smelling her hair

hogwarts wlw aesthetics

gryffindor: forehead kisses, brushing her hair out of her face, boxes of chocolates, making each other laugh, blanket forts, seeing her in your jacket and feeling your heart flip, attack hugs, stupidly competitive “i obviously let you win, babe” moments, flying together, serenading her even if your voice is awful, embarassing amounts of pda, linked arms, doodling hearts on your homework, making a huge deal out of her birthday just to make her feel special, fond eye-rolls, tickle fights, sharing a blanket in front of the fire, hugs that last forever, getting on with her friends, catching yourself staring at her, grand gestures to try and impres her, playing footsie under the table, sweaty palms when you hold hands

slytherin: matching tattoos, skipping class to make out, “i hate you less than other people”, inside jokes, stealing each others clothes and makeup, bed-sharing, lil bit of healthy possessiveness, love letters, “i’m so proud of you”s, hickeys, never shutting up about each other and annoying the hell out of everyone else, it couple, matching jewellery, fierce loyalty, little gifts for no reason, open flirting, knowing exactly how she likes her coffee, lip-biting, conversations at 3am, ironic pet names, your arm around her, stupid dance parties in your underwear, meeting her parents, singing her to sleep, feeling like you’re missing something when she’s not there, being able to communicate just by giving each other a look, calling her your girlfriend around other people

hufflepuff: nose kisses, playing with her hair as she lays in your lap, bringing her flowers, baking together and getting flour everywhere, cuddling, knowing when to say sorry, picnics, walking her to class even if it’s the opposite direction to where you’re going, blushing, binge-watching series together, hand-holding, knowing exactly how to cheer her up after a bad day, board games, making flower crowns, adopting a pet together, “i’m trying to be mad at you stop looking so cute”, sickeningly domestic, sleepy mornings lying in bed, playlists of songs that remind you of her, one drink two straws, cute petnames, “you hang up first”, realising she’s your best friend, insisting on carrying her books, laughing against each other’s mouths

ravenclaw: poetry, bringing her food/drinks when she’s studying, reading aloud to each other, pushing her glasses up her nose when they slide down, cafe dates, quiet nights in, walks in the woods holding hands, cheek kisses, curling up in one seat, soft love songs, the way your name sounds when she says it, talking for hours, smoothing away the frown between her eyebrows when she’s stressed, shoulder rubs, whispered “i love you”s, scheduled date nights, little notes slipped into books, total support, the feeling of being known, helping each other out, cooking meals for her, slow dancing, “this reminded me of you”, learning all her little quirks, the smell of her hair

2

I loved a girl way back when. I looked at her, and thought “forever”, and i thought i stitched her in my heart tight enough to never let go. I shot her love in my veins like heroin, and stuck her tongue in my throat like they were god damn pills, thinking she could help me escape from my life back then. It was a greedy kind of love. The kind where we wanted to grow together but our roots were fighting to breathe apart. And eventually our forever turned out to be a few short years, and the stitches turned into daggers. “Forever” turned into “i regret ever loving you”. “You’re the most beautiful creature” became “I look at you, and i dont recognize you”. I used to think i couldnt get the smell of her hair off my sheets, and really i just wanted to burn them. When two lovers meet their ends, they tend to shut out the good memories and focus on the bad. What you once painted in rose color, you fight to paint black. But time went on, and i’ve made my peace. And at times, i pray she has too. 

you want to paint the underside of your coffin with glow in the dark stars so you’ve got something to look at. when you were in mass last sunday god spoke to you directly and asked you to please stop it. you’ve been trying to stop it.

she’s wearing a red dress that hugs her waist so tight that you picture your hands searching for your sanity somewhere in the folds of that body. between thighs like that. is this objectifying her? you worry to yourself, smashing lipstick on.

your head already hurts, and there’s a girl who is puking in the corner. you ask her if she needs anything, and she tells you she likes your dress, and you say thank you do you need water, and she says, it’s okay i’m going to die here, and you say, okay let me bring you water. so you bring her water, even though the other girls look nasty at you when you cut the line. it’s not for me, you try to explain, weakly, over bass that is breaking your eardrums. nobody likes a hero. the girl is surprised you’re back. she spits up daintily, almost neatly, and drinks the water in a single chug. she tells you to go back to partying, so you do, because she tells you to.

where the hell is your friend. it’s not like she promised she’d stay next to you but here you are and here she isn’t, which is either rude for both of you or just the average way of things.

