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my inbox is always open for requests or yapping, so don’t be shy (there’s an anonymous option)
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art blog(derogatory)
ojovivo
Monterey Bay Aquarium
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Product Placement
styofa doing anything
NASA
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Kaledo Art

shark vs the universe
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"

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Misplaced Lens Cap
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸

blake kathryn
Sade Olutola
we're not kids anymore.

Discoholic 🪩

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@sunflowerene-vol6
WELCOME TO MY BLOG
my inbox is always open for requests or yapping, so don’t be shy (there’s an anonymous option)
HELP UKRAINE
masterlist
main account @sunflowerry-vol6
join my taglist
please be respectful and kind. thank you, love you.
FAVORITE SERIES
☕︎ will have Smut, Angst, & Fluff
The Man Beneath, written by @gurugirl [Patreon]
When Y/n inherits her late great-uncle’s secluded estate on the Isle of Man, she doesn’t expect much more than dust and old debts. But hidden beneath Glen Ardyn’s stone floors is a relic of a war that ended decades ago; a massive, scary-looking man named Harry, locked away in the dark, forgotten. Harry is stranger than any man she’s known, yet he’s also gentle and heartbreakingly human. As Y/n unravels the truth of who he is and why he was kept a secret for so long, she finds herself drawn to him in ways she can’t explain.
Better Man, written by gurugirl [on patreon]
Patreon Series Synopsis: Y/n's dating Dante - the charming, handsome, and most beloved Styles brother. From the outside, he looks like the perfect boyfriend. But behind closed doors, things aren't so sweet.
Dante's older brother, Harry, is his opposite. He's a bit rough around the edges, rarely cracks a smile at all, and he intimidates most people. Y/n typically keeps her distance but lately, they keep being brought together and she soon realizes that underneath Harry's hard exterior is a gentle soul with a lot of love to give.
The Matchmaker, written by gurugirl [on patreon, no post about it]
Single mom!reader x neighbor!harry | When Y/n's 9-year-old son, Max, steals a yard decoration from their neighbor, Harry, it forces both Y/n and Harry to finally meet.
Best friend's dad!Harry written by gurugirl
Request turned series: best friends dad harry request where harry is still married to your best friends mom, but it doesn’t stop him from fucking you raw. like a super filthy one, go wild!! love u!
It's Good To Be King, written by gurugirl
Series Summary: Harry, a handsome, but ill-mannered new king, bound by tradition, must select a queen, and against all expectations, he chooses Y/n, a street beggar. Now, Y/n finds herself caught between the gilded cage of royalty and the cold, harsh simplicity of her past, navigating a court shocked by her presence and a king who revels in the scandal of it all.
Ex-Boyfriend's Dad!Harry, written by gurugirl
Series Summary: You break up with your boyfriend and confide in his dad about some very personal issues you had with his son. And Harry thinks he can help.
Another World, written by @sunflowerstache
Summary: We all know One Direction. The famously successful band made up of Liam, Niall, Louis, Y/N, and Harry who were all fatefully formed during the X factor and went on to world renowned stardom. It’s a whirlwind of a life that Y/N grew up only dreaming of ever experiencing, until it actually happened. But with every success story comes its background. There’s the ups and downs of being catapulted into stardom, the building of relationships with four boys she doesn’t know anything about, as well as dealing with the challenges that come with her new status, all while trying to keep a grasp on her private life and it’s reality. Will she be able to handle it all? Or will she be taken to another world?
The Nan & Harry Universe, written by @watchmegetobsessed
WHAT IT'S ABOUT: It's a well-known fact in your family that your Nan absolutely adores your boyfriend, Harry. These fics are little glimpses into the adorable relationship Harry has with your grandma, tiny moments, major life events, happy and sad days. They are an iconic duo and you feel lucky to witness the bond between them grow day by day.
Old Grudges, written by watchmegetobsessed
WHAT IT IS ABOUT: Harry and Y/N go way back. Working together was like a dream when 1D was still going strong. Now, years later, when they end up working together again, things are very different. Mostly because Y/N seems to be hating Harry passionately. But he has not idea why.
Marriagecounselor!Harry, written by @mouthfulloftoothpasterry [+blurbs]
Summary: Y/n and Conner are having a difficultly marriage and Y/n seeks help.
TROUBLE ALMOST ALL MY LIFE, written by @januaryembrs [+drabbles]
Spencer Reid x Prentiss!Reader. pictures are not indicative of readers appearance. Reader has not got any racial features mentioned & we never see Emily’s dad so I have tried to make my fic as inclusive to all my fem!readers as possible! Please let me know if this is not the case <3
COPYCAT, written by @reiding-writing [+ side stories/no smut] × Spencer Reid
The replication of a disturbing 2004 serial murder case calls for the BAU to get involved with the assistance of none other than the original killer themself. And whilst Spencer didn't work the original case, he was eager to learn every detail about it, including its offender.
COLD!READER, written by reiding-writing [no smut] × Spencer Reid
A series of stories or documents that can be read in conjunction with each other or as stand alone articles.
Chaos, written by @ohtobeleah
Summary: Being called back to TopGun should have been the number one thing on your mind. But Bradley Bradshaw sure made it hard to keep your priorities in check. He made it hard to do just about anything. Including but not limited to saving his life.
SECRET THAT WE KEEP, written by @sunflowerene-vol6 [no smut]
summary: Harry’s secret wife and son are accidentally exposed, sending internet into a meltdown.
Fine Print, written by @harrywavycurly
Summary: Harry Styles being the only male heir is set to become CEO of his family’s company, there’s just two things keeping him from being able to fully take control. He’s not married and he’s not exactly known for being the most confident person, actually people around Styles & Co. would tell you Harry is almost painfully shy and tries keep to himself as much as possible and that’s not a trait people want in the man they’ll soon call their boss. So Harry’s mother takes it upon herself to find someone for her shy, a little bit of a bookworm but extremely kindhearted son who will help break him out of his shell and step into the role of CEO with a bit more confidence, and that person is you. You’re supposed to be Mrs. Styles for a limited time, just long enough to get Harry in his new position and make him comfortable but things take a turn and previously agreed upon terms start to change. ✨
𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃
To Be Continued...
SECRET THAT WE KEEP || Harry x OC
masterlist ||
🗞️ Next Morning — Major Outlets Pick It Up
7:12 AM — UK time
The first push notification hits.
