#everyone please note I’m usually not this effusive
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how come these picture make me feel homesick even though i literally still live here. i'm in seattle. right now. why does looking at a photo of an evergreen tree feel like seeing something i've lost forever when i could literally just. look out my window and see the same damn tree. i guess it's probably cause of something silly like "good art and good curation." anyway thanks.
I can’t answer, friend, because I feel the same. I think there’s something about seeing these scenes, caught out of time and captured in a photograph, that makes us pause and ache because the photos aren’t real—they’re just light on a screen, because we’re indoors or stuck in traffic or glancing down at our phones (because we need a break from a reality that is not, in that moment, as beautiful as a tree). Maybe we’re nostalgic because we’re not looking at trees on tumblr: we’re only looking at a photograph. The trees are outside our windows, but we’re looking at screens. That’s plenty bittersweet.
Well now I’m having all kinds of emotions brb I’m going to go into the tiny garden plot behind my building and touch some bark
#damn you anon I’m sleepy and do in fact have laundry I’m actively not folding#and now I’m going out in the damp to touch a feeble thuja sapling my neighbour planted#because I’m having emotions#everyone please note I’m usually not this effusive#anon just got me thinking too hard about trees#chit chat
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BnHA Chapter 315: I Didn’t Expect This to Blow Up
Previously on BnHA: Horikoshi was all “guess which plot that you thought was dead is actually not dead and is making a comeback!” and we were all “EVIL HPSC??” and he was all “girl you know it,” and that’s the story of how we got a sexy Lady Nagant flashback with lots of guns and murder. Flashback!Lady was all “gotta murder peeps to preserve the people’s trust,” but then a little while later she was like “actually wait that makes no sense,” and so she shot her evil boss and they sent her to jail. Back in the present, Deku was all “okay fair, the hero system might in fact be a little fucked up, but hear me out... have you considered not helping AFO take over the world so he can murder like a bazillion more innocent people??” The chapter ended with the not-all-there Overhaul finally revealing himself to Deku, and I honestly have no idea where this is gonna go.
Today on BnHA: In what is unfortunately the single worst plan ever concocted by anyone in BnHA, Nagant is all “I’m going to try and get this Deku kid to panic and freeze up by putting someone in mortal danger.” Deku is all, “[doesn’t panic and freeze up at the sight of someone in mortal danger].” Nagant is all “omg no way.” Deku, who is now all of a sudden being so OP that even I have to acknowledge that it’s OP lol, is all “[smashes Nagant’s gun arm to bits]”, which sucks but is also really cool, and which also apparently makes Nagant decide that she actually likes this kid after all. Deku is all “NAGANT I REALLY LIKE YOU AND THINK YOU’RE GREAT SO PLEASE JOIN UP WITH ME AND STOP BEING EVIL.” Nagant is all “aw shucks (✿ •͈ᴗ•͈) well okay then” and everyone is all “( ･◡･) ✰ ( ˆᴗˆ ) ( ᵘ ᵕ ᵘ ⁎)” and then Nagant FUCKING EXPLODES LIKE AN EGG IN THE MICROWAVE AND FALLS TO HER DEATH!!!! except not really because Hawks saves her??? In conclusion, (a) THE FUCK, and (b) AFO TURN ON YOUR LOCATION I JUST WANT TO TALK.
so I have to tell you guys something, which is that barely ten minutes after I made that “please don’t send me spoilers” post the other day, someone replied to the comments in a stunning fit of “tell me that you’re twelve without actually telling me you’re twelve” energy and posted what seemed to be the copy-pasted spoiler summary from reddit or twitter or whatever lol. so here is my good news/bad news rundown of all that
good news: I have very well-conditioned ABORT!! reflexes and have trained myself to immediately look away from the screen (usually in dramatic fashion) as soon as I realize that whatever I’m reading is a spoiler
bad news: unfortunately as I was subsequently deleting said comments, I accidentally read the very last one
good news??: said spoiler was so unbelievably, absurdly over-the-top that I’m almost positive this person was just trolling. like, there’s just no way lmao
bad news: but in the unlikely event that it is true I will absolutely lose my shit I swear to god
(ETA: “NAGANT DIES.” that was the spoiler I read lol. like, literally all I read from the person’s comments was “My Hero Academia Chapter 315 Title: “Beautiful Words.” Chapter starts with...” and then I noped out of there, and then of all the comments to read as I was deleting, it had to be that one lol. I seriously was just like “SURE, JAN.” all “just how gullible do you think I am” sob. but I was wrong. a troll, but an honest troll they remain.
but anyways like I’m pretty sure Nagant isn’t even actually dead lol, so in the end this whole little adventure doesn’t even have a point to it, but for me it was a journey!)
anyway, so there are apparently two versions of the chapter today?? no idea what the difference is, but I’m going to go with the Bean version, because it’s the one at the top and I don’t feel like making decisions today
huh, so Overhaul is actually more coherent than Horikoshi was letting on
look at him having a whole back and forth conversation with her. side note, how is he still this jacked when he’s been sitting in a cell doing absolutely nothing for the past six months
anyway so he says he’ll go with her on one condition. I wonder what that condition could possibly be. do you think it could be the thing he literally hasn’t shut up about ever since he reappeared lol
yep! and damn -- maybe this guy will surprise me after all
still would be nice if you also felt a bit sorry for the little girl you tortured and traumatized, but this is something at least. maybe Deku will yell at him for that other stuff lol
(ETA: also can’t help but wonder if he wants to make amends because he put him in a coma, or because his plan was a failure and ended up destroying the family. just hoping you’ve finally had that “hurting other people is bad” epiphany dude.)
anyways so now Nagant’s arm is transforming again, and this particular transformation happens to be the only truly unsexy thing that Nagant has done thus far so I’m just gonna skip right on ahead lol
aaaaand we’re back to the delirious ranting
buddy. just. read the fucking room, guy
wow she really is aiming at Overhaul, then. those theories were spot-on
damn she’s really out here all “it really fucks with kids’ heads when you kill people right in front of them and make them blame themselves” like yo
I’m picturing her saying all this in a very loud stage-whispery tone while making very significant eye contact with Deku lol
uh oh but wait
um. okay. who’s gonna tell her. Nagant I might have some bad news for you about the kid you’re trying to capture here. specifically about the way he tends to do the opposite of what you’re thinking that he’s about to do
holy shit
so it’s basically just “tap x repeatedly to charge up your attack” lol
and okay, so that’s cool and all, but is anyone else wincing at the thought of what that must be like on his knees. oh to be young
anyway, but so to the surprise of basically no one, Deku did not, in fact, freeze. I am very sorry, Nagant. he’s just like this
LMAO
someone wanna tell me how getting yoloed in the fucking ribs by this fucking slingshot kid moving at literal sniper bullet speed is in any way even remotely better than getting hit by the bullet itself lol
(ETA: this is 10x funnier now that we know the bullet wasn’t even gonna hit him lmao.)
anyway so now Nagant is having an extended “!?!?!?” reaction about how Deku just moved with no hesitation, and I’m starting to get an inkling of fear that the rest of this fight isn’t going to go very well for her and maybe that’s what all the “hoo boy” is about
oh my god Deku are you about to Gomu Gomu no Rocket yourself at her you insane little man
now Three is popping up again and he’s all “I see you’ve learned your lesson and are now only using three quirks at once instead of five” like with all this effusive praise about how great and badass Deku is and sob, okay, yeah. this chapter is basically one of those machines that shoots tennis balls at people, except instead of tennis balls it shoots hot piping discourse
OH MY GOD
YOOOOOOOOOO but also, NOOOOOOOOOOO
lol oh my god it’s literally two opposing reactions at once wtf. do I love this or hate this. like just for once can Horikoshi actually let a badass lady character win their fucking fight without getting their arm ripped off, BUT ALSO fucking look at that absurdly cool “SMASH” onomatopoeia though. it looks like it’s about to float right off the page holy shit that’s some seriously good art
anyway so is this really the end?? do I need to break out my ಠ_ಠ faces
lmao okay yeah I can definitely see how this would piss a lot of people off
he basically one-shotted her and she’s all “damn this kid is so amazing that I’m about to do a complete 180 turn on all of my previous angst” lmao. Horikoshi is really shounening it up today
on the plus side though, maybe this means there’s still a chance for her to join up with him after all? unless that spoiler was true lmao, then all hell is gonna break loose
YESSSSSSS
OH MY GOD AND HE SAYS THE BULLET WOULDN’T HAVE DONE MORE THAN GRAZE OVERHAUL ANYWAY, wow, I’m actually more relieved by that than I would have expected. I mean I would have forgiven her either way, but it means that there was still more hero in her than she was letting on
YES!!! FUCKING YES, THANK YOU
lol but I mean, it’s also like, “oh so today they get to have brain cells”, thank you so much lol. sometimes it’s really hard to tell which times we’re supposed to question these character decisions that seem dumb, and which times we’re just supposed to full on embrace them and switch off our critical thinking
but okay, so in this case it really was Nagant going easy on him on purpose, and not just her fucking up for no good reason even though she used to do this for a living and was the best in the game. and I know in this case it’s probably just Horikoshi giving us some consolation headpats to soften the blow of her losing so abruptly, but you know what, shit. I’ll take it
also you guys the light is coming back into Deku’s eyes again for just a moment here and I’m having feels about it?? the way it still comes back when he’s reaching out to save someone, and following his own hero path instead of the much darker and lonelier Christopher Nolan path that’s been laid out for him instead that he never wanted?? it’s both reassuring and also very sad
YESSSSSSSSSSS
DO IT LADY OMG PLEASE?? PLEASE COME BE HIS NEW IRRESPONSIBLE ADULT SUPERVISION YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO
AHHHHHHH SHE’S GONNA DO IT AHHHH
p.s. I am now absolutely scared shitless that that spoiler was actually true sob. swear to god, I will throw this manga into a fucking volcano. but we’re almost at the end of the chapter and this seems just WAY TOO GOOD to be true fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck f
UCK
NOPE NAH SEND IT BACK, NOPE, NUH UH, DIDN’T ORDER THIS. “GULLIBLE” OKAY FUCK YOU?? “COUNTERMEASURES” NOPE, DON’T NEED ‘EM, WE’RE ALL FINE HERE. WE’RE ACTUALLY GOOD SO YOU CAN JUST GO, OKAY. PLEASE
fuck, lol, I don’t wanna do it. I don’t wanna scroll down what have I ever done to deserve this oh my god
WHAT THE HONEY-ROASTED FUCK
WHERE THE FUCK IS THAT FUCKING VOLCANO IN ICELAND THAT I KEEP SEEING ALL THESE PICTURES OF. WHERE THE FUCK IS THAT SHIT. LET’S GO
ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW
can someone please give AFO a really good, sharpish kick in the balls. just really let him have it. I’m so tired, what the fuck
-- ARE YOU KIDDING ME LOL WHAT
bro. I was literally going through my Excel folders to find the spreadsheet about female characters in BnHA that I made back when Midnight died. was gearing myself up for a wholeass rant. and honestly I might just let all of that continue simmering on low to keep it warm just in case lol, because to tell you the truth I have absolutely no idea what’s happening right now
my girl straight up does not have a face. she used to have a face. people usually need those, idk. like, even if she’s alive, her gorgeous eyebrows are definitely not making it out of this and I’m gonna throw a funeral just for them
how the fuck did AFO just blow her up?? how did he know what was going on?? and if he had a quirk that could explode people at will, why is this the first we’re hearing of it?? you’d think that might have come in handy at Kamino or Jakku, like what
(ETA: present!me, who’s had more than three hours of sleep and can now actually remember facts about the series, would like to remind past!me that AFO gave Nagant a quirk, and so this is probably just more Vestige shenanigans now on his part. that’s also probably why Air Walk suddenly stopped working out of nowhere. still doesn’t explain why he doesn’t go around blowing people up more often though but maybe he thinks it’s gauche.)
Hawks just straight up out of nowhere. just Mirioed his way straight into the chapter just in time to be too late sob. here I was looking forward to seeing your face when Deku showed up with his new best friend. can’t believe Horikoshi deprived us of that moment
on the plus side, WELCOME BACK, HAWKS’S FEATHERS. I have no doubt that in this chapter of Deku being an almighty threequirk-mastering god, and Nagant losing anticlimactically only to be immediately blown up because girl characters in BnHA can only be cool for one fight and one fight only, there are still some people who are focusing solely on the “how dare Hawks get his wings back when he is a MURDERER this is an outrage what about CONSEQUENCES” discourse, and to hell with all the other discourses lmao
anyway, so yeah. wow. and now it’s just occurring to me that maybe the real reason why Overhaul is there is so he can get a head start on that amend-making by actually doing a good thing for once in his life, and using his quirk to heal Nagant. assuming he can still do that
and so now Horikoshi has got me out here actually rooting for Overhaul. you know what, on that note I think I’m just gonna go ahead and call it a day sob
#bnha 315#overhaul#chisaki kai#lady nagant#midoriya izuku#all for one#bnha#boku no hero academia#bnha spoilers#mha spoilers#bnha manga spoilers#makeste reads bnha
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Birthday
Sirius Black x reader
Summary: Reader’s mad at Sirius ‘cuz he forgot her birthday. Something normal in him. Now he has to apology somehow
Word count: 1.6 k
Warnings: none(?
Same note as ever. English not my mother language. Tell me if something’s wrong pls
You were very excited, you could not camouflage your joy even if you tried to do so. The next day would be your birthday and you felt very happy about that. it would be your first birthday with Sirius as a couple and you were fully convinced that would be great. You left the Gryffindor common room in the way of the great hall to meet your best friends and your boyfriend. You greeted everyone with an effusive kiss on the cheek and Sirius with a kiss on the lips. Everyone looked at you confused
"What are you guys doing?"
"Nothing, we were waiting for you for breakfast" James replied raising his eyebrows looking at you confused
"Oh well, I'm here, let's eat!"
You smiled from ear to ear making James raise his eyebrows even higher
"(Y/N) are you okay?
"Yeah, why?"
"Nothing, it’s just that you look different. It is weird to see you like this”
You laughed at your friend's comment
"No, no. I'm happy, very very happy. That’s all"
"And why are you so happy, love?" Sirius asked putting an arm around your shoulders. Remus lowered the book he was reading to look at you with a bright smile
"Well ... let's say that tomorrow is a very special day"
"Oh yeah? Why?"