nervous hands bring you back to the bar where at least you can linger and pout and think about god, and his hands, and the sun coming up tomorrow on the bones of your body. where if you keep your eyes down and don’t look up you won’t remember that all places of worship are churches and here you are, nursing a vodka tonic you finished five minutes ago, praying about hell while women cagedance not more than six yards from where you sit.

a man in a suit - an honest-to-god suit - comes up to you. the cloth is powder blue. he asks if you want a drink. you don’t. you say yes because your mother taught you not to turn down free things. he orders you something you don’t like and you lean across the bar and tell the bartender nicely that unless he wants you to die you will be drinking a shot of fireball and nothing else, thank you. the bartender says, i don’t want you to die.

you don’t say, okay, but, what if someone would finally let me die. that’s dark. that’s something you stow for your friend who has a good enough sense of humor.

you smile at the man, take the shot, wave at him, ask him to come dance, melt away into the crowd with that ability you learned somewhere in high school. now you’re alone again and can’t go back to the bar because the man will be looking. you remember you’ve got a phone finally.

you ask your friend where she is. she doesn’t reply coherently, but you like the addition of the cat emoji.

some terrible part of you slips into your skin now, the ache of wanting out. so you go out.

and there’s the girl in the red dress.   

you feel yourself choke like a car engine and it’s gosh dang embarrassing.

she’s laughing, blowing smoke up at the building. a man is standing next to her, but she makes eye contact with you. you ask her if she’s willing to bum you one. you’ve never smoked in your life and you’re terrified of them like guns. she nods and slips you a clover. you don’t let your hands shake in the glow of the lighter, only after, only when she smiles at you and asks you how you’re doing.

how am i doing? i’m very lonely and i think god abandoned me and it feels like a train wreck inside me. i feel myself reversing. my headlights are going out. tomorrow already hurts.

instead you shrug and say something inconsequential. you say, that’s a nice dress. even manage to keep how hard your heart is pounding out of it.

isn’t it? asks the man. you now remember he’s here. you have the urge to smoke suddenly. inhale deeply.

sorry to bother you, you say, just got too loud in there.

she nods, looking at you, mouth in a pretty smile. not bothering, she says, it’s okay. want to go back in with me?

her outstretched hand is soft and cold. you drop the clover. once inside she shouts over the music to you about how men are creeps. her lip touches your ear while she speaks. her hand doesn’t leave yours. she pulls you to the dance floor. your heart feels like a carousel.

she dances. your throat is dry. she takes your other hand and makes you dance with her, a silly little twisting thing. your palms are sweaty and she is laughing. she leans in to speak with you, pressing up against your body. there is lightning shooting out over your skin. she smells like roses. her hair seems soft.

she’s whispering something and for a second, the sound of corroding stops in your brain. like the train finally derailed and now it’s dead and can leave you out of it. like stuff gets quiet even though you’re drunk in public on a friday night.

so this is worship, then, you think.

you say, sorry, and she says ? for what? and you can’t speak.

when she turns around, you leave.

Have you ever had someone lay their fingers along the spaces between your ribs and squeeze? Really find those fleshy bits between the bones and just curl into them? I have. The thing is, you can’t help your natural reflex in reaction to that strange, visceral, intrusive feeling. Your body knows, “hey, I don’t think I should be touched there!” and so it flails wildly, almost manically, to protect your most vital organs, even if there’s no real threat.

My wife loves the spaces between my ribs, but has kindly refrained from squeezing them since I’ve asked her to stop. Still. I’m a nervous person, and the guard just goes up sometimes – can’t help it.

The other night, we were laying in bed and cuddling, and I was about on the brink of passing out while baby lay curled over me. Her hand rested on my chest, her head lay nestled between my shoulder and my chin, and I was smelling her hair – a vague scent of shampoo, still a little wet from the shower. Everything felt warm and right and peaceful, but for the fact that (as exhausted as I was) baby was like a shaken up soda can of hyperactive lesbian. She was happily chatting away when her hand traveled a little lower, then circled around my side and her fingertips moved into those vulnerable little dips.

“Noooooooo,” I whined, and I yanked her hand away.

“But I can’t sleep!” She protested, laying her leg over mine and lifting her head to give me that wide-eyed, entreating look. “I won’t squeeze! I just want to count your ribs! It’s soothing.” I can never deny her anything when she gives me that look. (She has very long eyelashes and very blue eyes. It’s my kryptonite.)

So I let her hand go, cautiously, and relaxed a little bit. She teases and jokes, but she never lies to me, so I knew she’d at least stop herself from squeezing even though I know how much she loves it. She moved her hand back over to my rib cage and I took in a breath.

“You know,” I offered as her fingertips began to dance gently over each individual rib, “you could count sheep instead.”