──────────────────────
BBC News (Entertainment):
Fans speculate after airport photos of Harry Styles with child go viral
Within minutes, every outlet has a version.
──────────────────────
📰 Headlines rolling out
🗞️ BBC
Online speculation grows after footage appears to show Harry Styles traveling with a young child
🗞️ The Guardian
Viral airport clip sparks debate over celebrity privacy and fan culture
🗞️ Daily Mail
Harry Styles fuels rumors of secret family after being seen with child named “Dorian”
🗞️ People Magazine
Fans notice clues in resurfaced photos after airport sighting of Harry Styles and child
🗞️ TMZ
HARRY STYLES SECRET DAD?
Airport video sends internet into frenzy
──────────────────────
📺 Morning TV segments
Good Morning Britain
Panel arguing:
• “Celebrities deserve private lives.”
• “But if you’re that famous, is total privacy realistic?”
• “The internet put this together in hours.”
A slowed-down clip of the metal detector moment plays on screen with subtitles:
“His metal pin.”
The host pauses it.
“That’s the moment fans say changed everything.”
──────────────────────
📱 Social media explodes again
Twitter trending worldwide:
1. HARRY STYLES
2. DORIAN
3. SECRET FAMILY
4. LET HIM HAVE PRIVACY
──────────────────────
@PopCrave
Major outlets now reporting on viral speculation that Harry Styles may have a private family.
No official statement from his team.
210k likes
──────────────────────
@BuzzFeedNews
We’re not confirming rumors, but here’s why the internet thinks Harry Styles has a secret child.
185k likes
──────────────────────
@Variety
Representatives for Harry Styles have not responded to requests for comment.
162k likes
──────────────────────
💬 Fan reactions shifting tone
@.fanaccount
Okay now that real news sites are posting… this feels serious.
89k likes
──────────────────────
@softdirectioner
I feel weird seeing this on BBC. It was just a Reddit thread yesterday.
77k likes
──────────────────────
@respectharrysprivacypls
Media should not be naming the child. He didn’t choose fame.
70k likes
──────────────────────
@realistictake
He didn’t lie to fans.
He just didn’t tell us everything.
That’s allowed.
65k likes
──────────────────────
@.internetanthropology
This might be one of the fastest transitions from fan speculation → mainstream news coverage I’ve seen.
54k likes
──────────────────────
📸 Paparazzi agencies release more photos
Grainy zoom shots.
The backpack.
The cardigan.
The three of them walking together for half a second before splitting.
Every outlet uses the same blurred still.
──────────────────────
🧑💼 Harry’s team
No statement.
Silence.
That silence becomes the loudest part.
──────────────────────
🧠 Public narrative shifts
Overnight, the tone changes from “Is this real?” to “How long has this been real?”
Comment sections start leaning protective instead of accusatory.
Parents speak up. Fans defend.
──────────────────────
📺 Midday headline
Sky News:
Privacy vs. fame: Should celebrities be able to keep families secret?
Panel discussion includes:
• a media ethicist
• a former boyband PR manager
• a fan culture researcher
No one confirms anything.
Everyone talks around it.
──────────────────────
🌍 Noon — Global awareness
Even people who aren’t fans now know the rumor.
The internet feels like it’s holding its breath.
Waiting for:
• a statement
• a denial
• a confirmation
• anything
People start realizing:
If this is true,
it was never meant to be public like this.
──────────────────────
Taglist: @lomlcamy @packtuq @angeldavis777 @28tpwk1989 @raajali3 @pleasantearthquakecowboy @avensgreenvans @sassamanda77 @triski73 @bloom-b @sincerely-yours-marsbar @nanaisinmars @alexa-sophie @roryslittlefreak @ughyna @daphnesutton @purple9950 @kissallthetimeharrystyles join my taglist
https://x.com/besitosrry/status/2001463207307940340
Could you please make a bot based on this gif? But where you’re the same age as harry 💞
I don’t know what possessed me.
Maybe it was the way you refused to smile at me like the others did. Or maybe I just wanted to see if I could make you lose that composure.
“— and we’re here tonight with some of the biggest names in music—”
I moved behind you slowly, close enough to smell your perfume. Something clean. Warm.
You stiffened.I leaned in, close to your ear.
“Hello,” I murmured softly, just low enough that only you could hear.
Your breath hitched — barely noticeable, but I felt it. You didn’t stop talking.
I brushed my lips against your cheek. Soft. Quick. Playful.
The crowd behind the cameras erupted.
You froze for half a second. Just half.
“Harry Styles,” you said, finally turning fully toward me, camera catching the moment perfectly. “Since you’re here… would you like to explain yourself?”
he’s a menace
Taglist: @pauli-loveslouistomlinson @hontpwk @avensgreenvans @venusnettles @sincerely-yours-marsbar @myonlyangel13 @lexiecamposv @unknownkii @daydreamingstyles @bibliophile369 @daydreaming-xo @carolinaastyles @illicitloves @proudravenclawbird @merylittlefreak @patriwxlls @lomlcamy @chalmtloui @cherrycherry444 @belles-sweetcreature @littlealonebutterfly @wtvrevie @tpwk-keepdriving @shesanangelmyonlyangel @cherriestyles92 @marzzfly @fangirl509east @kateluvshaz @pariswithzouis @bebopbumblebee @peachesndsunflowers @patriwxlls @alex-voiddome @harrysredshortshorts @harryskiwi044 @rubyszjuno @dollrry @daphnesutton @stardustmalik @angelinplaid @isastyles @nikkihs @maliikk @bluejacketharry @rockzzztar @hazstyle @remei25 @moonlightharryy @thund3rstruck @413files join my taglist
Can you make a bot based off the song ugly heart by grl please? :)
I remember thinking: This is it. This is the kind of moment people write songs about.
You leaned forward and kissed me.
Soft. Warm. Familiar.
Then you pulled back like you touched something hot.
“Harry,” you said quickly, sliding off the counter “Don’t make this a thing”
And there it was. The invisible wall.
“Why do you always do this?” I asked you once.
We were sitting on the floor of my living room. Half a bottle of wine between us.
You tilted your head. “Do what?”
“You run” You laughed like it was ridiculous.
“I’m literally sitting here.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
You went quiet then. Just long enough to prove I’d hit something. Then stood up. “Harry, you overthink everything.”