You ignored Sirius' question. You knew he was joking, he was your boyfriend, obviously he had to know what would happen tomorrow. Maybe he was just pretending so you wouldn't notice the surprise party he was throwing for you or something. Although you had to admit that Sirius knew how to hide that secret perfectly.
"You know why" You flirtatiously winked at your boyfriend and then gave him a kiss on the corner of the lips "Let's have a quick breakfast, we have History of Magic first thing in the morning"
The marauders grunted at the same time. You laughed and then had a well-deserved strawberry cake for breakfast.
The day had passed very tediously. You had done very badly on potions, transfiguration and charms and you assumed it was because you weren't focused enough on the subjects to think about the surprise that Sirius would give you the next day
On your birthday you woke up earlier than usual, quickly put on your uniform while doing your hair a bit, took some makeup and put it on your face, smiled at the little mirror you had on your stool and got out of your room bouncing until you reach the common room.
The place was deserted, you were the first to get up and get ready for the day, you bit your lip and waited for Sirius and the others to come down
It was more than half an hour until Sirius came down to the room still wearing the bottom of his pajamas, since he tended to sleep without a shirt; he rubbed his sleepy eyes and saw you smiling in the common room. He came up to you and kissed you sweetly
“Good morning doll”
“Good morning Sirius”
You waited for a birthday greeting, but it didn't come; Sirius just stood there, next to you looking at you with a lopsided smile. You raised an eyebrow
“You have nothing to say to me?” you questioned. Sirius shrugged
“Like what?”
“Something about ... today”
“Today?”He remarked confused until he seemed to remember something “Ah, yes, can i copy your astronomy homework for today's class? I just didn't have time to do it. James and I had a problem with a couple of Slytherin boys and we completely forgot about it”
You crossed your arms, disappointed
“Sirius, do you know what day it is today?
“Uh ... Tuesday?” He rubbed the back of his neck at the sudden angry tone you used. You shook your head
“Forget it”
Sirius's mouth was left in the middle of a word from your sudden escape. He heard you curse him under your breath and sob, but he couldn't understand why. He dropped into one of the chairs until Remus came jumping down the steps two at a time with a package in his hands.
“Hey, Sirius, have you seen (Y/N)?”
“Yeah, she just leave”
"Oh great," he said smiling. Sirius pointed the package
“What's that?”
“Oh! It's (Y/N)’s birthday present
Sirius jumped up completely scared
“What?!”
“It's a hand knitted sweater. I didn't have a lot of money to give her something better, but I hope she likes it. I did it myself ”he said proudly. Sirius paled
”Oh no. Oh no, shit!”
“What?”
“Remus, you're going to kill me but I forgot (Y/ N)’s birthday
Remus Lupin rolled his eyes holding the package tighter
“I'd be surprised if you didn't. Sometimes I think that you use the obliviate on yourself at night, I have no better reason to excuse your stupidity”
Sirius ran a hand through his long hair
"Help me, please”
“No, i won’t”
“PLEASE!”
“Will you be my slave for a week if I help you?” Sirius stuck his tongue out
“Never”
“I’m sorry for you then. Good luck”
Remus walked towards the portrait and before he left, Sirius stopped him
“Wait! I’ll do it”
“The offer was only valid when I proposed it. Now, solve this by yourself”
Remus strutted out at the great hall. Sirius ran up the stairs to his bedroom so fast that he bumped his little finger on the way up; he cursed his bad luck and put on his uniform as fast as he could
Sirius entered the great hall seeing how Remus and you were sitting together; You were putting on the sweater that Remus had given you over your uniform while smiling at your friend. The sweater was in Gryffindor colors and in the center was a baby lion. Sirius felt a twist in his stomach. He walked up to you and as he walked, he noticed how the greetings were raining down on you in the great hall making him feel bad
It wasn't even two seconds after Sirius sat down on the table when you stood up and left without even looking at him. James clapped him on the shoulder
“Remus has told me everything and you know? I think you are a moron”
“Yes, I know”
“What are you going to do now?” Peter asked
“Buy her a gift. A huge one to forgive me”
Remus chimed in
"She doesn't wants an expensive gift, she just wants you to remember the special dates." Sirius frowned.
“You don't know anything about women”
“Well, I know more about your girlfriend than you do” Peter and James laughed ”Look, if you want to give her something, just make sure it’s special
“Yeah, something like ... a necklace or something. Girls like those things”James added.
Sirius nodded
When classes ended Sirius's feet ached from following you through the hallways to apologize. You were ignoring him and Sirius felt very jealous when the boys from other houses greeted you and you thanked them with a smile; he felt terrible that others remembered his girlfriend's birthday and not him.
By that time, Sirius had already found the perfect gift and kept it in a small wooden box that he had gotten thanks to Peter. He hadn't even attended classes to find something you might like; In the end he decided on something very simple. He went to your room and knocked the door
“If you are James, Remus or Peter, come in. If you are Sirius you can fuck yourself"
"Baby please ..." Sirius begged behind the door.
“Don’t “baby please me” That’s not enough!”
“I know, but I've been asking for your forgiveness all day. I feel like a fool”
“Well that's what you are!”
"Love, open the door, please. I promise that if after what I have to say you can’t forgive me, then we will split up and I will walk away from you forever”
Sirius waited for five minutes for an answer. He was about to leave when the door opened. Sirius rushed in and knelt in front of you
“I'm so sorry, princess.I hate myself so much for forgetting such an important day. I'm a monster! I couldn't remember your birthday even if you indirectly told me the other day, I'm a fool. Don’t leave me please. I love you. I love you so much”
"Sirius, stand up" You helped him stand up and he handed you a box
“I bought you something. I know you might not want it after what happened, but I bought it with all the love in my heart”
You took the box and opened it. Your eyes filled with tears.
On the box was half a silver heart with a caption on the front. Sirius took it between his fingers
“I have the other half. See?” He said taking the pendant out of his shirt. You connected both parts and saw that the caption said: I give you my heart "I carved it myself with my wand. I know it's not a big deal, but ...
You kissed him unexpectedly and then hugged him
“Oh Sirius, it's perfect”
“It is, but not as much as you are”
#sirius black#sirius black x reader#sirius black imagine#marauders#Remus lupin#Harry Potter#Harry Potter imagines
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Okey so I don't know the name of the friendship thing you do, maybe BroTP game or whatever that's called.
Also I don't know the rules (sorry, I'm not American and English is not my native language) But I loved Scylla x Tally one so can I ask for Scylla and Abigail one? Like they act like they hate each other but we all know that's the first step of them being best friends.
Anyways, thanks in advance. And please excuse my poor English.
Thank you, dear Anon! And please, never apologize for your English! I'm not a native speaker either :)
What in-jokes do they have with each other?
I don’t think they have in-jokes, unless you count “playfully insulting each other every chance we get to show our affection”.
Are they the “I’ll pay this time if you pay next time”-type friends, or the “I’ll pay for my food and you’ll pay for yours”-type friends?
Ordinarily, Scylla wouldn't care, but Abigail activates her ego and her stubbornness Big Time, so she always insists on paying, or sharing the bill. Abigail's just like: "Don't be ridiculous." They argue for a while, Abigail usually ends up winning this particular fight, Scylla is very grumpy about it.
Who’s more prone to pranking, or otherwise messing with, the other?
Pranks, neither. Messing with each other? Both of them. Constantly.
How do they text/message each other? Proper punctuation and capital letters, egregious overuse of emojis, mostly in meme format…?
Not applicable! But I know, in my heart, that if she could Scylla would use only emojis, just to annoy Abigail. And it would work.
Do they exchange jokey birthday presents, or deeply thought-out and meaningful presents? Or both?
Only jokey, vaguely insulting gifts for a while (Abigail buys Scylla a book that’s called “Ethics for Dummies” or something. Scylla gives her a list of all accredited therapists in the area with a note that just says “first one’s on me <3″.) But then eventually they start giving each other real presents - very little things, but it’s nice. Abigail give Scylla a tiny succulent. Scylla gives her a box of fancy chocolates. They’re never going to be effusive in their gift-giving, but they Know each other enough to understand these small gestures mean a lot.
They go on a road trip together. Who drives, who picks the music, who’s in charge of snacks?
They are insufferable on a road trip together. They can't agree on anything: not the directions, not who should drive, or when to stop, or what music to play, or the snacks. It’s either five hours of Tense Angry Silence, or five hours of Constant Bickering. They only behave if Raelle’s is the car with them.
What do they think of each other’s family?
Oof, loaded question. Abigail has trouble, still, respecting Dodgers (but she’s getting there). Scylla still feels resentful of the Bellweather name (but she trusts Abigail, and respects Petra a bit more than she used to, and she’s also getting there). They’ve spent their childhood being told to despise everything about each other’s family, so it’s. Complicated.
Do they have any nicknames for each other?
DO THEY EVER. The funniest thing is it starts as “necro” (derogatory) but now it’s “necro” (affectionate), and they won’t admit it, but everyone knows.
Who’d be the first to try and patch things up if they had a fight?
The real answer is: neither. Raelle and Tally stage an intervention and force them both to apologize and move on.
One of their phones goes off in the middle of the night. Who’s calling whom, and why?
Not really applicable.
What’s their favourite funny story about something that happened to the two of them?
They love the fact that they tried to kill each other that one time. It’s funny in retrospect, they promise.
Would they do a joint cosplay? If so, who would they dress up as?
NOPE.
Do they have any TV shows that they watch together? Are there any shows they have wildly different opinions on?
Not really.
Which one is the “fight me” friend and which one is the one who tries to keep the peace and prevent their friend from punching a total stranger?
Abigail is the “fight me” friend, and Scylla has to be the voice of reason, a role she is NOT used to. Also they’re the kind of friends who’re like... if somebody else insults the other, or starts a fight, they’ll lose it. “Only I get to be mean to her!”
One of them comes up with an ill-advised but mostly harmless idea. Does the other one egg them on because they think it’ll be funny, or try and talk them out of it?
Scylla has terrible ideas, historically. Abigail would never try to talk her out of it, because where’s the fun in that?
Who would win if they arm-wrestled?
LOL Abigail, without a doubt.
Who’s better at what type of video games, and how competitive are they when they play together?
Abigail is very competitive. Scylla pretends she’s not, but she actually is. They both suck at video games cause they never played much, unfortunately.
One of them ends up in hospital for something serious but not life-threatening. What does the other bring along when they visit in order to cheer them up?
Abigail... brings Raelle to Scylla’s hospital room. Gives Scylla a little nod, that manages to convey “I know you need her more than anything else” and “I’m glad you’re okay”. And then promptly gets out.
How huggy are they?
Oh, not huggy at all. Except that one time they almost die, and Scylla just impulsively grabs Abigail, and hugs her, very tight, and Abigail is frozen for half a second before she reciprocates the hug, gingerly. They don’t move for a while. They never talk about it afterwards,
What was the moment when they first realized that they’d become friends?
IT HAS NOT HAPPENED YET BUT SEASON 3 I’M COUNTING ON YOU.
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Connection
Ship: Geralt x Jaskier
Warnings: None
Premise: Jaskier calls Geralt out for his reticence on hand holding. Geralt is quick to deny this, but even quicker to prove the bard right, as well as prove to himself how much it matters.
Author’s Note: Sorry for the horrendous summary, but I actually quite like this fic. Also two thirds of it was written at midnight, so forgive me for any typos or odd shifts in tone, scene, etc. I realize most of my fanfiction is written between midnight and three am. Maybe I should fix that.
Ao3 link in reblog
“Tell me Geralt, what are your thoughts on hand holding?” Geralt’s head snapped up in confusion as he stared incredulously at his companion. Jaskier was perched on top of the room’s dresser, feet propped up on the windowsill. It seemed a particularly stupid way to sit to Geralt, but he’d long ago learned that the bard didn’t really care what Geralt saw as stupid, or perhaps Jakier did care and then made a concerted effort to do everyone one of those things, Geralt still hadn’t quite decided, having instead accepted that his companion was of a particularly odd, if vaguely endearing, nature. Now though Geralt was very sure the bard must be pulling his leg, perhaps in an effort to spark some new lyric to try on the disgruntled inn patrons, or perhaps out of sheer boredom. Shifting his weight slightly Geralt hoped that this conversation would be as short as possible, for sometimes it felt like a sprint to keep up with the odd, twisted conversational logic that Jaskier often took. Even the opening statement gave the Witcher pause, for who on the Continent thought actively of such things? Grunting he shrugged his shoulders.
“Oh c’mon!” Jaskier prodded, plinking a particularly pretty chord, though Geralt could tell one of strings was becoming a bit shredded; which one he had no idea of course, picking up on subtle things like off strings wasn’t the same as retaining a shred of musical knowledge that Jaskier, seemingly daily, tried to impart on Geralt. Now Jaskier almost looked the same way he did during his teaching attempts, slightly bemused, ready to whip out the chalkboard and textbooks. It was a bit unnerving, and Geralt looked down, not particularly looking forward to where this was going. He could hear the bard swing down and hit the floor, and looked up in time to see Jaskier sit crisscross on the small pile of boards that passed as a trunk-made-table, honestly did the bard know how to sit normally?
“Why,” Geralt stared at Jakier. “do you think of such odd things?”
“Why don’t you think of such normal things!” Jaskier cried out in return, beaming like a child who’d just proved himself right. “Honestly Geralt, who doesn’t think of such things? For someone so grouchy about any close contact, you don’t actually have any rules set out about it. Or any logic. I think I’ve washed your lovely body more often than our two palms have touched. Don’t you think that’s even a little odd.”
“Tch.” Geralt wasn’t quite sure how to respond to this, realizing that the bard was indeed right, Jaskier probably had touched Geralt’s hair more than his hands, but wasn’t quite willing to admit it, for doing so felt oddly like defeat, or perhaps it was just that Jaskier, when proven right, seemed never to shut up about it. Deciding that he’d rather just humor the bard than have this conversation, Geralt sighed and gestured for Jaskier’s hand. Jaskier needed no encouragement, quickly slapping his hand into the Witcher’s. It stung a bit, Geralt had realized that musician hands were quite calloused, and that Jaskier was unnervingly strong, about the second time they’d met, and even now he marveled at it. He squeezed the bard’s hand, thinking it was dry and warm, and oddly comfortable, before letting go. “Happy?” The bard shook his head.