And baby chuckled lowly, snuggling closer, warm and soft and sweet. And then she proceeded to say the most terrifying thing I’ve ever heard come out of her mouth, in a voice that sounded like it should have been wafting inexplicably down the halls of an abandoned building.

“There are no sheep here,” she whispered, “but there are plenty of your bones.”

And somehow that simple statement was more instinctively horrifying than the feeling of fingers in the spaces between your ribs. Turns out, it inspired the same reaction. I flailed, and she laughed and laughed and laughed until I was laughing too.

It took us both a while to go to sleep.

I want to kiss her neck. I want to breathe in the sweet smell of her hair. I want to watch her eyes changing their color a little bit. I want to hug her from behind while she cooks a breakfast for us. I want to feel how she cuddles me while i get asleep. I want her to hug me when I’m cold. I want to hear her laugh and wipe her tears away. I want to hear her telling me the weirdest of her dreams and the deepest of her secrets. I want to hear her breath against my skin. I want to watch her sleeping early in the morning and wake her up with kisses. To hold her hands when we’re walking across the streets and eat ice cream. To buy her favorite candies and watch her acting like a little child when i bring it to her. To tell her how beautiful she is and how much i love her. I just want more of her into my life. 

THE STYDIA KISS (and hug)- an Extra™ frame by frame analysis

ok so we start out with this shit. even before this frame, dude is staring at them Martin lips like he’s in the middle of the desert and they’re the only water for miles. Then we get here and they both go in OPEN goddamn MOUTH for this kiss. she is PUCKERED for him. She was puckered ten feet ago, she was puckered when she walked in the damn door, hell, she was puckered 3 months ago. She got her tongue fucking ready to dock at Port Stilinski Lips.

She comes in fucking Little Caesar’s Hot ‘N Ready with the hands on the neck. goddamn. And they are PRESSED into each other. If they were kissing any deeper they would swallow each other. Which now, come to think of it, might have been their goal.

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Hiccup: You like Rapunzel?

Jack: No!  It’s more like, when we’re in the same room, my heart rate increases, I hear music that no one else hears, and I kinda want to smell her hair.

Merida: [excitedly] You love Rapunzel!

6

Franziska: Girlfriend? I don’t want to be Maya’s girlfriend.
Edgeworth: Well, what do you want then?
Franziska: I don’t know!
Franziska: I want to be with her all the time. I want to hear about her day and tell her about mine. 
Franziska: I want to hold her hand and smell her hair…
Franziska: But I don’t want to be her stupid girlfriend!

The Text

Prompt: Hi, could I request a Dick Grayson fic where the reader is his best friend and has predictive text on, so she accidentally sends him “hey babe” when he’s out with the boys or something?

Requested by: Anon


    “What do you think this means?”

    “Maybe she likes you as more than a friend?”

    “That could happen. I mean you two have been close for years. Known each other since you were kids. And you’ve both been on the team since you were thirteen.”

    Dick just stares at his phone. All of the above was true, but he knew you. You weren’t someone who would just randomly start calling him “babe.” You were calculating and thoughtful. You liked to have a plan. Which meant this couldn’t be a mistake, could it?

    “What should I text back?”

    Wally grins, “You need a cute nickname for her.”

    “But nothing cutesy.” Connor adds, “She’s not cutesy.”

    Dick grins, “Well that rules out pumpkin, and cutie.”

    Wally smirks, “And kitten.”

    Dick shivers at the thought of that particular girl. Quickly changing the topic he asks, “Before we finish picking out a pet name, shouldn’t we discuss the pros and cons of this decision?”

    He receives several blank looks, and he sighs, “What if it doesn’t work out? She’s one of my best friends. I don’t want to ruin our friendship if this goes south.”

All of the smiles are gone now, and Wally asks, “Who wants to tell him?”

“Tell me what?”

“That your mentor emotionally stunted you, and you can’t even admit that you’ve been in love with Y/N since you were twelve.” The sentence flows from Garfield’s mouth like a river.

And Dick just stares at his friends, “I am not in love with her.” The stares intensify and he admits, “I like her, yes. I spend a good amount of time with her, and her hair smells nice, and my heart kind of speeds up when she smiles, but I’m not in love with her.” Kaldur raises an eyebrow and question and Dick admits, “Okay so, I’m in love with her … What about sweetheart?”

Wally nods, “Good amount of sweetness without being too mushy, I say go with it.”

Dick doesn’t even hesitate, he types out the words and hits send.

You’re out to eat with the girls when the text comes in. You look up at your friends, and ask, “Okay, who sent Dick a text saying ‘Hey babe?’” When no one answers you whine just a tad, “You guys, I had a plan!”