Conversation over. That’s your favorite trick.
she’s the one with an ugly heart (plot twist)
Taglist: @pauli-loveslouistomlinson @hontpwk @avensgreenvans @venusnettles @sincerely-yours-marsbar @myonlyangel13 @lexiecamposv @unknownkii @daydreamingstyles @bibliophile369 @daydreaming-xo @carolinaastyles @illicitloves @proudravenclawbird @merylittlefreak @patriwxlls @lomlcamy @chalmtloui @cherrycherry444 @belles-sweetcreature @littlealonebutterfly @wtvrevie @tpwk-keepdriving @shesanangelmyonlyangel @cherriestyles92 @marzzfly @fangirl509east @kateluvshaz @pariswithzouis @bebopbumblebee @peachesndsunflowers @patriwxlls @alex-voiddome @harrysredshortshorts @harryskiwi044 @rubyszjuno @dollrry @daphnesutton @stardustmalik @angelinplaid @isastyles @nikkihs @maliikk @bluejacketharry @rockzzztar @hazstyle @remei25 @moonlightharryy @thund3rstruck @413files join my taglist
Hi! Please could you make the bot where long hair harry is the older brother and his sister (who’s chatting) is on tour with the boys? Thank You if you do it💖
“Pizza” Liam insists.
“We had pizza yesterday” Louis says.
“That was lunch pizza. Different category”
I’m barely listening.
Because you’re sitting across from me, cross-legged on the other couch, scrolling through your phone with your headphones around your neck.
You came on tour three weeks ago. And somehow the entire dynamic of the bus changed overnight.
At first you were shy about it — Harry hovering around you like an overprotective guard dog, introducing you to everyone as if we didn’t already know who you were.
“This is my sister” he’d said, pointing at each of us like he was assigning security clearance “Behave”
Louis had laughed “Relax, mate. We’re not animals” Then he looked at you and immediately added “Except Niall”
harry’s sister (this absolutely had to be frat boy Niall)
Taglist: @pauli-loveslouistomlinson @hontpwk @avensgreenvans @venusnettles @sincerely-yours-marsbar @myonlyangel13 @lexiecamposv @unknownkii @daydreamingstyles @bibliophile369 @daydreaming-xo @carolinaastyles @illicitloves @proudravenclawbird @merylittlefreak @patriwxlls @lomlcamy @chalmtloui @cherrycherry444 @belles-sweetcreature @littlealonebutterfly @wtvrevie @tpwk-keepdriving @shesanangelmyonlyangel @cherriestyles92 @marzzfly @fangirl509east @kateluvshaz @pariswithzouis @bebopbumblebee @peachesndsunflowers @patriwxlls @alex-voiddome @harrysredshortshorts @harryskiwi044 @rubyszjuno @dollrry @daphnesutton @stardustmalik @angelinplaid @isastyles @nikkihs @maliikk @bluejacketharry @rockzzztar @hazstyle @remei25 @moonlightharryy @thund3rstruck @413files join my taglist
“How many times have you been on this show now?” you continue.
“Too many to count,” I say.
“Or not enough?”
I lean closer to the microphone. “Depends if you’re there.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then the producers behind the glass start laughing.
You sigh dramatically. “See, this is why I shouldn’t interview you.”
“Because I’m charming?”
“Because you flirt with me every time you’re here.”
“Only stating facts.”
ono invitation
Taglist: @pauli-loveslouistomlinson @hontpwk @avensgreenvans @venusnettles @sincerely-yours-marsbar @myonlyangel13 @lexiecamposv @unknownkii @daydreamingstyles @bibliophile369 @daydreaming-xo @carolinaastyles @illicitloves @proudravenclawbird @merylittlefreak @patriwxlls @lomlcamy @chalmtloui @cherrycherry444 @belles-sweetcreature @littlealonebutterfly @wtvrevie @tpwk-keepdriving @shesanangelmyonlyangel @cherriestyles92 @marzzfly @fangirl509east @kateluvshaz @pariswithzouis @bebopbumblebee @peachesndsunflowers @patriwxlls @alex-voiddome @harrysredshortshorts @harryskiwi044 @rubyszjuno @dollrry @daphnesutton @stardustmalik @angelinplaid @isastyles @nikkihs @maliikk @bluejacketharry @rockzzztar @hazstyle @remei25 @moonlightharryy @thund3rstruck @413files join my taglist
HAPPY WOMEN’S DAY, MUMMY || Harry x OC
one shoot special for women’s day 🩷🌷
based on my bot
summary: your son saved allowance Harry gave him to buy you flowers for women’s day.
words count: 808
masterlist
Harry’s POV:
The first thing I noticed that morning was the jar.
It was supposed to be empty.
A little glass jar that used to hold honey, sitting on the kitchen counter beside the fruit bowl. I’d washed it weeks ago when my son asked if he could “use it for something important.” I didn’t ask what. Kids deserve their secrets.
But today it wasn’t empty.
It was full of coins. Not just a few. Full.
I lean against the counter, arms folded, watching him from the doorway of the kitchen.
He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, tongue peeking out slightly in concentration as he counts the coins into tiny piles.
“One… two… three… four…”
His hair sticks up in the back from sleep, still wearing dinosaur pajamas.
I clear my throat.
He jumps. “Dad!”
I grin. “Morning, mate.”
He immediately tries to slide his hands over the coins like he can hide them from me.
Too late.
I walk in slowly, pouring myself coffee. “What’s the bank doing on my kitchen floor?”
His eyes narrow suspiciously. “You’re not allowed to look.”
“Bit late for that, isn’t it?”
He huffs dramatically, the way kids do when adults ruin their plans. “It’s important.”
“Alright,” I say, lifting my hands in surrender. “Secret business.”
He studies me for a second, deciding if I’m trustworthy.
Then he sighs. “Fine.”
He scoots closer and whispers like we’re discussing state secrets. “It’s for Mum.”
My eyebrows lift. “Oh yeah?”
He nods very seriously. “For Women’s Day.”
I blink. “You’ve been saving… all your pocket money?”
He nods again. “For flowers.”
And suddenly the jar makes sense.
Every week when I’d handed him his little allowance, he never spent it on sweets or toy cars like usual. I thought maybe he was planning some big Lego set.
Nope.
My son apparently has more romantic sense than half the men I know.