“That won’t prove me wrong Geralt, and you know it. Anyone who has to do something to try to prove they’re right is only admitting failure. Nevertheless,” he patted Geralt on the shoulder, a familiar action, which originally caused Geralt exasperation, but now brought only a sense of fondness for their ritualistic banter, not that he’d admit that, not on his dying breath. Just as he’d never admit that, now that Jaskier brought it up, he realized he’d rather like to hold the bard’s hand more, well, he’d like to do a great deal more than that if he allowed himself to drift down that particular vein of thought, but he was buried approximately one hundred levels too deep in denial to cross that bridge. He could only imagine the months of gloating that would cause, or maybe there wouldn’t be gloating, but rather, a closer relationship, which scared Geralt even more, those close to him had bad track records for fate being kind on them after all. It was better just not to try and approach that bridge, much less cross it. With that thought in mind Geralt stood up.
“Where are you going?” Jaskier exclaimed, flopping onto the bed where Geralt had been sitting moments ago.
“To get information, I want to know what exactly we’re looking for.”
“Wasn’t that it’s a kikimora well established?” Jaskier asked, laughter in his eyes. “Look Geralt, you don’t have to run away from this, I full believe in your ability to hold my hand, give it seven years and I’m sure you’ll have mastered it.”
“Tch.” Geralt grunted, rolling his eyes. Jaskier looked even more pleased, evidently the Witcher would have to say something or cede the board, not that this wasn’t already doing that. He looked for some sort of excuse. “This is for your sake, not mine. I don’t want to hear you complaining the whole way back if you accidentally stumble on it and get your doublet dirty or whatever.”
“Aww, you care.” Jaskier smiled, a smile which flipped something in Geralt’s stomach and made him want to return the gesture, every. damn. time. “Well, this is the price you pay for never revealing your big dark secrets to me, best of luck to you then, and remember you wouldn’t have to do this if you let me go with you.” Geralt barked out a half laugh, half snort.
“Never.” And with that he strode out and slammed the door. Standing for a moment he could hear the bard chuckling inside, he had a nice laugh that one, before focusing on his music. The familiar pizzing and strumming, a melody picked up here and dropped there, random words, some louder than others, escaping the bard’s mind into sound, it made Geralt feel some sort of happiness, to see someone so in their element and so happy. He was glad that Jaskier was happy. Wished he could share in the effusive sunlight of his companion. But to do would be to go down that path in his mind, and a second moon would appear in the sky before that happened.
Geralt came back from his expedition covered in black blood, and buzzed enough off of potions to feel completely overwhelmed by the bustling tavern, filled with sounds and smells and colors which seemed to knock into him like a wave. He stumbled his way towards a seat in the corner, head pounding in a myriad of different ways, as if being both smashed by a hammer and stabbed by a million needles. He felt too nauseous to ask for food or drink, worried he might cause a scene in the middle of high hours. Instead he leaned back and closed his eyes, trying to slow his breathing and get the steel he’d need to make his way upstairs and, hopefully, into a bath.
Slowly he managed to pick his way through the wave of sound, trying to find some sort of lifeline. It was the busiest hours of the night, and Jaskier was in the middle of a performance, singing some sort of song about a highwayman leaving his lover with the promise of gold and riches. Right now the lover was despairing over his disappearance, and Geralt, having listened to this song many times before, reflected on the silliness of the song, for never in real life would a highwayman suddenly save his fair love, declaring that they’d be together in life and death. Still the song was mysterious and repetitive and softer than the usual fare, and Geralt found himself lifted up by it, by Jaskier’s voice, and the slight scratch the strings made when he lifted his hand from them, and for a moment the pain was beaten back by comfort and routine, and by a beautiful voice belonging to a beautiful bard, and, as if by magic, all seemed not overwhelming and gross and dirty, but pure and beautiful and calm.
The spell, of course, lasted not one second when Geralt made to move, and the nausea, pounding, and overwhelmed sensation slammed back into him like a wall. The Witcher gritted his teeth as he lurched up, determined to make it upstairs. His steps were sluggish and slow, and he marveled that if a monster were to come upon him now he’d probably be useless, for the potions were a double edge sword, and when the adrenaline left so did his focus, and the outside came crashing in, blocking out everything that made him good to fight. A feeling of frustration and uselessness came over him, and Geralt nearly slammed into one of the wooden beams. Immediately he could feel the noise shift, and cursed himself. Jaskier’s music had stopped, and Geralt looked up through his haze of discomfort to see the bard rushing to collect his coin, before hurtling towards Geralt. Looking at his companion, Jaskier called to the innkeeper behind the bar, asking for a tub to be brought up along with hot water, before draping Geralt over his shoulder. Geralt grunted, feeling slightly self-conscious, but now wasn’t truly the time to be batting away the bard’s help, and thus the Witcher leaned onto his companion’s shoulder, and allowed himself to be brought up to their room.
“Don’t sit on the bed.” Jaskier said, dumping the Witcher onto the trunk. “I don’t know if we’d be able to get clean sheets by tonight.” Taking off his now bloodied doublet, Jaskier placed his lute, which had been slung onto the front of his chest to keep it from being broken or dirtied, on the windowsill, before sitting down on the trunk next to Geralt. “Now, we wait. Bad round this time?” Geralt grunted in assent, and Jaskier nodded. “How you witchers manage it without companions I don’t know.”
Geralt, who was barely keeping upright, wanting nothing more than to sleep and blackout the truly horrendous head pain and waves of discomfort, dragged his hand towards Jaskier. The bard looked slightly confused, and Geralt grunted once more. “What, do you want something?” Jaskier laughed softly, it came out in a huffed, confused way. Slowly he entangled his fingers into his Witcher’s. “Is this it?” Geralt closed his eyes and hummed, not feeling altogether comfortable to confirm, both in fear of being sick and due to the small voice in his mind jeering him this was very foolish indeed. They kept like this for some time, until a knock on the door notified the pair that a bath was finally ready. Everything was brought in, and nothing was said as Jaskier stripped Geralt, shoved him into the tub, and helped the poor Witcher clean off, as well as preventing a drowning, for Geralt was truly bound and determined to sleep, come hell or high water, in this case the latter being more likely. Still, it was accomplished, and as Geralt stumbled onto the bed, he felt a tugging sense of gratitude and comfort, and something else. “Jaskier?” he called out.
“Yes Geralt?” Came the immediate reply, and Geralt smiled slightly to himself, comforted by the familiar reply, the constant presence.
“I ruined your doublet.” He could here a burst of laughter coming from the bard, all in a heap, a lovely soft sound, amplified by the after effects of the Witcher’s potions.
“That you did.” He heard the reply, heard the bard approach, surprisingly quiet and soft. A hand reached out and Geralt took it. It was warm and strong, calloused in the best way, a symbol of talent and tenacity and beauty. “Well. Perhaps it was Fate.” came a soft reply. Geralt smiled, and as he drifted to sleep, he considered that, though the night had been in many ways a debacle, he was glad that he had an anchor to keep him steady, a hand to guide him through the noise and lights and disorder, and if that remained the case, maybe the world wasn’t so great a cesspit as he thought it to be.
The squat village seemed even squatter from the main path, and as it disappeared into the distance Geralt looked back one last time, not because it was noteworthy in any way, but because it’d become some sort of habit after his leaving of Blaviken, you never knew when someone was going to turn an entire village on you, might as well enjoy an easy parting. It wasn’t something he told anyone, to bring it up was also to bring up a past he’d rather forget, but he still kept onto the tradition. Looking down he noticed Jaskier was smiling slightly, and for a moment Geralt wondered if he was going to bring it up, but instead the bard simply sighed and, kicking in a rock off the path, began to speak.
“So, I see that you didn’t shake hands with your business partner after claiming your sum.” A rush of relief and irritation accompanied the statement, and Geralt huffed, turning so his gaze went straight ahead. They’d not brought up the night of his job, a source of great relief and consternation for Geralt, and now, faced with the idea of talking about it, he realized that it was easier to theoretically be nonchalant and aloof than actually feign disinterest in a topic or event. “Geralttt.” Jaskier was evidently plunging straight ahead into this topic, “We need to talk about it someday. You need closeness! Contact! A friendly handshake every once in a while!”
“Why?” Geralt grumbled.
“Well because it’s not normal for a one night stand to be easier than a handshake. Besides,” he added, grinning mischievously, “I think you’d quite like holding hands, at least every once in a while.” Geralt shifted his weight and looked once more at the bard. Jaskier was looking quite smug, as always, but there seemed to be something behind it, some genuine worry or care, Geralt could tell in the slight way his shoulders were pushed back, the quiver in his smile and in his hands, which were being wrung together. It struck him as odd that anyone should care so much, but evidently Jaskier was one such person. And, though he didn’t like to admit it to himself or anyone else, Geralt did care about Jaskier being happy and content, even if it seemed like a silly reason to be so upset over. If Geralt didn’t care about it, why did Jaskier? Still, the bard could be persistent, and might as well humor him even if he wasn’t, after all, it was just hand holding. Even if it was something that Geralt rather not think about, or talk about. Even if it was easier to pretend he didn’t care.
Swinging off Roach, Geralt gripped the reins with one hand. The other reached out, and slow disentangled Jaskier’s right hand from his left. Looking straightforward again, Geralt grumbled; “There. Happy?”
“Mhmm.” The bard hummed in reply, and gave Geralt’s hand a squeeze. Geralt huffed slightly, but he had to admit, it was nice to hold hands, as if a small, quiet part inside of him was suddenly glad to be connected to someone, to be able to share such a mundane and human connection with another. It passed a spell over him, seemingly, and for a moment he was incredibly content.
“So, what about a kiss?” Jaskier’s playful voice broke through the reverie and Geralt’s stomach took a flip. He went to remove his hand, but Jaskier had a strong grip, and held on. “I’m kidding!” He assured, and laughed slightly. Geralt simply grunted, and tried to ignore the slight burning beneath his cheeks. Still he made no attempt to separate himself from Jaskier again, and, as they walked towards whatever new adventure was awaiting the pair, Geralt reflected that he was quite content where he was, and was grateful for the bard, and for whatever strange humor Fate had been in when linking the two together.
#sorry for such a long time between this and the last fic#to be fair I started a different fic#you can find that one on ao3 cause haven't finished it yet#fanfiction#the witcher#geraskier#geralt x jaskier#witcher fanfic#geralt of rivia#jaskier#fanfic#still not much to tag
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“Alex Day” (Chapter 1)
Arthur Fleck x Original Character (OC)
Summary: Arthur Fleck is a young man who hates his life despite his young age: School is hell, his mother wants to control every aspect of his life, and has a strange condition that is difficult to explain to others, a condition which has caused him all those laughs and blows against him. But one day her luck changes when she meets the new girl in sky-blue shoes on the first day of school. A girl from California.
Warnings: Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Drama, Bullying, Friendship/Love, Sadness
Notes: Hello everyone! 💖 I hope you like this story I want to create. The truth is, I wanted to write something about Arthur when he was young, and everything got worse since Todd Philips published those images about Arthur's Journal, and especially about Arthur's dream of going to California and his "Alex Day". Ideas flourished in my mind, so finally, after Planning a lot, my two brain cells worked, and writing and writing like a mad, came out this! Haha! 💕. I hope you like the story very much, I am very sorry if I have grammatical or spelling errors, English is not my mother tongue🥺
If you want to read it in AO3, here the link!
With nothing more to say, enjoy it!💕!
...
Chapter 1: First Day of Hell
Rain.
The rain fell on the city, cleaning every street, every corner, every centimeter. The water fell on the buildings, on the trees, and on the people. People ran to hide from the rain as if the drops were dangerous, but they were only helpless raindrops. People shouldn't be afraid of rain, especially when those people live in a city like Gotham City.
In a forgotten place in the city, an abandoned building, being rescued by a strange clown clan, someone observed the rainfall.
Sitting in the armchair of the place of his hideout, taking off the red coat of his colorful suit, taking out of his pockets a cigarette and his lighter. He lit the cigarette and took it to his mouth, feeling the nicotine scrape his throat.
It had been a great day for everyone in that building, one more assault that turned out to be a success, all his men were happy, handing the money out of each other. They offered more than half to Joker, of course, he deserved them. To their surprise, Joker rejected the money. He told them to keep the money while he went to his place. His men did not refuse at his command, but they decided to keep his share, as their leader used to change his mind quickly.
The truth was that Joker didn't feel well that day, especially that date. Joker kept seeing the rain out the window, it was so common the rain in Gotham, because Gotham was so sad. Would it be raining in California? No, definitely not, California would be sunny as usual, because California was like that, California is a cheerful place.
Just like her.
Joker closed his eyes, hoping his memories would not affect him, but when he closed his eyes, nostalgia invades him, and his memories came afloat.
…
Breathing deeply, trying to run, but as fast as he did, he couldn't escape. There was no escape. Arthur woke up abruptly. The alarm clock was ringing. The nightmare wasn't over, in fact, it hadn't even begun. It was about to start.
"No, it's not today"
He didn't want to get up from the couch, because that would mean only one thing:
The first day of school. The first day of hell.
Arthur Fleck was an introverted 17-year-old boy, green eyes, slim complexion, with clothes he had had since he was 13, and with a strange condition he had since he was born. Or at least that's what they told him. He would have loved to pretend to be sick or something to keep lying on the couch. But it was very difficult to fool his mother.
"Happy, are you awake?”
Penny, his mother, was in the door frame, with her arms folded. It seemed that she always had an aura of authority around her. She wanted everything to be in order, her son's life had to be too.
"Yes, mom…" Arthur, heavily, gets up and goes to look at some clothes. He would have liked to had gotten some new clothes for that day, but with a lot of debts, that was a luxury he couldn't afford.
"You need to eat, this is your first day, a new grade Happy! Are you excited?!"
"Yeah"
Shy, Arthur tried to change his blue pajamas, but Penny's presence made him uncomfortable.
"M-mom…"
"Yeah, Happy?"
"C-can you go to y-your room or k- kitchen, please? I-I'm gonna change my clothes and-" And asking his mother for that was like he offended her.
"What are you saying Happy? That's nonsense! I'm your mother, what are you ashamed of? I saw you naked before!"
"B-but M-"
"I changed your diapers when you were a baby, what's the difference?"
