too bad. The biggest choice Hunk’s ever made, insofar as being adventurous is concerned, is moving to the city in the first place. There’s lots to be afraid of here, sure, but Lance is great at luring him out of their shared apartment, talking him through it, moving them along. It’s been long enough now that Hunk’s just barely starting to relax, here. It’s just a place to live. Just a place to go about their daily business, to get to school, to get to the next place they’re going. Nothing here is wrong. Nothing here is worth being afraid of.

Until the City takes Lance.

01. Lance starts seeing things on a Tuesday.

Hunk’s never going to be able to forget. He and his roommate are walking back to the apartment when Lance gasps in horror and flat-out drops the bag of groceries, no warning, nothing but shock.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

For the ship prompts: Percy/Vex funny in the mansion walk of shame? Your choice for who is doing the walking and who catches them :D

i LITERALLY rolled dice to make the choices lmaoooo - a d4 for either percy or vex (even vs odd), and a d6 to see who catches them (the rest of VM + cassandra, ordered alphabetically). also, idk how funny this is gonna be, but hope it does the trick anyway <3

Vex giggles as Percy presses more kisses into her hair. She snuggles further and further into her embrace as she jokingly tries to duck his kisses, and Percy laughs along with her.

“You are a terrible man,” Vex tells him lovingly, planting a small kiss of her own on his chest, just above his heart, where a bullet hole has scarred over, “Go make me coffee.”

“Go make your own coffee,” Percy shoots back, and Vex slaps his thigh. Percy chuckles before dipping his head forward to give her hair another kiss. Carefully, he untangles himself from her, and as he gets up off the bed, Vex reaches across the bed to give him a sound smack on his bare arse. Percy barely flinches, and turns to briefly give Vex a wink. He throws on a pair of trousers and the first shirt his hands can find before leaving, trying as quietly as possible to close the door. But then –

“Oh, hello.”

Keep reading


word count: 2361

||  It’s been two years since Kim Seokjin died in the arms of his lover, so what was he doing on a dating website?


1 | 2 | 3 | 4

Originally posted by soekjins


“She knows you’re alive, Jin.”

Yeah, I know.

“What are you going to do?” Silence followed.

Now that, I don’t know.”

Jin shrugged on his expensive suit jacket as he stared at his reflection in the mirror before him. A heavy sigh lingered in his bedroom as he walked over to the balcony of his penthouse, his thoughts revolving around his latest identity change. Eyeing the fancy looking name tag attached to his jacket pocket, the alias left his lips quietly.

Jeon Jungkook.

Breathing in the crisp morning air of the city, Jin propped himself up along the railing, his eyes scanning the skyline – tall buildings puncturing the clouds in the sky. The sun hadn’t risen yet, the dark dawn of the day seeming like it was haunting the city. Resting his head in his hand, Jin eyed the buildings far out into the distance, spotting Y/N’s workplace. His fingers ran through his styled blond hair, not giving a care if it would become as disheveled as his life – or whatever life he was impersonating.

Jin thought about Y/N often ever since she found him, hating the fact that his cover was almost blown. As his eyes glowered at his ex’s work office, Jin couldn’t help but wonder what she was up to; she’d usually be awake at his hour.

She always overworked herself, Jin thought as he stood up straight, walking off the balcony with a slouch.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

Can I get a prompt that describes a coffee diner at like 7am?

-You can hear a waiter being shouted at by an elderly couple after their orders are mixed up.

-Coffee is spilled onto your table by a sleep deprived waitress who mumbles an apology.

-The tiles on the floor were black and white, but have long since become grey.

-There’s a broken down jukebox in the corner, and someone is still trying to jam money inside.

-Birds are pecking at the grimy window.

-The seats are red vinyl, with tiny sparkles, and if you shift, the seat makes a squeaking sound.

-A man in a tailored suit and a loose tie downs mug after mug of black coffee.

-The place attempts an avant garde design scheme and makes the diner look even uglier.

-There is a variety of sugary jellies on the table.

-A young woman is sitting alone, and staring at the wall.

-The ceiling is low hanging, and plaster pieces are falling onto the stained carpet.

-A chef is smoking, just outside the window.

-You almost break your teeth trying to eat the bread.

-A group of small children are running around, unattended. A man with bags around his eyes tries to catch them while holding coffee. Nothing good comes from that.

-You see someone not tipping.

-The only thing good on the menu is the pastrami sandwich, and people have been talking about it for years in your town.

-Pictures from decades ago are up, and you can see the original owners.

-The glass doors to get inside are so heavy that you can hardly get there.

-There’s glass shards in carpet, and you have one lodged inside your shoe.

-The menus are plastic, and are covered in bright writing on a bright background. Most of the menu items are cheesy puns.