I crouch down beside him. “How long have you been saving?”
“Since Christmas.”
I stare at him. “Since Christmas?”
“That’s when I saw a sign in the flower shop,” he explains matter-of-factly. “It said Women’s Day.”
“And you remembered it for three months?”
He nods proudly. “Mum likes flowers.”
He’s not wrong.
You always do that little smile when I bring them home. The one that makes me feel like I’ve done something right.
I glance back at the jar. “That’s… a lot of coins, mate.”
He puffs up. “I know.” Then his face scrunches slightly with worry. “But I don’t know if it’s enough.”
My chest tightens a little. “Enough for what?”
“For the big bouquet.” He stretches his arms out wide. “The red ones.”
Roses.
Of course.
I rub my chin like I’m thinking very hard.
“Well… lucky for you,” I say slowly, “I happen to know the owner of a flower shop.”
His eyes go huge. “You do??”
“Very powerful man,” I nod gravely. “Very handsome too.”
He squints at me. “That’s you.”
“Correct.”
He beams.
“So… what do you say we go pick the flowers together?”
He grabs the jar immediately. “YES.”
The flower shop smells like spring. Buckets of roses, tulips, peonies everywhere.
My son walks in like a tiny businessman, clutching his jar with both hands.
The florist smiles at him. “Can I help you?”
He carefully places the jar on the counter with a loud clink. “I want flowers for my mum.”
She melts instantly. “Well that’s the sweetest thing I’ve heard all day.”
He points dramatically to the biggest bouquet of red roses. “That one.”
I nearly laugh.
The florist glances at me.
I give her a small nod.
She wraps the bouquet in paper almost as big as he is.
My son counts the coins onto the counter with absolute seriousness.
The florist pretends to count them like they’re millions. Then she slides the bouquet toward him. “Perfect amount.”
His face lights up like Christmas morning. He hugs the bouquet carefully. “Thank you.”
When we get home, you’re still asleep. He tiptoes through the hallway like a spy.
I crouch beside him and whisper, “Ready?”
He nods.
We push open the bedroom door.
You stir slightly when he climbs onto the bed.
“Mum…”
Your eyes blink open slowly. “What’s going on—”
And then he holds the flowers out.
“Happy Women’s Day.”
You freeze.
Your face softens immediately.
“Oh my god…”
You sit up, taking the bouquet.
“These are for me?”
He nods proudly. “I bought them.”
You look at me over the flowers, confused.
I just shrug. “All him.”
Your eyes shine a little as you pull him into a hug. “These are the most beautiful flowers I’ve ever gotten.”
He giggles into your shoulder. “Dad helped carry them.”
I lean against the doorframe, watching the two of you.
And I swear to God…
I’ve never been more proud of anything in my life.
Taglist: @lomlcamy @packtuq @angeldavis777 @28tpwk1989 @raajali3 @pleasantearthquakecowboy @avensgreenvans @sassamanda77 @triski73 @bloom-b @sincerely-yours-marsbar @nanaisinmars @alexa-sophie @roryslittlefreak @ughyna @daphnesutton join my taglist
“One… two… three… four…” His hair sticks up in the back from sleep, still wearing dinosaur pajamas.
I clear my throat. He jumps “Dad!”
I grin “Morning, mate”
He immediately tries to slide his hands over the coins like he can hide them from me.
Too late. I walk in slowly, pouring myself coffee “What’s the bank doing on my kitchen floor?”
His eyes narrow suspiciously “You’re not allowed to look”
“Bit late for that, isn’t it?”
He studies me for a second, deciding if I’m trustworthy. Then he sighs “Fine” He scoots closer and whispers like we’re discussing state secrets “It’s for Mum” He nods very seriously “For Women’s Day”
Every week when I’d handed him his little allowance, he never spent it on sweets or toy cars like usual. I thought maybe he was planning some big Lego set.
Nope. My son apparently has more romantic sense than half the men I know.
happy woman’s day mummy
Taglist: @pauli-loveslouistomlinson @hontpwk @avensgreenvans @venusnettles @sincerely-yours-marsbar @myonlyangel13 @lexiecamposv @unknownkii @daydreamingstyles @bibliophile369 @daydreaming-xo @carolinaastyles @illicitloves @proudravenclawbird @merylittlefreak @patriwxlls @lomlcamy @chalmtloui @cherrycherry444 @belles-sweetcreature @littlealonebutterfly @wtvrevie @tpwk-keepdriving @shesanangelmyonlyangel @cherriestyles92 @marzzfly @fangirl509east @kateluvshaz @pariswithzouis @bebopbumblebee @peachesndsunflowers @patriwxlls @alex-voiddome @harrysredshortshorts @harryskiwi044 @rubyszjuno @dollrry @daphnesutton @stardustmalik @angelinplaid @isastyles @nikkihs @maliikk @bluejacketharry @rockzzztar @hazstyle @remei25 @moonlightharryy @thund3rstruck @413files join my taglist
He’s dressed like Ukrainian flag again, I love this man🇺🇦
I don’t remember a version of my life where you wasn’t in it.
Before the suits. Before the boardrooms. Before the headlines that said youngest CEO in the company’s history like it was something impressive instead of something inevitable.
Our mothers used to sit at the same chipped kitchen table in her flat, drinking tea from mismatched mugs while we did homework on the floor. Mine would leave in a car with tinted windows. Hers would walk to a second shift.
That’s the difference. It was always there. I just never let it matter.
You’re the one who built yourself from nothing while I was handed everything.
just friends
Taglist: @pauli-loveslouistomlinson @hontpwk @avensgreenvans @venusnettles @sincerely-yours-marsbar @myonlyangel13 @lexiecamposv @unknownkii @daydreamingstyles @bibliophile369 @daydreaming-xo @carolinaastyles @illicitloves @proudravenclawbird @merylittlefreak @patriwxlls @lomlcamy @chalmtloui @cherrycherry444 @belles-sweetcreature @littlealonebutterfly @wtvrevie @tpwk-keepdriving @shesanangelmyonlyangel @cherriestyles92 @marzzfly @fangirl509east @kateluvshaz @pariswithzouis @bebopbumblebee @peachesndsunflowers @patriwxlls @alex-voiddome @harrysredshortshorts @harryskiwi044 @rubyszjuno @dollrry @daphnesutton @stardustmalik @angelinplaid @isastyles @nikkihs @maliikk @bluejacketharry @rockzzztar @hazstyle @remei25 @moonlightharryy @thund3rstruck @413files join my taglist
Sooo, this happened while I was away. Thank you so much, loves💕💕
SEVEN DIALS TATTOO || Harry x OC
words count: 1771
summary: Andie’s first day in Seven Dials.
masterlist || part 2
London is still dark when I get off the bus.