Without chance, Arthur had no choice but to change his clothes in front of Penny. Why did she always have to do that?
"Penny!" An unpleasant voice was heard from Penny's room. Was Charlie, Penny's boyfriend "Where are you?"
"Coming darling!" Penny ran into her room. Arthur had to take that opportunity and put on his clothes fast.
Despite this, he doesn't like Charlie. He was a disagreeable man, someone who preferably wanted to keep his distance. But Arthur couldn’t say anything to Penny, because "he is the new love of her life". And to be honest, Charlie helped with some payments.
Arthur went to the kitchen and poured himself a plate of cereal.
He didn't know where it was worse, whether at home or at school. At least at school, he wouldn't hear any more unpleasant noises. Finishing his breakfast, Arthur tried to approach Penny's room.
"Mom, I'm going to school"
"Ok Happy, have a nice day"
Arthur stays a couple of seconds out of her room. He wanted Penny to accompany him to the bus stop and wait for the school bus. But when he started to hear unpleasant noises, he decides to leave the place.
…
With his old backpack, Arthur waited in the bus stop, his ankle moved fleetingly, his anxiety was there. He saw the yellow bus in the distance. This one stopped, Arthur got into the bus, and he hoped not to meet those who always bothered him.
No one he knew. Not bad. He went to one of the middle seats and sat down. The day started well, too well. Not meeting the usual bullies was already an advantage.
He listened to everyone else behind him. They all talked among themselves, about fashionable music, magazines, some girls talked about their boyfriends and their summer vacations in another state. Arthur felt the need to get up, go over to them and talk to them, but Arthur was someone who was not well received, it was for many things: He was not someone with money, he was not someone interesting to meet, his mother was a single mother (He did not understand much why that was a problem for him at school), and their topics of conversation were strange.
But of course, the main reason why he was rejected for everyone was for that strange condition in him, his laugh, laughing at inappropriate times, times where he should be silent and serious. He did not know which was worse, that they believed that his laugh was real or when they found out that it was a condition, when they found out it was a condition, they got more reasons to mess with Arthur and call him a "freak."
“Arthur Freak, the giggling fool” “The freak who laughs” “chuckle-idiot” “The school clown” And more nicknames they gave Arthur, nicknames that he didn't want to remember because that stressed him a lot, and if he kept thinking about that could trigger more laughs, and it was the only thing he wanted to avoid, more laughs, to avoid more blows.
He hugged his backpack, just looked out the window, looking at the city, the sad Gotham, watching people walk. He wanted to become someone else, any of those people who walked in the street.
…
Going to school was not something exciting for him either, he just looked his back for security, while all the boys and girls talked to each other, some hugged to they friends, others greeted each other effusively, and others checked their lockers. Arthur was just trying to go unnoticed as if he did not exist, it was the best for him.
“Arthur Fleck!”
Fuck. Arthur recognized the voice. He tried to walk faster but huge arms wrapped around his neck, and back, immobilizing.
"Hi, Arthur Freak! How was the summer, huh? How many circus shows did you do, clown? At least your shows were good or did you just laugh like stupid?" Three other guys near that one started laughing. They were some of Arthur's classmates “You finally lost your virginity? I bet it was with a whore, or was it not, Arthur?” They started laughing louder. Arthur felt the shame on his shoulders, humiliated on the first day of school in the first minutes, great. He sees that some girls started mocking him too, and he could hear a "Is he the weird with the laughter? He looks like a fool!"
"See you in class clown! I already have a girlfriend by the way and I need to see her, that’s something you'll get it, ‘cause you’ll never have one!" The four guys left there, scoffing, while Arthur already had a lot of eyes on him. He immediately ran to the restroom. He entered one of the cubicles, dropped his backpack, and sitting on the toilet, he began to cry loudly, trying to silence his sobs with his hand, sobs that turned into laughter.
He hated being bothered so much, but he hated himself more.
Why I can't be someone healthy? Why this fucking condition? Why I’m a fucking sick man?
The bathroom door opened, and he made a superhuman effort to be quiet until he looked down the cubicle some sky-blue shoes with white stockings.
...
Continue
#joker fanfiction#joker 2019 fanfic#Arthur Fleck x OC#Arthur Fleck x Female OC#angst#fluf#friendship#love#romance#drama#hurt/comfort#drama again#more drama with not#Alex Day#HarleenFleckWrites
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All We’ve Got is Time - Chapter Twelve | B.B.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
AU: If They’d Survived/Post-War/Window Washer!Bucky Barnes
Rating: All Ages
Word count: 4,968
Chapter 12/24
Warnings: Family tension
AN: What’s extra wild about this post is that it marks the official halfway point in this story! We have come so very far, yet there is still so much in store for you. Aaaaand I’m gonna stop before I get emotional about it. As always, thanks for sticking around and having passion for this story. This wouldn’t exist without your support.
Per usual, my most heartfelt appreciation to @lucyyannabel , @barnesrogersvstheworld , and @abovethesmokestacks for being my personal cheerleaders and listening to me whine and complain about this chapter and how ornery the Barnes family could be. Bucky is blowing all of you a kiss 😘
Chapter Eleven
‘All We’ve Got is Time’ Masterlist
“Bucky, are you sure I shouldn’t have worn a dress?” you ask for the tenth time, looking uncertainly down at your wide-legged trousers which fall in a graceful line to your feet. Your brightly colored blouse - the one Suzy had picked out between the options you had presented her; she insisted it was the perfect color on you - is carefully tucked in where your pants taper in at the waist.
House by house you steadily approach the Barnes’ family home as you walk the streets of Brooklyn. Your fingers toy with the fabric of Bucky’s suit jacket absentmindedly where your hand is tucked into his elbow.
“I’m telling you, sweetheart, you could wear a potato sack and the girls wouldn’t think less of you.” He playfully nudges your side for good measure.
“Well I did have a dress made out of a flour sack when I was a kid, maybe that would’ve been better.”
He’s all tease. “First off, everyone had flour-sack clothes. We were all Depression kids, you’re not special.” His tone shifts to one of gentle sincerity. “Second, quit worryin’. They care about who you are as a person a lot more than what you’re wearing.”
‘Quit worrying,’ you scoff internally. What a gas. Meeting Steve and Peggy was one thing, but this? How can I not worry about meeting the four women that know him best? Four women that could easily chew me up and spit me out if they don’t think I’m right for Bucky. I need all the help I can get. At least his dad won’t be here.
Bucky brings you to a stop in front of a waist-level iron fence. At the end of the pathway behind the white gate is a sweet brick house with a small porch, large windows taking up most of the front of the home.
“This is it,” he sighs before turning to look down at you. “You ready?”
Rather than answering his question you ask your own. “Are you ready?”
A smile quirks his mouth to one side before he opens the tiny gate with a flourish. “After you, ma’am.”
He raps his knuckles on the door once, twice, before opening the door. Loud female chatter reaches you from around the corner as Bucky takes your purse and hat to hang on the coat rack before he deposits his own hat and jacket. There’s an undeniable warmth here that has nothing to do with the temperature. Red drapes frame the windows, the pieces of on-trend floral furniture matching perfectly. You can practically see a young Bucky listening to the large radio in the corner while sprawled out on the patterned area rug.
“We’re here!” he shouts, leading you by the hand through the living room to approach the kitchen.
The talk comes to an immediate stop before you hear a rumbling of feet. “Bucky!” several women squeal as they rush to meet you in the kitchen’s threshold.
You are momentarily stunned by how similar the Barnes women look. Their various statures are among the only differences between them. You see echoes of Bucky in their raven hair, bright eyes, and dimples as all of them flock to greet you.
Two of them surge forward, each taking an arm exuberantly.“Oh hello!” by way of the pregnant stomach, you’re assuming Rose, greets.
“I can’t believe we are finally meeting you!” the youngest-looking, has to be Evelyn, coos through the sweetest smile that takes you aback.
They begin to talk over each other, variations of “You look lovely!” and “It’s about time he brings you around” and “Are you sure he’s not paying you to pretend to be his girlfriend?” shared in all sorts of merriment.
“Let her breathe, girls,” chides the tallest from her place beneath Bucky’s arm.
Becca, you reason, given Bucky’s easy demeanor as they embrace.
Clad in a clearly well-loved apron, the shortest, eldest, and most effusive of the women reaches her hands toward you and Rose and Evelyn make way for their mother. You clumsily clasp her fingers, maternal affection not among the things you’re used to. She either doesn’t or pretends not to notice your stilted return of her greeting as she says, “Welcome to our home, darling. Needless to say, we are thrilled you and James are here.” It’s the first time you’ve heard someone call Bucky by his first name and it would have been jarring if not for the obvious affection with which Winnifred spoke it. You can’t help but take note that the corners of her eyes have the same distinct crinkle when she smiles, just like someone else you know.
“Thank you for having me over for dinner, Mrs. Barnes.”
She waves a hand, “None of that, please call me Winnifred.” Moving to Bucky, she plants a kiss to his rosy, clean-shaven cheek.
Becca takes the moment to introduce herself before complimenting, “I love your outfit. I wish I could pull that color off.”
“Thank you for saying that, I was wondering if I shouldn’t have dressed up a bit more.” You flatten your hands against your thighs.
Looking down at her own perfectly tailored trousers then back up at you, her eyes dance. “Pants are perfectly dressy enough in this house. I’ve broken the family in for you,” she winks conspiratorially. “But I think we should get to wear what we want when we’re making our own money, ya know?”
“I couldn’t agree with you more,” you smile genuinely for the first time since stepping in the door. Perhaps it was your knowledge of Bucky’s special bond with Becca coloring your opinions, but you suddenly felt as if you had a teammate in your corner, someone to act as a buffer against any awkwardness you may feel.
Winnifred turns from Bucky back to you, laying a soft hand on your shoulder. “I apologize, dear - dinner is running a little behind schedule. Normally I’d try to have the meal finished by the time our guests arrive, but it’s been a hectic day. Bucky tells us you’re the gracious sort who won’t be scared off by our tardiness.”
Feeling all eyes on you you shake your head. “Oh gosh, no, it’s perfectly okay. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“The only thing you’re allowed to do is sit with us in the kitchen and have a glass of tea.” With that, Rose loops her arm through yours and leads you to the table in the kitchen. You obediently take a seat and expect to be joined by Bucky but when you turn, he’s undone the cuffs of his long button-down shirt and is rolling up his sleeves. He grabs a bowl from the counter, grabbing a potato masher and getting to work.
You fight a pang of petulant jealousy that Bucky gets to do something to keep himself busy while you sit in the middle of the room, useless and on display.
Each family member has a task, an area you suspect is fairly common for them. Winnifred focuses on the main dish - something that looks suspiciously like a meatloaf roasting in the oven. Bucky and Becca bump hips as they assist with side dishes as needed - mashed potatoes and some vegetable concoction. Rose has gathered cups for beverages, Evelyn is in charge of setting the table for six. You imagine this scene playing out a thousand times in the past, the ease of moving around each other, the familiarity of the room. It sends an ache to your heart.
You make it through the standard questions politely; where you work, what you do, where you’re from. Everything you’d expected for a ‘meet the family’ night and the meal hadn’t even been served yet. This was going to be fine, what could happen?
“What did you say was your hometown?” Evelyn asks.
Bucky answers for you from where he’s leaning against the kitchen counter, sending a bloom of warmth through your chest. “Tarrytown.”
“Tarrytown. . . where have I heard of that?” Winnifred tuts almost to herself while she peers into the oven.
“It’s about a five minute drive from Sleepy Hollow, if that helps.” You sip your tea, waiting on the typical reaction.
“That’s exactly it!” she props a hand on her hip as comprehension dawns on her.
Rose looks to you curiously. “Sleepy Hollow? As in, the Headless Horseman?”
“One and the same,” you nod, relishing in your little town’s shared history. You couldn’t imagine a world where the setting of a 19th century legend wasn’t the sweeping glen outside of your hometown - well technically, village - that inspired gothic stories all through the region.
The family makes various noises of interest and surprise, including a begrudging “I didn’t even know that,” from your boyfriend.
Becca hums. “I can imagine Halloween is a pretty big deal for you guys.”
Finally, a subject you could really talk about. “Oh, you have no idea. It’s a week-long event for us and we get a ridiculous amount of visitors.”
“Do you and your family have any fun traditions for Halloween?”
You smile at Winnifred before answering. “Well, I’m an only child, so it’s always been just me and my parents. We usually volunteer at one of the public events or attend a party our neighbor throws.”
“That sounds lovely,” she returns your smile.
You stand up for a moment, taking a step toward Bucky. “Are you sure I can’t help-”
“NO!” all five Barneses exclaim, twisting to fix you with the same exact insistent, yet kind look. You immediately plant yourself in your seat again.
“You’re our guest,” Rose explains.
“Actually, Rose, you need to sit down too. You’ve been on your feet all evening,” Evelyn pointedly looks down to her sister’s shoes.
“I’m not going to tell you you’re wrong,” she groans before sinking into the chair next to you.
“How much longer do you have?” you ask as the other siblings take orders from Winnifred.
With a thoughtful hum and rub of her belly Rose replies, “About three months, we think.”
“That’s gotta be exciting,” you venture, bordering on territory that was completely unfamiliar.
The young woman’s head bobs back and forth. “Exciting, terrifying. . . depends on the day. I thought I was ready to be a mother, but the closer we get, the more nervous I feel. I have no clue what I’m going to do.” The last bit is said quietly, almost guiltily, as if it had been the first time she’d let the thought breathe outside of her own mind.
Sensing her tenuous feelings, you measure your next words carefully. “While I don’t know exactly what you mean, I can relate to that.” Rose watches you, doe-eyed. “I’ve been living on my own for a few months now and I feel like every day I make it up as I go along. But I don’t think any of us are expected to have everything figured out. Having the willingness, the grit try to figure it out is what counts. Obviously I don’t know anything about being a parent. But it seems like if you love your child and do your best by them, everything will fall into place.”
You weren’t expecting to see Rose’s eyelashes glittering with moisture when you look back to her.
Oh no. I’ve said the wrong thing, why couldn’t I just nod and move on?
The panic you felt on the inside must have started to show on your face, because Rose begins shaking her head, wiping furiously at the tears. “I’m sorry, I’ve been so weepy lately. I needed to hear that. Thank you, really. I haven’t really talked about it before, except with my husband.”