-Mod Twilla

untitled: thanksgiving drabble

wc: 1.4k

notes: the author has had a long and tiring day spent with long and tiring people. the author may or may not be drunk. who knows. (happy thanksgiving, all. have some diasporic yoonseok and this un-beta’d rambling mess.) 

how long has yoongi been sat on the same goddamned couch, unmoving, and with a plate of still half-eaten food on his lap. relatives from both his mom and his father’s side mill about the whole house, laughing and talking, voices steadily rising as the amount of alcohol they’ve consumed increases.

it should be a crime, alcohol during thanksgiving. should be banned, but yoongi isn’t one to talk, because without all the wine then he doubts ever getting through the whole ordeal alive. 

thank god for hoseok, though. sweet, wonderful jung hoseok who’s passing off as his friend for this evening (fucking hilarious, yoongi thinks), because his relatives are complete bigots whose favourite past time is to antagonise yoongi.

Keep reading

Comfort Food

A ficlet for @damnslippyplanet. Because <3


The melancholy isn’t new.

It has varietals, different blooms and branches that sometimes stay for an hour, sometimes a week. Sometimes an indeterminate blob of time between.

No one apologizes when the waves pass, there’s no need, but when the water is lapping at Will’s ankles he is consistently frustrated with his inability to dry it up.

Hannibal is staring from the window of their little beach house, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. It’s a chilly autumn day, and the sea has greyed to match the swollen clouds above. Chin cupped in his palm, he sighs. It’s a quiet huff of a thing, made so as not to draw attention.

It draws attention. Will has found, in this blur of days to months since they pulled themselves from the salt-belly of the sea, that he is uncomfortably tuned to Hannibal’s emotions. Before, they were difficult to pluck, not so easily worn, but the water eroded his facades and now he is a fragile thing. Not in body, nor mind, but in the carelessness of how he lets his thoughts slip from his eyes. It’s easy to spot, easy to catch in his hand and hold to his breast, careful - always careful.

“I got you something.”

Will hasn’t done this before. Gifts were never his strong suit. He sets the box by Hannibal’s elbow anyway, perching on the edge of the couch. Hannibal looks down at it with perplexity.


Will shrugs. “Why not?”

Lifting the lid from the box, Hannibal pulls a finely made scarf, hewn in a gradient of deep purple and red. A fine thing, soft as butter and warm between his fingers. Hannibal doesn’t look up, just runs the fabric over his hand, letting it glide like a snake.

“Weather’s getting cold,” Will offers as justification, “and I like that colour on you.”

Hannibal raises his eyes then. “Oh?”

Will just shrugs.

“Thank you,” Hannibal says, and hangs the scarf loosely around his neck. “Perhaps I’ll take a walk in it later.”

Then he returns his eyes to the sea. Will sighs and walks away.

He leaves him be until dinner, when it becomes clear that Hannibal is in no mood to begin his normal performative cooking ritual. There’s enough to go by in the fridge that they can’t possibly go hungry, but after staring into it for long minutes, Will decides that’s not what he wants. He takes the phone off the wall, dials a number.

Thirty minutes later, give or take, a young man appears with styrofoam containers stacked in a plastic bag. Will hands him a few twenties, a generous enough tip to stifle questions as to why this customer is wearing a low-brimmed hat and dark glasses. He takes the bags into the kitchen.

“Dinner!” Will yells. Hannibal is still on the couch. The scarf, at least, remains. He opens his mouth and Will makes a shushing motion.

“Don’t care if you’re not hungry, come here and eat.”

Hannibal makes a predictable wrinkle of his nose at the offensive red-lettered HAVE A NICE DAY take-out bags. Will just eyes him, daring a complaint.

“This,” he explains as he draws a container out and cracks it open, “is my favourite comfort food.” Steam wafts out along with the pleasant aroma of coconut and lemongrass. “Thai curry.”

There’s a small quirk of Hannibal’s lips that would have gone unnoticed by anyone else and Will feeds on it like air.

“Comfort food,” he says quietly.

“Mm,” Will nods, dipping a finger into the sauce and sucking it between his lips. He makes a pleased sound. “Perfect.” He dips again, holds his finger out to Hannibal. Daring, but asking too.

Hannibal wraps gentle fingers around his wrist and darts his tongue out to delicately lick the tip of Will’s index finger. He makes a satisfactory noise and nods.

“It will do.” There’s just enough jest in his tone that Will laughs quietly. He serves up two plates and they retire to the living room.

There’s a marathon of old musicals on TCM. Will puts it on in the background as they dig in. From somewhere within the recesses of the house, a small grey cat slinks out. She winds her way around their ankles, mewing daintily.

“No, Ham,” Will says, “your food is in the kitchen.”

He pretends not to notice when Hannibal breaks off a piece of chicken, scrapes off the sauce and lets it fall to the floor.

“Poor Alexandra,” Hannibal says, “your masters are so cruel.” She rubs her head on his hand and trills happily.

They fall asleep on the couch with For Me and My Gal playing in the background. Will wakes first, Hannibal’s head on his shoulder.

“I know you miss your old life,” he says quietly. He lets his fingers comb gently through Hannibal’s fine hair, shot through with silver now. “But this one’s not so bad.”

Hannibal rumbles something in answer, the sleep-worn frown melting from his features. He twists, adjusting the pressure to his nearly-healed stomach wound, and Will feels fondness crawl across him like a blanket.

The next day, the sky is a little brighter. Hannibal joins him for breakfast newly showered, the scarf draped around his neck. Will can’t help but giggle.