The kind of grey morning that hasn’t decided whether it wants to rain or just threaten you with it all day. My breath fogs in front of me as I stand across the street from the shop, staring at the black-and-red sign like it might disappear if I blink too hard.
Seven Dials Tattoo.
I didn’t sleep much.
Part nerves. Part excitement. Part the usual noise at home that makes rest feel like a luxury item.
I check my phone. 9:42 a.m.
Early. Good. I don’t want to give him any reason to send me home on day one.
My stomach twists anyway.
What if I mess up?
What if he changes his mind?
What if I spill ink everywhere and ruin someone’s life permanently?
I push the door open before my brain can spiral further.
The bell chimes again, that same mechanical jingle from yesterday, but this time it doesn’t feel like stepping into a new world—it feels like stepping into a test.
The shop is quieter in the morning. No buzzing machines yet. No clients. Just the low hum of a heater somewhere and the faint smell of disinfectant and coffee.
He’s already there. Of course he is.
Behind the counter, sleeves rolled, leaning over a sketchpad like he never left. A mug sits beside him, steam curling into the air. He doesn’t look up immediately, like he already knows it’s me and isn’t in a rush to acknowledge it.
“Ten means ten,” he says without lifting his head.
I glance at the clock on the wall. 9:43. “I’m early.”
He looks up then, finally. Eyes flick to the clock, then back to me.
A beat. “Good.”
That’s it. No welcome. No orientation. Just… good.
I shrug off my jacket and stand there awkwardly, suddenly unsure where to exist in the space.
He closes his sketchbook and sets it aside.
“First rule,” he says, already moving. “You don’t touch anything you’re not told to touch. Second rule, you listen more than you talk. Third rule—”
He tosses a black apron at me. “—you clean.”
I catch it against my chest. Right. Glamorous.
He gestures toward the back. “Floors first. Then wipe down every surface. Every surface. I’ll know if you skip one.”
I nod and get to work.
The broom feels heavier than it should. Or maybe that’s just the weight of wanting this too much. I sweep carefully, hyperaware of every movement, every sound. The shop starts to feel less intimidating the more I move through it—less museum, more workspace.
There’s a rhythm to it. Sweep. Wipe. Spray. Repeat.
He moves around me occasionally, quiet but present. Setting up his station. Checking supplies. Making coffee. Once, our shoulders almost bump when I turn too fast, and I mumble a quick “sorry.”
He just hums, like it’s not worth words.
Around eleven, the first client comes in. A girl with a delicate script appointment on her wrist. He nods toward me. “Watch. Don’t hover.”
I hover anyway, just… a respectful distance away.
Watching him work is different from seeing tattoos online. It’s precise. Careful. Almost meditative. His hands are steady, confident, like the needle is just an extension of him. No hesitation. No wasted movement.
I forget to breathe at one point. He notices.
“Relax,” he mutters without looking up. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”
“I’m fine,” I whisper.
He snorts softly. “If you faint, I’m making you clean it.”
Noted.
The hours blur. Cleaning between clients. Making tea when asked. Running to the shop down the street for more paper towels. Observing. Always observing.
At some point he slides a small stack of stencil paper toward me.
“Trace these,” he says. “Clean lines. No shaking.”
My fingers tingle as I sit at the counter and start. The familiar comfort of drawing settles in, grounding me. This part I know. This part I’m good at.
He glances over once. Then again. Doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t take the paper away either.
By late afternoon my feet ache and my back hurts, but there’s a strange warmth in my chest that has nothing to do with the heater.
I’m still here.
He locks the door after the last client leaves and starts wiping down his station. I grab a cloth automatically, moving to help.
“You can go,” he says.
I pause. “Shop’s not finished.”
He looks at me then. Really looks. Like he’s reassessing something.
“It’s your first day. You don’t get paid enough for overtime.”
I almost laugh. “I don’t get paid at all.”
A corner of his mouth twitches. “Still. Go home before you collapse on my floor.”
I grab my jacket slowly, reluctant in a way that surprises me.
At the door, I hesitate. “Same time tomorrow?”
He leans back against the counter, arms crossed. “Ten means ten.”
I nod, pushing the door open.
The London cold hits again, sharp and familiar. But it feels… different now. Less like something to endure. More like something to walk through on the way somewhere.
My hands smell faintly of disinfectant and ink. My feet hurt. I’m exhausted.
And for the first time in a while, I feel like I might actually be moving forward.
The bus ride to Dani’s flat feels longer than usual.
Not because it is—same route, same rattling windows, same condensation on the glass—but because my body finally realizes it’s allowed to feel tired. The adrenaline that kept me upright all day is slowly leaking out through my bones, leaving behind that heavy, pleasant exhaustion that comes from doing something that actually mattered.
My hands still smell faintly like disinfectant and stencil paper. Like ink. I keep bringing them to my nose without realizing.
When I get off the bus, the street outside Dani’s building is warm in that lived-in way. A takeaway place on the corner. Someone arguing about parking. A dog barking somewhere above. Normal noise. Safe noise.
I climb the stairs two at a time anyway, because the second I reach her door and knock, it swings open like she’s been standing there waiting.
“Well?” Dani demands before I even step inside. “Did you die? Did he fire you? Did you accidentally tattoo a penis on someone?”
I drop my backpack onto the floor with a thud and lean back against the door, letting it close behind me.
“I’m alive,” I say, voice hoarse. “Unpaid. Slightly disinfected. Emotionally… confused.”
She gasps dramatically. “So it went well.”
I laugh—really laugh for the first time all day—and kick off my boots. The warmth in her flat wraps around me immediately. The smell of instant noodles and some cheap candle she’s obsessed with fills the air.
“I cleaned floors,” I say, shrugging off my coat. “I wiped every surface known to man. I watched him tattoo a girl’s wrist for forty minutes without breathing. I traced stencils. I didn’t faint. He didn’t yell at me. I think that’s a win.”