Relief floods you. “You’re welcome, and I mean it. It’s gonna be okay.”
Rose giggles wetly before looking past you. “She’s just as kind as you said, Buck.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.” A familiar hand on your shoulder prompts you to look up into Bucky’s soft eyes.
He looks like he wants to say something but is interrupted by Winnifred announcing, “Let’s get the food on the table, kids, it’s dinner time.”
The six of you fit comfortably around the table. Bucky and Winnifred settle at either end while you sit to Bucky’s right, next to Becca. Once Rose and Evelyn are seated across from you the steaming platters are passed around. You fill your plate up probably more than was considered “lady-like”, but it smelled so much like home and you’d rather overeat than insult your hostess by not eating enough.
“Tell us how you met,” Evelyn urges as she picks up her fork. “Buck only mentioned it was through work.”
“Well, do you want to know about the time he almost died or the first time we actually spoke to each other a few weeks later?” You take a bite of the meatloaf, chewing at Bucky smuggly.
The table as a whole freezes and all heads swivel to Bucky, who has developed a sudden intense interest in his meatloaf.
“James, you said this job was safe.” Winnifred does a fair job of hiding her natural worry behind a stern gaze.
“Compared to war it is. And saying I almost died is an exaggeration.”
“Free-falling 10 stories is exaggerating near-death?” you say skeptically.
“Bucky!” The four women squawk. He finally has the decency to look embarrassed.
“I was never in danger, it was just a little hiccup.”
You share what you saw that crisp April morning, his fearlessness, his strength, his kindness during your first true interaction through the window. And a concerning disregard for his personal safety, but that was beside the point.
Bucky finally chimes in when you describe how stressed you were on your first day. “When I actually got to cleaning the window close to her desk, she was so frazzled she couldn’t even find the pencil behind her ear.” He winks at you before assuring you, “It was adorable.”
“Guess you’ve been keeping me sane ever since, huh?” you let a smile loose, the fondness of that first memory erasing any embarrassment you may have had.
You don’t miss the twinkle in his eye as he says, “That’s debatable.”
“Takes crazy to know crazy.” His sisters dissolve into giggles at your sass, Winnifred hiding a sly grin behind her napkin. “Anyway, we went on our first date a couple weeks later.”
Becca props her chin on a hand before she mockingly muses, “Well isn’t that sickeningly cute.” Bucky sends a face her way that Winnifred immediately chastises him for, muttering something about “adult toddlers”.
A spirited debate begins amongst the siblings regarding Bucky’s behavior as an older brother and first-born.
You look up from your plate upon hearing your name, finding Evelyn leaning on her elbows toward you. “Count yourself lucky to not have any brothers or sisters, he was an absolute terror growing up.”
“Oh come on, I think it was the standard fare,” Bucky tries to bargain. “And I spent a lot of time carting you around so you could hang out with friends.”
Evelyn presses her fingertips together, steepling her hands. “Shall we go back to the worst Thanksgiving of my life?” Bucky groans, a hand coming up to cover his eyes.
The girl’s attention is on you now, eyes as expressive as her brother’s. “I get massive hiccups after dinner which stick around for an hour. Buck walks in with a ‘Hey, I learned a surefire way to get rid of hiccups, wanna try?’ And of course I do because I’m miserable and I trust my big brother. Five minutes later he’s got me hanging upside down by my ankles while Becca pours water into my mouth. He tried to drown me! Both of you did!”
“I was trying to help! Plus that was a long time ago - I was young and foolish.”
“YOU WERE 23!” Evelyn yells, causing you to sputter into your beverage.
“Your hiccups stopped didn’t they?” Bucky’s hand is on his chest, trying to hold back his laughter.
“Only after you nearly dropped me when Mom came into the room!” Everyone, even Winnifred, can’t contain themselves at that; everyone else re-living the memory while you chuckle just imagining it. You love the idea of the shenanigans the Barnes children got up to in this house, picturing this kind of laughter around the clock. Growing up, your own small house was often quiet with only three mild-mannered people taking up residence.
The sound of a car door slamming shut has Bucky glancing toward the kitchen window, brows knitting together. The front door opens and his posture immediately shifts as he looks to his Ma. She’s already on her feet, disappearing into the hallway where your ears pick up a deep voice. The siblings around you share hard looks, leaving you confused. But then Winnifred appears in the kitchen doorway, eyes trained on Bucky. Something is shared between them extremely quickly that you can’t keep up with before realizing what’s happened.
George Barnes shuffles in looking weary and dour, setting his luggage down by the couch. Bucky shares many of his features - the strong jaw, consistent hairline, the mouth - yet you’d never seen this sour of an expression on his son’s face.
Bucky stands. “Dad. Didn’t know you were going to make it.”
“Well I heard we were having a guest and didn’t want to miss the opportunity to meet her.”
Bucky twists the cloth napkin in his hands tightly.
Not sure what else to do, you stand and smile at George, drawing his attention.
He removes his hat, fiddling with it in one hand. “So this is the girl I’ve heard so much about. George Barnes.” A small wave is given across the table, his sharp eyes flicking down to your outfit for a moment before returning to study you.
“It’s nice to meet you, sir,” you offer, your mind grasping desperately for something else to say but coming up empty.
Breaking the silence, Winnifred turns to Evelyn. “Could you grab another setting please? We’ll have to shift around a little bit.” Everyone moves from their stock-still positions, shuffling plates around the table to make room for one more seat. Bucky pulls a chair next to yours as you shift closer to Becca, managing to sit snugly between the siblings as George replaces Bucky at the head of the table.
The patriarch gratefully accepts the full plate set in front of him, not wasting a moment to begin his meal. The rest of the family turns to their own food. You take note that Evelyn has removed her elbows from the table. Becca has fallen silent. Rose’s face lacks a smile. You’re certain if Bucky sits up any straighter he’s going to pull a muscle.
What just happened? You wonder, more than a little stunned.
“So, Bucky, how’s your training going?” Rose attempts, voice desperate to dispel the tension in the room.
Only you catch the moment of hesitation Bucky has before answering. “It’s tough, but I think I’m doing well. Spend almost every spare minute studying. After Independence Day I’m headed to Pennsylvania for a month of on-site training. I’ve been told it will be intense.”
“Mmm, I remember those days of training. It felt like forever,” you remark, taking a stab at your vegetables.
“I cannot imagine what it must have been like to be a woman in such a masculine profession,” Becca comments, tone almost formal as she keeps her eyes down.
George grunts from his chair, scooping another forkful of mashed potatoes. The noise strikes a chord in Bucky - you can see his mouth moving to open, a bitter retort no doubt on his tongue. Instinctually you rest a hand on his thigh, halting him.
“Yes, it was a challenge. But nothing I couldn’t handle,” you smile sweetly at Becca, feeling George watching you. Pointedly ignoring him, you tack on, “You could’ve handled it too. It’s not so bad.”
Bucky continues. “Good news is that Harvey, her uncle,” he motions to you, “offered me a position as a serviceman in his garage once I get back. He’s agreed to help teach me as I finish up my training.” You pat Bucky’s leg, for the umpteenth time in your life thankful for your Uncle Harvey.George joins the conversation.
“You’ve got a job lined up then, have you?”
“Yes, sir.” Bucky adds a tight nod of assent.
“Ya know, James-” you can’t help but compare Winnifred’s sweet handling of the name versus George’s almost scold, “-I would’ve been more than happy to have set you up with a position at my company if you’d asked. That was the plan before you enlisted.”
“I know, Dad. I needed something new.”
His father huffs, eyes cutting to you yet again. “Didn’t think I pushed you to be in the top of your class all those years to end up with you in that profession. But it’s your life.”
The words are coming out of your mouth before your mind can process them.
“Actually, being a mechanic requires an advanced understanding of mathematics and physics as well as the ability to comprehend mechanical and electrical engineering. Your efforts weren’t wasted sir, they are being put to excellent use.”
Again, the stillness at the dining table is glaringly obvious.
A tinge of regret swirls in your gut. Not from having said the words, but for the discomfort it caused five members of the family. The sixth, you were quickly discovering you didn’t care too much for.
“George, how was your work trip?” Winnifred questions, graciously shifting focus away from her son.
However, your focus turns to Bucky completely. A close look shows that he’s making a valiant effort to control his breathing, and you’re guessing his temper too. You tap fingers on the back of his hand and he flips it over to thread your digits together. The motion calms you somewhat, worry that you had added to his anxiety easing. A gentle squeeze from him signals that he’s thankful. You squeeze twice to tell him he’s doing great. He’s in the middle of his sequence of three squeezes back when the topic of conversation turns again, drawing your attention elsewhere.
Some time later George lays his fork down, sighing in satisfaction. “Dinner was wonderful, Winnie,” he says rather kindly, the obvious affection for his wife in his gaze a stark contrast to his behavior toward everyone else.
“Thank you, dear.” Winnifred turns, “Evelyn, I believe it’s your turn to wash up.”
“Oh please, let me help,” you implore. The family begins to protest before you raise your voice above them, already taking yours and Bucky’s plates in hand. “Please, let me be useful tonight. You all have been wonderful hosts, let me feel a little better about myself.”
Without much resistance, the Barneses acquiesce. Winnifred places bread pudding on the table, starts up a pot of coffee, and doles out mugs. After scraping the remnants of food from the dinner plates you take station next to Evelyn, towel at the ready to dry the dishes after she washes and rinses.
After a few plates and asking after her boyfriend, you go after the only other thing you really know about Evelyn. “You graduated high school, right? What’s next for you, Evie?”
“Evelyn,” she says softly.
“I’m sorry?”
Her shy glance at you hints at a deeper insecurity. “Would you mind calling me Evelyn?”
You blink. “Oh gosh, of course I don’t mind. I am so sorry, that’s just all I’ve heard Bucky call you.”
A gentle sigh escapes her before she confides, “I’ve asked him to stop calling me Evie. He hasn’t quite gotten around to it.”
“Ah. Childhood nickname I assume?” you calmly wipe down a few utensils before setting them aside.
“Right. It just. . .“ Evelyn contemplates the suds covering her hands, “. . . doesn’t sound like an adult. And it feels like when Bucky calls me Evie, he’s not thinking of me as an adult. He’s still picturing the scrawny 14-year-old little sister he left behind when he joined the army. I’ve grown up a lot since then, but he’s not really seeing that.” She hands over a plate ready for drying, catching your thoughtful face. “I’m sorry, that was a lot.”
“No, no, I understand. Thank you for telling me. So, Evelyn, tell me what your plans are.”
As you listen to Evelyn talk about engagement rings and wedding plans, you check over your shoulder and catch Bucky watching you. Unlike every other time in your relationship when you’ve caught him looking, he doesn’t turn away bashfully. In fact, his nose crinkles ever-so-slightly while his lips curl into a smile. Part of you wants to feel self-conscious, but another part preens at the attention, the adoration in his eyes.
His content expression disappears, however, when George turns to say something to him, the corners of his mouth turning down quickly. You sigh internally. Turns out you’d taken Steve’s warning about father and son not getting along a little too lightly. And it also turns out that it was harder to watch than you’d expected.
As soon as the dishes are set back in their places in the cabinet, you and Evelyn join the table once more. Gratefully accepting the coffee Bucky passes you sit in your chair, noticing that he’d scooted ever-so-slightly closer with his arm stretching across the back of your seat.
“I understand you work, is that right?”
A glance up from your bread pudding confirms that George was speaking to you. Scrutinizing men was something you dealt with every day. This was child’s play. “Yes, sir. In Chevrolet’s corporate office.”
“Doing what?”
“I work directly for a supply manager, I monitor his correspondence and help maintain the relationship between Chevrolet and our factories in this region.”
“And you type letters, I assume?”
Not being able to stop the narrowing of your eyes you take a beat before responding, “Yes, sir. That’s one of my many responsibilities.”
George takes a sip of coffee, matching your scrupulous gaze squarely. “And you’re finding moving from factory work to being a secretary satisfying?”
Wooden chair legs screech across the floor as Bucky stands abruptly, aggressively tabling his coffee mug. “We better get going, work will come early in the morning and we’ve got a good walk home.”
Everyone else stands to their feet - George being the last to rise - and Bucky grabs your things for you. As you accept hugs from Rose and Evelyn, you watch Winnifred embrace Bucky from the corner of your eye. She whispers something in his ear. Bucky pulls back, smile and nod tight as he turns to his father.
You miss their exchange when Becca offers her own hug. “We should grab dinner sometime after work!”
“I would really enjoy that, Becca. Thank you for being so welcoming,” you squeeze back.
Before pulling away completely she whispers, “You have done my brother a world of good and I will love you for that forever.” Someone would think she’d punched you in the stomach, the way the breath was knocked out of you.
Turns out that George Barnes spares you from having to respond. “It has been very nice meeting you, young lady,” he bellows as sticks his hand out to you.
“Likewise, Mr. Barnes.” You grasp it and shake firmly, making a point to maintain eye contact before you part.
Winnifred grabs your hands once again. “You are a true joy. Thank you for spending the evening with us. I hope we get to see you soon and get to know you better.” Her openness continues to throw you for a loop. “And if you’re ever in the neighborhood and need anything, our door is always open.”You tell her that you’ll keep that in mind as you return her hug.
Everyone says a last “goodbye!” as Bucky shuts the door, placing his hat on his head. He latches the iron gate before turning to you.
Hands shoved in his pockets, he kicks a rock.
“You okay?” you inquire hesitantly.
He looks up at the dark sky. “I think so. Are you?” Blue eyes dart to yours, the concern there enhanced by the street lamps.
You chuckle. “I think so.”
“I’m so sorry,” he moves to rub the back of his neck as if it pained him. “I had no clue he was going to be here-”
“You have nothing to apologize for, Bucky.”
He lets out a humorless laugh. “We both know that’s not true. I don’t know why he is the way he is.”
“I think at some point in time we all have that thought about our parents. But your mom is as lovely as I expected. All the girls are, actually.”
His eyes shift over your shoulder and out of nowhere, he waves his arms to one side in a “shoo!” motion. You spin to see three feminine shadows scurry away from the window and swear you hear laughter.
“Your sisters are a ball of fun,” you step into Bucky, wrapping arms around his waist. His heartbeat is a little too fast under your ear but he eventually embraces you as well. “I had a nice time tonight, honey. Truly.”