“Nice outfit.”

“It’s soft. I like it.”

“Good,” Will replies. He crowds closer than he normally would as Hannibal pours his coffee and kisses him on the cheek.

Hannibal goes very still.

“Sorry,” Will says immediately, “I didn’t-” But he doesn’t finish the sentence, because he did, he certainly did, and he has no desire to take it back. Hannibal cups his mug loosely, fingers the scarf with his free hand. He opens his mouth as if to say something then closes it quickly.

They stand there, frozen in a tableau of confused intimacy, until Alexandra winds her way around their ankles and makes pitiful cries.

“Darling,” Hannibal coos, scooping her up, “you need your breakfast.”

And that, it seems, is that.

Will leaves him be for the rest of the morning, goes for a run, lets the sand fleck his calves. When he comes back, Hannibal is waiting. The scarf is gone.

“You think that my malaise comes from nostalgia.” His mouth is an indecipherable line.

Will unzips his jacket, still panting a little. “I– yeah, I thought…”

“Why did you kiss me this morning?”

The change of subject is abruptly jarring, but then Will looks into Hannibal’s eyes and sees that it really isn’t.

“Because I wanted to,” he says plainly.

“To make me feel better?”

Will shakes his head, hangs his jacket on the brass hook in the entryway. “No,” he replies, “if it did, great, but that wasn’t the reason.”

“What was the reason, then?”

Hannibal is looking at him like he’s something dangerous, but he seems forlorn despite it. Resigned to his own slow destruction. Will breathes in, exhales steadily, palms at his sides.

“Get your scarf. We’re going for a walk.”

Hannibal nods once and disappears. He returns in less than a minute, the deep purple tucked close to his throat.

The moment their feet touch the sand, Will takes Hannibal’s hand in his, locking their fingers together. He feels the tension, the instinct to pull away, and holds tight.

“I thought you felt trapped,” Will says quietly.

“I do.”

“But not the way I thought.”

Will tugs him closer, Hannibal falls obediently in line beside him. He walks them both to the ocean’s edge. Seafoam tickles the soles of their feet.

“I dragged you under.” Will doesn’t look at him, eyes set on the vast expanse of blue. “But I pulled you out too.” He can feel Hannibal trembling, his pulse quickening helplessly.

“Do you trust me?” He turns to Hannibal then, watches the light dapple his face. Hannibal looks back at him, wary as a churchmouse.

“Yes,” he says, “it terrifies me.”

Will shakes his head. “Don’t let it.”

And then he kisses him. Soft, but insistent, urging a pliancy that he knows rests under the surface. Hannibal is still at first, but as each wave strikes them he grows bolder. He clutches at Will, letting his hunger break from its cage. Soon, they are kissing the way men decades younger should be, careless and with crazed joy. Hannibal tongue slips into his mouth and Will moans, grabbing the ends of his scarf and pulling him even closer.

When he breaks for breath, he pulls salt-air into his lungs and it’s the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted. Then Hannibal slinks in for another kiss, sucking and nibbling on his lower lip, and Will reconsiders what delicious really is.

“Hannibal,” he gasps. He barely recognizes his voice, raspy as the sand between his toes.

Hannibal breathes ragged, nuzzles the hollow of Will’s throat.

“You have broken and remade me,” he murmurs.

“I know.” Will strokes his hair. “Feeling’s mutual.”

They walk back home, twin footprints left alongside each other. They make love twice once they’re back inside - first wild and rushed, then slow and with an almost painful reverence. There are tears, and laughter. Half-whispered apologies and silent promises.

It’s late afternoon by the time they emerge, and Will drags him to the kitchen, cracking open the freezer. He pulls out a pint of Haagen-Dazs and two spoons. Hannibal scoffs and Will just wags a finger.

“No,” he replies to the unasked question, “no bowls. You’ve come inside me, we can share some goddamn ice cream.”

He feeds Hannibal the first bite, licking the cold traces from his lips soon after. Hannibal reciprocates, letting a small scoop ‘accidentally’ fall onto Will’s chest. He sucks it off with a happy hum and Will tousles his hair.

“Happy now?”

Hannibal nods, turning his face to look up at him with undisguised adoration.

“Immensely. Terribly. Tragically.”

Will snorts and bends to kiss him.

“So pretentious.”

“And yet.”

The sentence needs no finishing. Will just nods, smiling.

“And yet.”

You Are My Sunshine

You heard Louis as soon as you entered the house. The old building creaked as he paced upstairs and his muted voice carried through the halls. Smiling, you dropped your bag and raced up the stairs to your daughter’s room where Louis was rocking your baby in his arms, singing softly to her.

“Look who’s home,” he crooned, setting your girl down so she could toddle over to you, her chubby arms waving and her first teeth shining at you as she called for you. You scooped her up and laughed, swinging her through the air.

“Look at you!” You cried, grinning at her as she curled her head underneath your chin.

“Momma,” she said, cuddling up to you. Your heart ached and Louis left the room, leaving you alone with her. You held her tight and rocked her to sleep in your arms. You hadn’t seen her fall asleep in months and you felt your chest constrict as you placed her into the crib. 

Keep reading