Dani stares at me for a beat. Then another. Then she grabs my shoulders and shakes me lightly. “You’re smiling.”
I blink.
Am I?
My cheeks ache in a way that suggests I am.
“Shut up,” I mutter, trying to walk past her toward the tiny kitchen. “I’m just relieved I didn’t embarrass myself.”
She follows me anyway, arms crossed, smug as ever. “No, no. That’s not a relief smile. That’s an ‘I have purpose and possibly a hot boss’ smile.”
“I hate you,” I say automatically, reaching for the kettle.
“It’s mutual,” she replies sweetly. “Sit. I made noodles. They’re probably overcooked but edible.”
I sit at the small table like my legs might give out if I stay standing any longer. The chair creaks familiarly under me. Dani sets a bowl in front of me and watches as I immediately start eating like I haven’t seen food in days.
“God,” I mumble between bites. “This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
“Instant ramen with questionable seasoning?” she says. “Romantic.”
“Don’t ruin this for me.”
She leans against the counter, studying me in that way she does when she’s trying to read between my words.
“So,” she says softly, less teasing now. “You staying here tonight?”
The question lands gently but heavily. I nod. “If that’s okay.”
Dani rolls her eyes. “You know it is. My couch is basically your second bedroom at this point.”
I swallow, throat tightening a little despite myself. “Thanks.”
She shrugs like it’s nothing. Like it’s always nothing. But she nudges a glass of water toward me anyway.
“You look wrecked,” she adds. “In a good way. Like… satisfied wrecked. Not ‘crying in the bathroom’ wrecked.”
“Yeah,” I admit quietly. “Good wrecked.”
I stare down at my hands again. There’s a faint smudge of graphite near my thumb. A tiny ink stain near my wrist. Proof of a day that felt… real.
“I think I can do this,” I say, almost to myself.
Dani doesn’t make a joke this time. She just nods once, slow and certain. “I know you can.”
Silence settles between us. Comfortable. The kind that doesn’t need filling.
After we eat, she tosses me one of her oversized hoodies and a pair of fuzzy socks. I change in the bathroom, scrubbing my hands clean in the sink until the smell of antiseptic fades—but some part of me wishes it wouldn’t.
When I come back out, she’s already set up the couch with a blanket and a pillow. “Get horizontal,” she orders. “You look like you might fall over.”
I flop down without arguing. My body sinks into the cushions like it’s been waiting all day to do exactly this.
Dani turns on the TV. Some mindless romcom flickers to life, low volume, soft light filling the room.
For a while, neither of us talks.
I stare at the ceiling, replaying the day in small flashes—the buzz of the machine, the smell of ink, the way he said ten means ten, the way my hands didn’t shake when I traced those lines.
It’s quiet here.
Safe.
Not silent in the heavy, tense way home gets. Just… peaceful.
My eyes start to close.
“Hey,” Dani murmurs from her spot on the armchair. “Proud of you.”
I don’t open my eyes, but I smile anyway. “Thanks,” I whisper.
For the first time in a long while, falling asleep doesn’t feel like escaping something.
It feels like resting between steps.
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WHEN THE PHONE RINGS || Harry x OC
words count: 2518
summary: Charlotte silently rebuilds her life in Harry’s shadow, learning how to be strong again.
masterlist || part 4
Charlotte’s POV
I wasn’t allowed outside, wasn’t allowed to show my face in public without Harry beside me, wasn’t allowed to give commentary or speak — as if I could.
My parents were cruel. His parents were worse. They didn’t shout, didn’t hit, didn’t threaten. They suffocated me quietly.
Rules disguised as concern. Restrictions disguised as protection. Boundaries disguised as political necessity.
“Think of the campaign, Charlotte.”
“You’re vulnerable right now.”
“Your presence will confuse the press.”
“You’ll undermine Harry’s credibility.”
“You’ll embarrass the alliance.”
As if I hadn’t been a prodigy. As if I hadn’t once been the brightest student in every room. As if my muteness made me stupid. As if trauma made me fragile.
I wasn’t fragile. I was angry. Quietly, violently, constantly angry.
But rage without a voice has nowhere to go. So I made myself small. Invisible. Forgettable.
Until I found a way to slip under their radar.
The Sign Language Interpretation Center.
A small brick building tucked between a legal office and a florist — the kind of place no politician would concern himself with.
My husband’s team monitored charity events, public appearances, reporters, donors, social media… but they didn’t monitor a place that catered to people like me: People who had nothing left but their hands.
Every Tuesday, when Harry was at meetings, I told the house staff I was taking “private therapy.” They nodded, relieved — therapy made me more manageable.
They didn’t know where I really went. At the center, nobody looked at me with pity. Nobody flinched at my silence. Nobody tiptoed.
They treated me like a person.
Not a daughter of an empire.
Not a political bargaining chip.
Not a wife who ruined her husband’s optics.
Not a mute inconvenience.
Just… Charlotte.
I sat in a circle with people who knew what it meant to be unheard. People who communicated in movement instead of sound. People who didn’t ask me to “try harder.”
For the first time since the kidnapping, I felt like I belonged somewhere.
I learned slowly. Awkwardly. With trembling hands. My fingers were stiff, clumsy from years of fear. My wrists still ached from the ropes they once forced behind my back.
But every week, they loosened. Stretched. Became mine again.
And one day, for the first time, I signed my own name.
CHARLOTTE.
Not mouthed. Not scribbled on a piece of paper. Not written in notes on my iPhone.
Signed. Alive. Real. Mine.
It was small. Insignificant to anyone else. But it felt like reclaiming a piece of myself.
Piece by piece, gesture by gesture, I rebuilt a language the world didn’t expect me to have.
A language my husband never bothered to learn. A language no politician cared to understand. But a language that belonged only to me.
And for the first time in years, I wasn’t waiting for anyone to save me.
I was learning to save myself.
“Charlotte, there’s a position for a sign interpreter in court.” The words came from Emily, my instructor at the center. Gentle voice, kind eyes, one of the only people in the world who didn’t treat me like broken glass.
She said it casually, as if she hadn’t just dropped a bomb into the middle of my carefully contained world.
I froze, my hands midair, fingers half-formed in the sign for wait.
A sign interpreter. In a courtroom. In public. With people. Where voices carried and truth mattered and silence wasn’t a weakness but a necessity.