“You sure?” He murmurs, tilting your chin up.
“I’m sure,” you nod, probably a little too eagerly.
Incredulous, he strokes your cheek with a finger. “How did I ever find you?” he presses his lips to your forehead.
“Do we really have to go over you almost dying again?”
His chest rumbles with laughter, the last of his shoulder tension dissipating.
“Get out of here!” Bucky shouts suddenly, startling you before realizing you’re not his intended target. This time, Rose, Evelyn, and Becca keep peeking through the drapes, tongues sticking out at their brother. “Sisters,” he scoffs before he grabs your hand and leads you down the street back to the subway station.
Chapter Thirteen
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Once in Rockfield Farm (1/5)
summary; you own Rockfield Farm and your bf Mary Austin asks you if you can help her friends with an enormous favour that will lead to a much bigger unprecedented change into your life. Thanks to a cute guy specifically.
word count; 6 126
disclaimers, PLEASE read them; don’t forget this is fiction. i’m using queen‘s 70s era as a base for the story but it won’t be historically accurate. the song mentioned towards the end of the chapter is from Taylor Swift, i don’t claim those lyrics as mine. sorry in advance if u find a f*cked up grammar mistake or whatever. feedback would mean everything, it’s the first time i’m posting something i’ve written it feels like i’m giving birth looool
warnings; minor violence at some point and mention of abuse
********
Mary didn’t stop until she convinced you to give green light to her proposal.
She called it like that, but it seemed more like an order. Both of you knew she wouldn’t let it pass until you agreed to.
Taken aback, you refused at first.
The idea of four strangers living in your house, coexisting with you in the only safe space you knew, wasn’t appealing whatsoever.
Even though all they needed was a studio to record, they’d have to stay until the album was finished. They could afford to rent a proper one, but Mary made it quite clear that getting out of town was crucial to avoid possible distractions.
You’d been fired from your job because the restaurant bankrupted, so the money they were going to pay for rent was welcomed.
Your grandfather passed Rockfield Farm on to you when he died.
It was a lovely place full of good memories, mainly concerning hours on end together in the studio he built in the attic throughout the years. The relationship you had with him had always been special, but ever since your nana passed away at the age of 70, your bond became stronger.
He also wasn’t there anymore, and you tried not to think too much about it, just were glad that you met someone like him. He was the main reason you loved making music so much.
Sadly, as you grew up, although your talent for writing songs and producing music was undeniable, you realized you needed to be realistic and pursue a more down-to-earth career.
Medicine was another thing you were slightly attracted to, it wasn’t your passion but it would have to do.
The music business was too complex and difficult to get in, and wasting your time wasn’t on your plans. It’s not like you were a prodigy or a diamond in the rough, anyway. That was your honest opinion.
But now and then you’d succumb and compose. It was an effective way to forget about the rest of the world and vent whenever something would make you sad, grumpy, anxious, angry… Rarely did you write about happy feelings.
What’s the fun in claiming how fulfilled you are with your life? Which you weren’t, but still.
Ballads and songs that’d leave you with your heart aching on the floor were your daily bread.
Mary was the only one allowed to hear your little creations. She’d try to get you to show them to the world, to step out of the comfort zone and perform them in public, to rush out of those same four walls.
You were quick to brush her comments off every time, content with her and your dog being the only ones to get to listen to your babies.
“How long they’re going to take?” you asked using a fake uninterested tone, pretending not to care whether they needed weeks, months or a year.
The truth was that you wished for the album to be done quite fast.
“Who knows,” Mary said. “When the album’s finished I’m the first to know, but in the meantime Freddie won’t give me any clues”
You nodded, unsatisfied with the answer.
“Thanks for agreeing to this. I owe you big” her eyes found yours and yours softened.
“If anything it’s them who do, don’t you think?”
Mary grinned and offered to cook something for tonight’s dinner.
She left you alone with your molecular pathology notes resting on your lap.
It was your last year in University, thank the Lord. One last effort and you would be a doctor.
After memorizing various concepts you found yourself staring at the horizon wondering how was Freddie Mercury like.
Obviously because of Mary you sort of formed this idea of him, but hadn’t had a face to face yet. About the other Queen members… yeah, Mary mentioned them sometimes, vaguely: she described John as a nice fella to have around, Brian as the only one with common sense, and last but not least, when it came to Roger’s personality, she told you hesitantly to judge him yourself.
You thanked her when she handed you the pen you forgot inside.
Mary gave you an encouraging smile, placing her hand on your shoulder and squeezing it.
As soon as she turned around to go back inside, you called her name, squinting your eyes to try and get a better sight of the vehicle that kept getting closer to your property.
“What?”
When she spotted the van she sighed happily.
“Finally”
Mary ran to wait for them in the parking area. She was over the moon, clapping and waving effusively to welcome them.
“Are you coming or not?” Mary shouted, gesturing you to go and stand next to her.
You took your time to get up from sitting upon the grass and do just that.
Not a single second since they pulled over went by and Mary was already imprisoning Freddie in her arms.
You chuckled, completely sure he would be dead in a matter of seconds if she wouldn’t loose her grip.
He lovingly wrapped her in his and stroked her hair.
All of a sudden, running from the backyard where he usually played in the mud (this time was no different), your dog appeared on scene. You asked him to remain quiet and by your side, which to your dismay he did not obey.
He went and greeted Queen, who pushed him away with no bad intentions, they just didn’t want to get dirt on their trousers.
John, nevertheless, got on his knees and began patting him. It did not take long for him to regret it when Sherlock seemed to be captivated by his face, licking it non-stop.
You cleared your throat. It would be nice of Mary to introduce you, being the one who organized this whole of a mess in the first place.
Apparently she read your mind. The next thing she did was link arms with you.
“This is (Y/N)” she spoke. “Freddie, come here”
“You have no idea how happy I am to finally meet you”
Freddie gave you two sweet kisses, one on each cheek.
“Same here” you nodded and mirrored his smile when you saw it reached his eyes.
In a heartbeat you were fascinated by him.
There was this intriguing strong aura he projected that made you feel like you were in the presence of someone from the royalty, someone important.
Freddie examined you from head to toe and fell in love immediately with your outfit, a pastel blue dress with tiny sunflowers printed all over it. He did spot your exposed feet and smiled pleasedly at your choice of painting your toenails with the colours of the rainbow.
“Boys, don’t be rude and come say hi” he gestured his bandmates, who were taking a rapid glimpse of their new temporary home, and stepped aside.
“Nice to meet you, I’m Brian”
“Nice to meet you too” you kindly responded, shaking his hand.
“Thank you very much for allowing us to record our album here. If we win a Grammy expect you to be the first one we address in the speech” he joked, face beaming with a heavenly smile.
Damn, you were so soft for him already. And you wanted to touch his curls.
“You’re welcome, Brian”
“Yes, we’re endlessly grateful” another gentle voice joined the conversation.
John stood now in front of you.
“Hi, I’m John Deacon”
“I know” you laughed, tilting your head to the side. “I hope your stay here is… productive”
“I hope so too” he smiled big, and it made your heart melt. He was so cute.
Roger was next.
He was wearing a black leather jacket that fit him like a glove. One silver bracelet hugging his right wrist, matching the necklace around the neck. What caught your attention the most was the glittery rosy shoes, though. He had long blond messy hair (like the others, except the colour part), and prominent sideburns.
They looked ridiculous, you thought, although every second you spent contemplating his face the less they bothered you.
He was gorgeous, what the hell?
You got somehow a little nervous.
“Productive it shall be. I’m Roger” he spoke, referring your words from before. He took your hand and held it to his lips. “We’ve come to the right place, guys. With such a pretty face like hers we’ll never run out of inspiration” he snorted when he heard John face-palming himself.
You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.
Sure Roger didn’t mean that at all, it was just his constant flirty mood Mary warned you about taking over him, you reasoned.
“Don’t get it started, Rog. We don’t want her to kick us out the very first day” Brian scolded him like a father would his children.
Roger laughed, his silly expression never fading away, and soon he was again observing you.
“I was joking, I’m sorry if it made you uncomfortable,” he said, taking some of the heat out.
“It didn’t,” you said back, confident.
You followed the others when they headed to the house carrying their respective suitcases with Mary as the leader.
Roger was fast to grab his and catch up with you.
“You live alone?”
“I have Sherlock”
He was still in ecstasy, trying to get everyone’s attention.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it” you shrugged. “It’s not as tragic as it sounds. I enjoy my own company”
“Oh. Anyway. This is a farm, right? You do all the, huh… you know, farm work on your own?” he looked around, scanning a bit the surroundings. He pointed with his chin at one big rooster. “The guardian of the house, eh?”
You let out a vague chuckle that made Roger proud, already eager to make you like him.
The reason was obvious: you were so eyecatching he almost tripped when he missed one of Sherlock’s toys on one of the porch steps, too engrossed in how the sun made the freckles in your face stand out.
“My grandfather baptized this piece of land as Rockfield Farm, but it hasn’t been a proper farm for years. Now it’s just… my house”
“You know,” he began, digging deep around his mind to come up with something so the conversation wouldn’t end, “years ago I had this summer job in a much more immense place than this. I had to watch over 200 sheep every day”
“Was it as entertaining as it sounds?”
“Clearly not”
Roger extended his hand to stop the door from closing after John came in. He motioned you to go first and winked, but you didn’t notice the last part, which slightly bothered him.
“(Y/N), this place is precious!” you heard Freddie praise.
Mary interrupted you before you could thank him.
“Then you sure are going to love the studio even more! C’mon”
//
“How did your grandfather manage to get this studio together? It’s pretty impressive” Brian enthusiastically asked, taking a small sip of tea.
The six of you were now chilling in the living room. It was the perfect time for them to rest since the road trip had been long.
Moments before they finished unpacking and settling down, Mary and you gossiped in the kitchen. She remarked how attentive Roger acted towards you, and asked if you were into him.
“Are you stupid?” you couldn’t believe her. “We’ve known each other for what, ten minutes?”
“I was just wondering whether there was desire at first sight or something”
“Desire at first sight?” you repeated slowly, taking in every word.
“It was a softer way to ask if you’d give him a ride or not” she laughed watching you gesture her to lower it down. “I’m just asking because I can tell he would”
Before answering Brian, you looked over at Roger.
He’d taken off his jacket and was rolling up the sleeves of the white tee he wore underneath.
Your lips parted, finding that mundane action quite amusing and sexy on him.
You looked away, guilt taking over you for having stared too keenly. There was nothing wrong about it, and you couldn’t explain why you felt agitated. Maybe you were self-conscious about whether the others noticed.
Forcing yourself to remember Brian’s words and with a sense of pride, you smirked behind your cup, gazing at the wooden floor.
Your grandfather poured his soul into this studio, which he also referred to as a sanctuary. It made you happy to hear Brian acknowledging its value.
There were several electric and acoustic guitars, a generous collection of microphones your grandmother enjoyed saving, two trumpets, a synthesizer -to which Freddie and Roger scoffed loudly at-, a drumkit, one saxophone, and a bass.
Not to mention the tape machine that still worked perfectly plus the recording booth.
Mary told you that John Reid, who was looking after Queen at the moment, managed to convince the label to provide them with a significant amount of money. You assumed they’d brought enough tapes to record on, therefore yours would remain intact.
“He bought half of the instruments”
“The other half?” John inquired.
“He stole them” you answered, not much of a fan about it.
“Whew!” Roger whistled.
You took a short sip of the tea and turned slightly towards the window, presencing a flash of light.
“A piano?”
Freddie dropped the question with no high hopes.
“Pardon?” you turned your head and looked at him over your shoulder with your body still facing towards the window.
The head movement was so fast that a clip you wore to hold a fraction of hair in place loosened a bit, letting the lock to fell down your face.
Roger stared at you in awe.
The light illuminating the room had a warm cosy tone, which surely helped to make your skin look softer and smooth. He wasn’t aware of the heart eyes he was giving you, but Brian, John and Mary were.
When you batted your lashes, he looked away and saw Brian try and fail to hide a smile when they locked eyes. He’d been caught.
“Do you have a piano?” Freddie questioned again, eyebrows raised a little.
A tiny playful smile made its way to your lips.
“Of course I have a piano” you cockily answered.
When you saw Fred’s satisfied grin appear you instantly knew he liked you as much as you liked him. It wasn’t in the attic; you’d show it to him later.
To be honest, the piano was your favourite instrument to play. So delicate, so powerful and majestic.
“Excuse me for a second” you got up from your seat, everyone confused by your sudden urge to leave, but not alarmed.
That light from before wasn’t a bolt of lightning, you came to realize, it was a car that parked outside.
A little voice popped in your head guessing it could be him, but it couldn’t… right? There were approximately two hours from Cardiff to get there.
It sure was someone lost, or maybe they were stopping by to beg to use your bathroom because they couldn’t hold it in anymore. It wouldn’t be the first time.
“How about we start dinner? I’m starving” Mary added.
Their voices kept getting lower and lower as you crossed the corridor, oblivious to Roger’s eyes following your every move.
You stepped outside and closed the heavy door behind you, but not completely.
The silhouette of the last person you’d want to see in the entire world was leaning against a red car, one you did know very well because you lost your virginity in the backseat. He was humming to a tune you didn’t recognize, head facing downwards.
Picking at the fabric of the sweater you put on to forbid the cool air of the night from touching your skin, you opened your mouth.
“Leonardo!” you whisper shouted.
He definitely heard you, although he turned a deaf ear.
“Leo, what the fuck!”
“You’re a stupid whore”
Shit. He’s drunk? You prayed he wouldn’t make a scene, not now, with Mary and the guys around. The shame to have them complicit of whatever could possibly happen would be unbearable.
“You’re miserable” he went on with his speech, voice thick, which made it difficult for you to understand him.
You called it quits three months ago. Apparently he wasn’t any close to getting over the fact you ended it.
“Leave”
After what felt forever, he abruptly raised his head.
“What?” the expression on his face revealed he wasn’t happy.
What his eyes showed freaked the hell out of you: they revealed an intense desire, either with words or physically, to hurt you. He wasn’t sober, and you were aware that he had struggled with alcoholism when he was a teenager. It was fair to say Leonardo never put a finger on you in that way before, but alcohol was the push he needed to do it and his body was full of it now.
A lump formed in your throat.