Zatanna smiles, “Yes but your plan would have taken three years to implement, and now we can skip that torture, and talk about what you’re going to wear on your first date.”

“He only texted back ‘hey sweetheart,’ no date plans.”

    Artemis shrugs, “The guys will have that locked in within an hour.”

    You stare at your friends, they’re damn scary when they’re determined. 

Forbidden (harry styles au)

ahi hi hi, i know it’s been so long. sorry. i’m trying to enjoy my last few days of break before hell breaks loose. this is a smutty writing piece because it was that kind of mood and i haven’t posted any writing in a while so i apologize. hope you enjoy! xx M 

Originally posted by kissableandsexy

warning: contains mature content (mostly smut) 


“Mother, I will not get married to a man I hardly know!” Princess Y/N shouts at her mother with an angry and frustrated tone. 

“Y/N! You do not have a choice. We need our allies and if that means giving you away to another kingdom, then we shall do it.” The Queen speaks in a firm, condescending tone as she glares at her daughter with cold eyes.

Y/N feels the tears well up in her eyes, “But I do not even know who this man is. I haven’t even seen him and you’re already discussing a wedding date when I haven’t even met the man!”

The Queen lets out an exasperated sigh, sitting down next her daughter on the cushioned bench in the palace library. It was a place Y/N came whenever she was upset because no one ever came in here except her. 

“Look sweetheart,” she puts a hand on her shoulder as if she’s trying to comfort her but it doesn’t help at all. “We need an alliance and the Kingdom of Saphina want an alliance too. This is why we need to have a political marriage otherwise if there is a rebellion, we won’t have anyone to fight with us. We will lose our men.”

Y/N closes her eyes, clenching her dress in her hand tightly because she knows it’s a lie or at least, there’s some things that her mother is leaving out. Like how her selfish Father wants more land and giving away his daughter to a large and powerful kingdom such as Saphina will cause him to gain more power. Is her mother even aware of that? Of how selfish that is?

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Denial
  • Draco: Boyfriend? I don’t want to be Hermione's "boyfriend"
  • Pansy: Well...what do you want then?
  • Draco: I don’t know! I just wanna be with her all the time. I wanna hear about her day and tell her about mine. I wanna...hold her hand and smell her hair. But, I don’t wanna be her stupid "boyfriend”
  • Pansy: Draco, what you just described is literally a boyfriends role in a relationship. And a pretty clingy one at that
Coffee Shops and Scars

Request: “hello there! your works are absolutely amazing and I enjoy reading them so much~ keep doing what you do!!! I would love to request a soulmate au where both newt and reader can feel and witness each other’s pain and even fresh wounds on their own body!! (eg. if newt gets a paper cut, so does the reader at the same time) welcome to the angst train _(:3/”

Word Count: 3,434

Pairing: Newt x Reader

Warning: Mentions of blood

Requested by @ah-excuse-me but also tagging @caseoffics and @red-roses-and-stories


Your friend holds a bowl of popcorn out to you when it happens.

You curse and grab your arm, curling up and grimacing.

“Again?” Is all Maria says, placing the bowl back in her lap and taking a handful of popcorn.

You groan. “I’m going to kill this idiot when I meet him.”

She laughs. “You’re going to kill your soulmate?”

“Yes.” You grumble.

“Well, how bad is it this time?” She crunches the popcorn in her mouth as the two of you ignore the record droning on in the background.

You remove your hand from your bicep. A red patch of skin grows under where your hand was clutched, bubbling up in the center. You hiss at the sight.

“Oh, that’s disgusting. Do you have your medkit?”

You nod, squeezing your eyes shut. “How the hell did he get a burn there?” You mumble, reaching to your hip and unlatching the medkit you carry with you. It holds everything from tiny bandages to a tourniquet. The tourniquet was a joke gift from another friend when they’d noticed all the scars covering your body, but you’re not so sure you won’t need it someday.

“Leaned against an open oven?”

“With their upper arm?”

She shrugs, tossing more popcorn into her mouth. “Possible.”

“Whatever.” You dig around in the bag and find the bottle of burn cream. You’d bought it six months before and used half of it already.

Maria looks back to the record player, watching the disk spin. “You’re missing the best part of the song.”

“I’m sorry, I’m a little busy.” You spit. You’d been having a perfectly good night before your soulmate had to go and do something stupid.

You finish applying the burn cream when a deep cut suddenly rips opens on your left forearm. A trail of blood rushes out of it, dripping onto your blanket before you can grab anything.

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