I lowered my hands slowly. Emily continued, watching my reaction with the patience of someone who understood trauma without needing it explained.
“They’re desperate for someone who knows both legal vocabulary and can handle emotionally heavy situations. You were top of your class, weren’t you?”
I blinked.
The compliment landed in a place I hadn’t touched in years, the part of me that once thrived in pressure, the girl who corrected teachers, who crushed debates, who was meant to lead an empire.
Were. Past tense.
I touched my wrist nervously, feeling the faint ridges of old rope burns. Could I do it?
I hadn’t stood in front of a crowd since before the kidnapping. I hadn’t existed in public without someone dictating where I could stand, when I could leave, how much space I was allowed to take up.
A court interpreter was the opposite of invisible.
I swallowed hard and signed slowly “ME? WHY?”
Emily smiled. “Because you’re good. Better than you know. And because you’ve lived through things that make you steady under pressure. You don’t panic in silence — you understand it.” Her voice was soft and sincere, her hands moved smoothly along with her voice signing every word she said.
I looked down at my hands. Hands that once trembled every time a door slammed. Hands that had learned to speak because my voice couldn’t.
Did I want this? God, yes.
Did I deserve it? I didn’t know.
Could I have it? Not in my life as it was now.
Harry’s world had rules. Harry’s family had expectations. Harry’s advisors had demands. Harry had elections.
I wasn’t allowed outside without him. How could I go to court?
I signed. “My husband won’t let me.”
Emily’s expression softened. “You’re an adult. You don’t need permission to work.”
I smiled sadly, shaking my head. In my world, permission was everything. In my world, I was a liability, a political threat, a story the press couldn’t hear. In my world, my silence wasn’t a disability — it was a scandal.
But Emily touched my arm gently. “Think about it. You’d be brilliant.”
Brilliant.
I hadn’t heard that word used for me in years.
Not since the kidnapping. Not since I lost my voice. Not since the world decided a mute woman was a dead woman.
My throat tightened.
I nodded once — not agreeing, not promising — just saying: I heard you.
But inside, something flickered. A spark. The first ember of a life beyond the walls. Beyond the silence. Beyond Harry.
I applied for the court interpreter position the same way I learned to survive:
1.Silently.
2.Carefully.
3.Unnoticed.
It shouldn’t have been possible. Harry’s security monitored every app on my phone. His staff watched every door I walked through. His campaign team hovered over my life like wasps circling a glass jar.
But they had one weakness, they assumed silence meant helplessness. They assumed if a woman couldn’t speak, she couldn’t rebel. They assumed wrong.
Step One: A Lie
“I’m going to the Interpretation Center.” I signed it to the housekeeper, who nodded politely, not truly understanding the movements but knowing enough to let me pass.
She didn’t question it. To them, I was going to my therapy.
My harmless coping mechanism.
They never imagined it was the only place I learned to be alive.
Step Two: The Application
Emily waited for me in her office, the blinds half closed to hide the winter sun.
“You’re sure?” she asked softly.
I wasn’t. But I nodded anyway.
She handed me the packet — a real job application, not a charity placement. Legal terminology tests. Ethics questions. Case sensitivity training.
Things the girl I used to be would’ve devoured without blinking. Things the woman I had become wasn’t sure she deserved.
I sat in that tiny room with trembling fingers and filled out every form.
The personal statement took the longest.
I stared at the blank space under the prompt. “Explain why you want to be an interpreter.”
I couldn’t write what I really wanted to say. “Because silence stole my life and I refuse to let it steal anyone else’s.”
Instead, after fifteen minutes of panic and hovering pen tips, I wrote: “I understand what it means not to be heard.”
It wasn’t poetic. It wasn’t long. But it was true.
Emily put her hand over mine when I finished. “That,” she whispered, “is enough.”
Step Three: The Interview
The interview was scheduled for the following week.
I didn’t tell Harry. I didn’t tell anyone.
I wore the simplest outfit I owned, something plain, quiet, professional. Something that wouldn’t make anyone look at me twice.
The courtroom administrator greeted me kindly. “You’re Charlotte Ellington?”
I nodded. It was my grandmas surname before she got married. Something I used when I wanted to slip away, something that wasn’t tied to any of our families.
Her smile softened, the kind people give to someone they assume is breakable.
But I kept my chin high.
She interviewed me in writing and sign. Asked hard questions. Tested interpreters’ speed.
And when she pushed a video of a distressed witness toward me — my hands didn’t shake. Not once.
Because fear wasn’t new to me. Trauma wasn’t new. Pain wasn’t new.
But choosing who I wanted to be — that was new.
When the interview ended, she said gently. “We’ll be in touch.”
Emily squeezed my hand outside. “I’m proud of you.”
Nobody had said that to me in years.
Three days later, an email arrived.
I didn’t open it right away. I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at my laptop, afraid of both answers — yes or no.
With Harry away at a campaign dinner, the house was finally silent. My silence. Not his.
I clicked. The words were small. “We are pleased to offer you the position.”
I covered my mouth with both hands. My shoulders shook. Not with tears.
With relief. Pride. Terror. Freedom.
For the first time since I lost my voice, I felt like I was a person again. Not a liability. Not a political pawn. Not a quiet mistake hiding in someone else’s house.
A woman with a skill. A purpose. A job.
I signed my name at the bottom of the acceptance form, closed the laptop and pressed it to my chest.
Harry had no idea.
But tomorrow, I would step into a courtroom and finally, finally use a voice the world couldn’t take from me.
The courthouse smelled like old stone and history, polished floors, worn wooden benches, the faint salt of tears soaked into the walls over decades.
It was nothing like the silent, carpeted halls of Harry’s world. This place buzzed with life and emotions. People talked, phones rang, lawyers argued in corridors, witnesses cried, officers shuffled paperwork.
Everything was so loud. The noise that usually would send my brain into panic, make me feel alive, like I was finally out of cage.
I had to suppress smile on my lips. Because it didn’t seem too appropriate, but god it felt like my own small victory.
The coordinator met me in the lobby, her expression warm and steady. “Charlotte, good morning. You’re with Judge Rutland today. Family court.”
Family court. My stomach tightened. Family court meant emotions. Trauma.
Raw stories told by people who still had hope or had just lost it.
But I nodded.