“Get out of here”
“I just want to talk” lifting his hands up in an attempt to seem harmless, losing balance doing so, he took a few steps forward trying his best to sound convincing so you wouldn’t move and listen to him.
“I don’t want to hear what you have to say”
“How do you think I felt? Huh? When I saw you making out with that moron? You’re so selfish. A fucking slut, (Y/N). You disgust me”
That was the final straw. You promised you wouldn’t give in and start an argument, but he fucking did have to bring that up. He had the nerve to blame you for moving on and having some fun with a guy a few days ago at a party.
“Are you serious right now, Leo? How dare you?! We’re not together!” funny enough, this time it was you walking up to him not giving a damn anymore about the consequences.
When you raised your fist to punch him, even in his state, he managed to catch your wrist on time.
“How wrong you’ve done me” he hissed, tightening the grip. That’d leave marks for sure.
He pushed you against the car, causing your back to crack roughly. The situation was so tense not even the tears were brave to roll down your face, your vision blurry and unclear.
“Please, Leo!”
Mary’s voice never felt so good in your ears.
You totally forgot about them, that you could’ve screamed for help instead of dealing with Leo on your own, too absorbed in rage to be able to think things through.
“Do something, help her!” she pleaded the boys.
Four arms were fast to catch him and throw him to the ground.
Everything was happening so fast, almost as fast as your crazy heartbeats.
Brian came to you and held you by the shoulders, checking you out entirely, looking for bruises. He was asking repeatedly if you were alright, if that man dared to touch you. You could hear him, but it felt like he were miles away from you, his words echoing in the back of your mind.
Mary grabbed your arm and the two guided you, treating you like you had some kind of disability.
Before letting them drag you inside, you quickly turned your head to see what was going on, and saw a fuming Roger threatening Leo to disappear and never come back.
Freddie and John remained behind him in case he’d lose his temper. They looked at each other in astonishment; it was the first time they saw Roger like that.
“(Y/N)” Mary called you, once in the common room. “Fancy a glass of water?”
“I’ll be right back with it,” Brian said, his long legs taking him to the kitchen.
“Sit down, babe”
“I don’t want to. I’m fine”
She could perfectly see the tension in your shoulders.
“You’re not. But it’s fine, it’ll be fine” she sympathized, caressing your hair.
At this point you were lost for words. You were confused, angry, stunned.
“Here, take it. It’ll do you good, (Y/N). Is there anything else you n—” Brian began, offering you freshwater to maybe comfort you and make the knot you felt in your throat go away.
“For fuck’s sake!” you felt choleric. Maybe you were about to pass out.
Freddie, John and Roger came in and stopped dead in their tracks when they heard you complain.
Brian blinked a few times.
You were desperate for some time alone to process the last couple of minutes, but that wasn’t any excuse for you to take it out on Brian when all he wanted was for you to get better.
“I’m sorry” you lamented, ashamed at your behaviour, and took the glass not looking at anyone in the eye. That’s when you saw you were indeed shaking a little bit.
He smiled comprehensively, not giving too much attention to your outburst.
“Who the fuck was that?” Freddie wondered.
John elbowed him and mouthed “not now”.
“I’m so embarrassed. I’m sorry you had to witness that” you sighed, choking back the agony.
“Don’t apologize. That piece of shit shouldn’t have treated you like that. He looked mad” Freddie condemned.
Another heavy sigh escaped your mouth when you saw everyone staring intently at you, hating the feeling of their unasked pity.
Roger hadn’t said a word. His muscles were tense, mind way too far from the scene recalling something from the past.
//
It’d been several weeks since Queen came to stay.
To your surprise you had no complaints. They helped you without hesitation with the housework and kept their rooms tidy. More or less. The only thing you could protest about was that after the sessions it seemed like the studio had been the target of a fateful hurricane.
However, they were too cute to stay mad at for more than ten seconds.
Coming out of your shell was easy because of them. It didn’t take you long to feel comfortable enough to show your true self instead of hiding in your room like you did the first three days.
Reading a book easily kept your mind busy, except now; it was unbearably hot outdoors and indoors. Without taking your eyes off the page, you held the Coca-Cola can against your neck seeking a refreshing sensation.
“Mind if I join?”
You lowered the sunglasses until they were fitted a little bit below the bridge of your nose. The sun was hiding behind a cloud now, making it easier to adjust your vision and get it focused on whoever that was.
A shirtless Roger stood before you, with a towel around his neck that he rushed to spread on the hammock next to yours.
His skin glowing due to the sweat made him look rather tempting.
Your brain lent a helping hand forcing you to smile and nod because you wouldn’t, couldn’t do that yourself.
A small grin tugged at his lips when he noticed your eyes on him longer than usual.
“You’re always studying, angel” he pointed out, lying down and crossing his arms above his head.
You let out a loud sigh you’d been holding in, cheeks red at the pet name he chose. Anytime he’d call you something sweet rather than by your name, it was always how you tended to react.
There was no denying that you’d sort of developed a small crush on him.
Nobody could blame you, though; the same thing would happen to any human being with feelings.
He always treated you as one of them, making sure you didn’t feel left out. His sense of humour was similar to yours, and you appreciated it when he included you in their plans even if he knew you were occupied with Uni and probably wouldn’t be able to join.
Also, he was hot as fuck. You swore you’d never seen a man so beautiful in your life so far.
“I have to if I want to pass my exams”
“Sure, but you’re always studying” he emphasized. “It cannot be healthy”
It couldn’t, but everything was so difficult and you were so lost at some points you thought the world as you knew it could end if you took the smallest break.
“(Y/N)”
“Tell me”
“Seeing you stressed out stresses me” he sat straight, took the book from you and shoved it away. “Fuck this. I suggest you have some fun before the pressure ages you”
“And what do you recommend, ay?” you questioned, crossing your arms across your chest.
“We could play Frisbee”
“Frisbee? Really?”
“Why not? I’m sure you’re not that bad” he teased, getting to his feet.
You faked a laugh and stood up.
“Don’t underestimate my skills”
He used his hand to mimic a mouth talking nonsense, and approached the pool since the frisbee was floating in the water. But he stopped when he felt he stepped on something, proceeding to lift his foot to see what it was.
Roger knelt down and picked a piece of paper up, which said in messy handwriting together with scribbles here and there: You tell me ‘bout your past, thinking your future was me.
His brows cocked in surprise and your eyes widened. You grabbed it out of his hand and held it close to your heart reflexively, as if protecting it. It must have flown out from within the pages of the book when he first threw it away.
Roger watched you curiously, crouched down still, as you breathed slow and deep avoiding eye contact. You could feel your face getting hotter.
He got up with an unnoticeable smile.
“That’s yours? It’s decent”
You waited for something to get out of your mouth, but this time your brain didn’t find a way to help you out, speechless at the fact that he liked it.
“Do you have more? I’d love to hear” he continued, glancing at you.
“Oh, n-no” you forced a laughter. “I don’t”
“I’m glad you’re not as bad as a lyricist as you are as a liar”
You gave him a dirty look and the corners of his eyes crinkled at that. He puppy-eyed you.
“Please?”
“No, Roger”
“We don’t protest when you’re in our recording sessions, you could return the favour”
“Excuse me? You’re in my goddamn house. Watch your tone”
He giggled, fascinated by how cute you turned out to be when poked at.
“What do I have to do for you to say yes?”
“Nothing. It’s not happening”
“(Y/N)!” he pleaded. “I want to hear you sing”
You shook your head.
“And I want to own all the dogs on the planet. Guess we’re both stuck”
Roger groaned in defeat and turned around to get his hands on the frisbee.
For some odd reason, it made your heart dance in your chest knowing he was willing to sit down with you and listen.
A sense of enthusiasm and confidence moved you and shockingly enough you found yourself considering the idea.
Roger gave you a quick head nod.
“Ready?”
You didn’t know what the hell you were doing but you whispered a small “okay”. It couldn’t be that bad, right?
“Take a few steps back first, you’re too close”
You pulled a face at him but quickly shook your head.
“I said I’ll do it”
Roger wasn’t getting it.
“Do w—“ he stopped mid-sentence, his sapphire eyes widening in understanding this wasn’t about playing Frisbee anymore. “Yes!” he took you in his arms and spun you around.
Since he was shirtless you could feel how well built he was. Although he wasn’t the most athletic man out there, apparently drumming on and on was enough to keep him fit.
“Rog, Rog! Enough! I’m feeling dizzy”
You were wearing a mini skirt that had a tiny slit on one of the sides. Seeing it rolled itself up a little you adjusted its length, avoiding any extra space to anyone’s imagination. Too late for Roger though.
When satisfied with how your skirt fitted, you looked up and saw a subtle wink roaming his lips.
“I’m ready when you are” he announced, bending over to grab his shirt and put it on.
At first your legs wouldn’t cooperate.
Roger followed you closely.
He saw you toy with your hair, questioning yourself why you agreed to do this when you weren’t a hundred per cent sure about it. He placed his hands on your shoulders and slowly massaged the back of your neck with his thumbs, relieving some of the pressure.
Every single hair of your body stood on ends.
“Don’t be nervous, love. We can drop it whenever you want” he conceded, tossing an arm around your shoulders.
Opening the door to the studio you felt sick, already regretting your decision.
Roger took a sit on the couch, watching you like you were about to do a mind-blowing performance that’d change the meaning of his life forever.
Feeling like a rat in a laboratory with the doctors waiting to see if the experiment was successful or not, you shifted weight from one foot to the other, discomfort intensifying.
The piercing electric blue of his eyes triggered something in you when they met yours. You didn’t know how but it seemed like he was speaking to you through them, encouraging and imploring you to open up to him.
“Take it easy, (Y/N). It’s not a big deal”
“It is for me”
You sank down on one of the chairs next to the control room, poorly trying to hide how intimidated you were.
“You’re singing, then? Or reading the lyrics out loud?”
“Singing” you muttered. God knows if you went downstairs to pick up your notebook you wouldn’t come back.
A very cheeky expression overtook his face.
“Okay, go ahead” he gestured, rubbing his chin.
You clenched your jaw and snapped your eyes shut. It was easier to do it if you weren’t looking. You’d just imagine it was your grandfather in the room with you instead.
“Time won’t fly, it’s like I’m paralyzed by it
I’d like to be my old self again
But I’m still trying to find it
After plaid shirt days and nights when you made me your own
Now you mail back my things and I walk home alone”
Roger’s fingers fidgeted at the sight of you tucking a piece of hair behind your ear, silently wishing it was him doing it.
He saw how your angelic features relaxed along to every word you sang. When it comes to your voice... He had to remind himself he didn’t die nor was leaving a dream, because it felt like he were in the very gates of heaven.
His breathing quickened, well aware he was witnessing something intimate.
Leaning closer, elbows resting on his knees, he allowed your voice to transport him to the place and time you were describing.
“But you keep my old scarf
From that very first week
'Cause it reminds you of innocence
And it smells like me
You can’t get rid of it
'Cause you remember it all too well”
You swallowed before opening your eyes and speaking.
“There’s more but that’s the part I’m most proud of”
Roger’d fallen silent, his brain on fire.
He seemed to be absent, daydreaming probably.
Your heartbeat could make you go deaf any second, partly because you allowed him to have a peek at your heart partly because you were dying to know if he was any positive about it.
“You sounded like an angel” he stated in the softest voice, working on coming back to his senses.
There was nothing you could do apart from blushing and awkwardly shaking your head, yet on the inside you were saturated with a strong feeling that filled you completely: his opinion was relevant to you and the reaction he had was more than enough.
“You’re exaggerating. Thank you though, for your words. You’re very kind” you said, entwining ankles.
“Is it…” Roger was afraid this would ruin the mood. He decided to give it a shot and solve any doubt. More importantly, he wanted to make sure you were alright.
You weren’t stupid and knew where he was going.
“About Leonardo? Yes. Next question” you explained bitterly cutting him off, and pressed your lips together making an effort to not roll your eyes and appear rude.
He did ruin the mood.
Roger felt bad now.
“I’m sorry. Forget it”
“It’s fine” the flat tone you used before switched to a more delicate one.
It was overwhelming that he cared. He didn’t have to but he cared.
“I experienced something similar. I know how fucked up domestic abuse is” Roger confessed, bowing his head.
Wait, what? He what?
“Rog…” you got up and carefully sat next to him.
It shocked you how quick the atmosphere changed.
“It’s nothing, dear, it was a long time ago. She was… she was crazy” he laughed drily and cleared his throat. “You know what I mean”
“I do not. What you saw when Leonardo showed up was a one-time thing. He was drunk and barely himself, but I’m so terribly sorry you had to go through that”
“Ah, good for you then” he tapped you on the knee with a small smile on his face.
It broke your heart. How could anyone be so goddamn evil? You just couldn’t understand why they were people like that out there, willing to harm others deliberately.
Your mind drifted to Leonardo, did he become one of them?
Glancing at Roger, you hesitantly got closer to rest your cheek against his shoulder, letting him know mutely you were there in case he needed to vent more often. You intended to cuddle for just a few seconds before it turned out weird. That was until he wrapped an arm around you to keep you in position.
“Thank you” he whispered.
It sent shivers down your spine hearing for the first time his voice discreetly cracking up. You weren’t entirely sure about what he was thanking you for, though.
Roger didn’t quite understand why such information slipped out his mouth. Maybe he thought it was appropriate to share it since he contemplated you went through the same thing after what he saw. He just wanted to make sure you knew you could count on him as well.
The boys knew about the matter, obviously, but there was this thing about you he hadn’t figured out just yet that pushed him to speak to you about it.
That’s what his mind was saying, his heart on the other hand defended the idea that he felt comfortable with you and that since he presenced the incident with Leonardo he remembered his experience. Hence the fit of anger he had.
The thought alone of that scumbag hurting you made his head collapse. He was very sensitive about the subject.
“Better?” you wondered out loud after a while of snuggling, yet you didn’t move, finding the proximity significantly pleasant.
“Yeah, uh, sorry” he cleared his throat and released you.
“It’s more than okay”
He nodded, not really looking at you yet.
You tried to think of something that could distract him from those undeserved and heartrending memories.
There was no point of comparison to what Roger had struggled with, but every time you argued with Leo during the year your relationship lasted, you were grateful that your friends organized sporadic plans to help you forget about the fights.
You had to do that for Roger. You had to entertain him. To keep his mind occupied.