I followed her down the hallway, clutching my small black binder like a shield. Every footstep echoed. The closer we got to the courtroom, the more I felt my pulse in my throat.
Not because I doubted my signing.
But because this was the first place I’d been in years where nobody knew my last name mattered.
Here, I wasn’t a Thorne.
I wasn’t a Styles.
I wasn’t a political liability.
I wasn’t mute Charlotte, the girl who disappeared.
I was Charlotte, the interpreter.
Just Charlotte.
Judge Rutland looked at me over his glasses. “You’re the new interpreter?”
I nodded.
He didn’t look patronizing, curious or sympathetic. He looked like a man who had a job and expected me to do mine and It was strangely comforting.
He motioned me forward. “Please take your place beside the witness stand.”
I stepped forward on wooden floors that creaked with age, the courtroom watching me. I didn’t shake. I didn’t shrink.
The first case was a custody hearing.
A young woman about my age sat on the witness stand, signing quickly, desperately, her eyes red from crying.
Her ex-husband yelled in English from across the room.
The judge slammed the gavel. “Mr. Ford, if you interrupt again, you’ll be removed.”
I swallowed.
The woman turned to me, her hands trembling, movements borderline frantic. “HE DOESN’T LISTEN.
HE NEVER LISTENS.
I TELL HIM I’M NOT SAFE, HE SAYS I’M DRAMATIC.
HE DOESN’T—“
Her signs hiccuped. Collapsed. Fell apart.
And suddenly, I wasn’t standing in a courtroom. I was seventeen again, tied to a chair, screaming silently and begging someone to hear what my mouth couldn’t say.
I blinked hard, grounding myself. She needed me. So I translated.
Every bitter word out of her husband’s mouth, every insult. I might have signed “Your asshole husband said…” couple times, he couldn’t understand it anyway.
The judge hid a twitch at the corner of his mouth. The woman’s lawyer cleared his throat to disguise a smile. The bailiff stared at me like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to laugh.
But the woman, the witness, she understood. Her eyes flickered to mine, surprised, almost amused through the tears.
For a brief second, she wasn’t alone. Wasn’t drowning. Wasn’t being talked over by a man who wanted to control the narrative.
She had someone in her corner. Someone who understood what it felt like when your words meant nothing to the person you loved.
Someone who understood what it meant to scream quietly.
And I knew I had to be careful — professional, neutral, invisible.
But I also knew this: If nobody else in her life had ever stood beside her, today she wouldn’t drown in silence. Not on my watch.
So I translated correctly. Exactly. Precisely.
I just added commentary internally. And sometimes externally.
“ASSHOLE” is a very expressive sign, after all.
At one point he narrowed his eyes, glaring at my hands. “What the hell is she saying about me?”
I signed delicately. “YOUR ASSHOLE HUSBAND SAID, WHAT THE HELL IS SHE SAYING ABOUT ME.”
The judge slammed his gavel again. “Mr. Ford, you will address the court properly.”
I didn’t look at the husband. Didn’t react to his glare. Didn’t let him intimidate me. He didn’t scare me.
Not after what I’d survived. Not after the men who stole my voice. Not after the years of being trapped behind locked gates.
He was just another loud man who thought volume made him powerful. I had learned otherwise.
After the hearing, the woman squeezed my hand. Her fingers were warm and trembling.
She signed softly. “THANK YOU
FOR LETTING ME SPEAK
WITHOUT FEAR.”
And for the first time in years, I felt something I thought I had buried forever: Pride. Real pride.
Not the kind my father paraded in newspapers. Not the cold, weaponized pride of dynasties. Not the fragile, conditional pride that shattered when you stopped performing.
This was mine. I used my silence to give someone else a voice. And in that moment, I wasn’t broken, I wasn’t a shadow or a problem to hide.
I was exactly who I was meant to be. A woman who had survived hell and stepped back into the world anyway.
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You laugh. “Ignore him. Harry, first question—easy one. When people hear you sing about love, they assume you’re a romantic. Are you?”
I hum thoughtfully. “I think I want to be.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is,” I insist. “Romantic in theory. Practical in chaos.”
“Mm,” you say. “You were always like that.”
There it is. The shared past sliding casually into the present.
“So,” you continue, “do you think love is something that happens to you—or something you choose every day?”
I glance at you, really look. “I think you choose it. But some days you forget you’re choosing.”
“Do you believe in second chances?”
“I think,” I say slowly, “some stories don’t end. They just stop being told.”
“And would you ever go back?” you ask, softly now. Not as a journalist. As you.
The studio feels too quiet.
I lean in a fraction, enough that the cameras catch it. Enough that you smell the familiar mix of cologne and nerves. “Depends who’s asking.”
the valentines interview
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I wanted to make this based off an idea i remembered about an older brothers best friend.
I AM NOT COPYING ANYONE. This is a very b viral trend rn with texting stories, but all my ideas are my own!!
AU Harry!
Join taglist here
@hopeustaythenight @myonlyangel13 @evas1ncenewyork @thesunshinetemptress
@pawmpkinnn @avensgreensvans @kateluvshaz @aoibheshouse @underscore-ella @ccowboylikemez @bunnys-dreamland @bluejacketharry @wtvrevie @daydreamingstyles @mrssyles1994 @alex-voiddome @friggadotior0212 @daphnesutton @ash121 @lomlcamy
“Bon… bonsoir,” I say, confident for half a second. “Je suis très… excited d’être ici.”
The room is kind enough not to laugh. Kind enough.
From then on, you’re glued to my side. Translating questions. Fixing my grammar. Softly correcting my pronunciation like you’re handling something fragile.
“Enchanté,” you whisper during an interview.
“On-shawn-tay,” I repeat.
“Close enough to be charming,” you decide.
After the show, backstage is loud and perfumed and buzzing. I’m still riding the adrenaline when I spot you packing up your things.
“Hey,” I say, jogging over. “I need help.”
You look up, already suspicious. “With?”
“French,” I say seriously. “I don’t want to offend anyone else accidentally.”
“You’ve already done the damage,” you reply. “My work here is finished.”
I block your escape with my arm. Gently. Hopefully.
“Dinner,” I say. “Just… practice. Food words. Survival phrases.”
Dinner turns into wine. Wine turns into me attempting French phrases that make you choke on your laughter.
“You just told the waiter you love him,” you say.
“He seems lovely,” I reply.
paris cupid
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