“Freddie explained to me drums are much more complicated than what they seem”
Roger glanced over the drumkit.
He was suspicious at first about the topic change, and looked at you from the corner of his eye.
“It can be very ambitious if you don’t do try for real, instead of goofing around. There’s too much going on. People believe it’s just hitting the drums and you’re good. Wankers”
It was unmissable how his face lit up, talking about his passion.
Crossing an ankle over your knee, you bent forward to get a better sight of his much more eased features.
“I’m sure it requires a lot of hard work, the coordination on hands and feet and all that stuff. Singing along as well must be tiring”
Roger’s eyes bored into yours, as if studying and reflecting upon your words. A corner of his mouth lifted.
“Yeah,” he replied amused, “physically it can be tough”
He knew what you were doing.
Just when he was about to ask you if you wanted him to teach you some basics, John came flying through the door.
“For God’s sake, there you are. Roger, I need you. Freddie and Brian are arguing again. Help me out spreading some peace before Freddie slaps him”
****
end of part one, lemme know what you think ! ♡
#roger taylor#roger meddows taylor#roger taylor x reader#roger taylor fanfic#roger taylor fanfiction#roger taylor imagine#rockfield farm#roger taylor 70s#queen band#a night at the opera#bohemian rhapsody#brian may#freddie mercury#john deacon#ben hardy#rami malek#lucy boynton#joe mazzello#gwilym lee#once in rockfield farm#tayloredstarr
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Post 1: On Poetics
Poetry, am I right? Who needs the stuff? Well, I do. I get paid to go to school for it. I’m not going to bore you with some longwinded introduction where I satisfy your checklist of things that constitute a reliable source because I know you don’t really care. Instead, I’ll direct you to a list of the top 5 most important things to keep in mind when reading and writing poetry (for all ages!). As you can see, they aren’t written on stone tablets, so feel free to disagree with anything I say here (if you do leave comments of dissent, please be kind enough to follow it up with a “because” for others who may be interested). This is just my personal take from my experiences. Take what you will.
1. Your Poem Should Have Some Sort of Surprise or Insight (It Should Change You)
What distinguishes a good poem from a great poem (or a good poem from a bad poem) is its transformative qualities. To put it simply, a great poem is a poem that truly changes you. You should leave the poem feeling that you’ve learned something about yourself or about the world. Not only will minding the transformative qualities of a poem help you assess others’ poetry, but it can also serve as a guide for your own endeavors.
When writing a poem, we sometimes find ourselves engaging with things (emotions, memories, ideas, art, etc.) that we don’t quite understand or can’t account for. Let us, for example, say we are writing a poem about something wholly original and not at all trite: love. Anyone who has ever been in love has felt the strange emotions that circumspect its comings and goings: euphoria, despair, infatuation, apathy, content, anxiety, reassurance, fear. Now, imagine trying to describe these emotions in a way that accurately conveys their essence; “I’m afraid” isn’t much of a poem (though the conciseness of T.S. Eliot’s “and in short, I was afraid” is quite striking).
The arrival of the surprise in poetry is the result of a successful engagement with the ambiguous and arduous. Put simply, you get the surprise by working through your thoughts and emotions on paper. Be aware that there is no way to foresee the arrival of the surprise. In fact, you might find that it’s in the first few lines you’ve written. Conversely, you might find that it takes weeks of writing or revision to arrive at some sort of insight. Regardless, you should leave the poem somehow changed.
Examples of Surprises:
The Archaic Torso of Achilles- Rilke
The Warning- Creeley
2. Let the Poem Be Its Own Guide (Don’t Force It)
A successful artist is an artistic who recognizes their art and works with it. Well, what the fuck does that mean? Much like every other art, intention often finds itself at odds with the poem. Intention essentially means the objective we bring to the table when we make art. A simple example: “I want to write a love poem.” Great! Everyone loves a good love poem. However, where most beginning poets -and experienced poets time and time again- stall is reconciling intention with output. By output, I simply mean what ends up on the page.
Imagine this: you’re writing your love poem and, suddenly, you find yourself writing about a box of photos you found in your grandmother’s attic. Well that just won’t work, will it? We’re trying to write a love poem! Not a poem about old pictures of your grandmother. What the sensible person would do is get back on track, cross out those inane lines and continue their trek of love. What the poet does is follow the trail of memory. The poem knows what it wants to be just as your intuition knows what the poem should be.
Perhaps one of the greatest struggles beginning poets tend to face is the seemingly sporadic nature of intuition. “This is what I want the poem to be! Why can’t I get it to do what I want?!” Well, uh, that’s because the poem is kind of like a person. I mean, it’s being written by a person based on that person’s experiences, and we all know human experience is anything but simple and linear. Trying to force a poem to do something is like trying to force a person to do something.
As artists, we often forget that our art is not always going to be in tandem with our goals and aspirations. That’s okay. In fact, it’s great! It keeps us from being indebted to our own egos. “Oh? You thought you were going to write the modern epic? No no no! You’re going to write about the hole in your shoe.” Additionally, who’s to say that love and the box of photographs are entirely unrelated? Love is a complex and multifaceted emotion. There are many kinds of love: romantic, sexual, familial, idealistic, etc. What the poem is trying to show you is the relationships between your love for a partner and your love for your grandmother. Let the art run its course.
3. Avoid Clichés
This, in my opinion, can be a make it or break it for poetry (and all art). Nothing turns an audience off like being cliché (think dad-rock). Unfortunately, there’s no end to the barrage of hip, Instagram poetry that somehow passes as insightful and profound (@ Milk and Honey). I try not to sound like a pompous asshole as much as possible, but everybody has a line in the sand, and this is mine. Just don’t do it. Don’t be that person (poet).
For one, it’s contrived, and it’s obvious because you can’t tell the difference between any of the people writing the “poems.” Two, it takes little to no effort to write Instagram poetry:
Just because you’ve decided to
Stay inside doesn’t make you
Anything less.
Even the butterfly needs
Time alone to grow
Truly inspired.
Now that we’ve got that out of the way, there are other clichés that you’ll want to avoid. The most common ones usually occur in metaphor or simile:
My love, you are like a flower
Swaying in the summer breeze
Okay, so let’s break this down. One, there’s nothing really surprising about comparing your love to a flower. It’s been done many times; at this point, probably too many times. Two, there’s also nothing surprising about a flower in summer. It’s to be expected. Three, while the entire image itself is beautiful (flowers in the summer breeze), it doesn’t reveal anything unique about the speaker’s love. In fact, some would find the use of such a bland and predictable simile almost insulting.
*Now, here’s where an exception to clichés comes in. This would be a perfect simile if you were trying to be sarcastic or humorous about your relationship without being too on the nose*
So how do we spice this up? Well, we make the simile surprising:
My love, you are like the muddy river that runs under the bridge
Cool and murky as you drift through my fingers in the summer’s heat
Okay, not the greatest lines ever written, but more interesting than flowers in the summer breeze.
What often helps all writers think about interesting comparisons and images is being honest about the emotions behind them. We understand that you’re in love, so we want to hear about it, actually hear about it. When you think about the person you love, do you actually think about flowers in the summer breeze? Or do you think about the dumpster behind the cafeteria where you first kissed? Or how they snore in the middle of the night? Or how you’re always late because you both decide to lounge in bed until 2 in the afternoon? I guarantee you that being honest about the mundaneness of love (or whatever else you decide to write about) will produce something with more candor and accessibility (meaning, resonant with others) than lofty misconceptions about what love is.
As a final note on the cliché, always remember to be true to your own voice. Emulating other people’s poetry can be a fun and useful exercise to develop your own skills, but it is not an end. I’m honestly surprised how many times I’ve encountered poetry from the 21st century written like this:
Hark! Mine fellow scholars! Doth thou hear the gentle wings of poesy?
No, sir, I don’t hear it. Chaucer is dead. Shakespeare is dead. And for good reason. Let’s keep it that way. While most of us don’t speak poetically often, we certainly don’t speak like that anymore. Stay true to the times.
Examples of subverting or flirting with the cliché:
Porphyria’s Lover- Browning
The Flea- Donne
4. Play With Formalities of Structure and Grammar
I’ll keep this point brief because it’s pretty straightforward. Poetry does not have to abide by the formal rules of structure and grammar. In fact, there are very few rules at all.
You can write your lines as whole sentences
Or you can break them up.
You can use commas, periods, exclamation points, etc.
Or you can completely forgo them?
CAPITALIZATION and italics can help
Emphasize certain words that you think are IMPORTANT
Words can be bro ken up in any num-
Ber of ways do(n’t) be afraid 2
Experiment w/the formalities of language!
5. Stay Grounded in the Real
This may seem like an odd piece of advice but it’s something that has significant consequences for most art. A few, short years ago I was briefly enamored with the complexities and possibilities of language that poetry offered, which manifested in this poem:
For if she flees I should pursue, Through vision, Thereafter? Feather footed, criminal as we are.
Samael, So once we were, Golden swans littered across the sky, Bathing/bourn/bearing
Light
Time beyond candlelight, Wicks, unto you, Progenic burning, Great love, Fallen
Meadows, Whisper sweetly and, Slither into my dreams, Carry with us, black as we rose So Mourned, Thus forgotten
Disembodied, I will never be beautiful
Windows, Searching fragments, Arrested above the surface, And if we look back, Snatched away
Remnants, Objects of decay
Simply, perpetually, Echo
From you, Eternity, Effusive threshold, Forlorn foundation, Dripping through fingers, All the things you are
Cuping flame, Gentle blow
I was new enough to poetry to still be proud of my writing and gave it to my mentor for his thoughts. After reading it, he asked me “what part of this poem is grounded in the real?” At that moment, I realized that I had gotten so caught up in creating images that I had forgotten to give the poem any kind of “soul.”
Indeed, all this poem is is a bunch of nebulous images that say nothing of the world. There’s a reason we relate to Lucifer instead of God in Paradise Lost. It’s because Lucifer represents us, “the real.” Despite the fact that he is a celestial being, his actions and emotions are human and that’s why we like him. He’s grounded in the worldly.
Think about it like this: the reason you probably hated those books you read in high school and college is because they didn’t resonate with you (yet?). There’s nothing in those books that speaks to your reality. Take, for instance, The Crucible; it’s written well-enough, but I hate it because it doesn’t say anything about my experience. It doesn’t say anything that I can relate to or care about. You “don’t get” Shakespeare, or Chaucer, or Faulkner not because you’re dumb or you didn’t try hard enough, but because their stories might not speak to your experience as a human being.
It’s also worth noting that age does play a factor in almost every kind of art. That’s why you grow out of certain literature, tv shows, genres of music and people, because they no longer speak for or reflect who you are. The art that remains is the art that continues to say something about the world in our eyes.
#poetry#poet#how to#how to write poetry#understanding poetry#art blog#writing blog#college#instagram poetry#headless artist blog#headlessartistblog#onpoetics#post 1
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A Star is Torn
To: Christa @wild3flow3r
From: Rory @verorax
Warnings: Language, sexual content, mentions of substance abuse and a gunshot.
Summary: Harry Styles is known as the charming, perfect superstar who has not done a single wrong thing in his life. Abigail Quinn is known as the washed away superstar who has been doing tequila shots since she was eleven.
They fell in love, fast and hard. They thought they could make each other 'themselves' again but when you've spent an entire lifetime living a shallow, faux life, you don't really know what you were before the world made you who you are.
A story about tequila, empty homes, being a coward, and a journey down the ladder of success to meet everyone once lost
Or an ou inspired by Lady Gaga’s soul shattering song ‘Shallow’
Author's Note: hi christa! i'm so glad that i wrote this prompt and even more that i wrote this for you!! cheers to our friendship with this 25K story!
November 2022
At twenty eight, Harry Styles found himself sitting in the lobby of a hotel behind the big green chair that was particularly reserved for him in the name of privacy. A cup of black coffee (that he liked with brown sugar and the slightest tint of creamer) was cooling down in front of him, as of yet, lying completely untouched. And a copy of War and Peace remained etched to his eyes despite the fact that he wasn't really paying much of an attention to it.
Most people would sell their souls to live a day in Harry's luxurious Beverly Hills Mansion or the penthouse he had brought on the Sunset Strip last year, but to him they were all mere investments he'd done following the words of his financial advisor. Rather the penthouse he had brought was a gift for his sister, Gemma, on her wedding last summer. Not that it was needed; she barely ever came to LA, mostly loving the land of English too much. Thence Harry still had an extra key of the house just in case he decides to crash.
But that never really happened. Harry Styles wasn't happy being stagnant. His life has been a non stop routine of travelling, often living the same day twice (in different time zones) and then more almost losing an entire day by a few hours.
Travelling meant Harry had lived in Four Seasons more than he had lived in any place that was could be called home.
There was something about sitting in the lobby the way he was right now. He'd done it plenty of times. It allowed him to hear the crying of the toddler in his father's arms behind him or the couple whispering sweet nothings and giggling every once in a while, without worrying about all of the world's attention diverted to him as soon he entered a room (only making him more guilty). It gave him a sense of normality around him, even if he knew he'd never be a part of that normality.
California was the golden state. The first time Harry came to LA, he was still very seventeen, very much of a popboy and very much in One Direction. While rest of the boys found the place cool enough to hang out once in a while, Harry took the liking for it too hard. The fascination with the city of stars lodged itself in his brain, his heart, his soul, in that order. As if it was not enough, it slowly seeped down to the crinkles of his eyes, his dimpled grin and the crumpled papers on his stainless floor forming the subject of his multiple famous tunes. Eventually he realised why almost every celebrity finds LA more endearing than any other land. Sometimes he felt like he came to LA to take a break from reality as if he was on a world detox.
Maybe it was the the warmth of the sun or the lack of gloomy, rain sounds that dominated back in England – giving him an effusively jubilated feeling that maybe life is not as dark as people say when it came to Hollywood. But time made him learn – to get warm you must burn. That is why eleven years later he was still burning yet somehow thought the warmth was worth it.
From : Jeffrey
H!!!! Party tonight remember? At Catch, 7. I'll pick you up. And please get your Chevy from car wash first thing tomorrow morning, Glenne says
From : Harry
Who's party? Say hi to Glenne.
From : Jeffrey
YOUR party, idiot. 125 million remember, Richie Rich?
From : Harry
This is Glenne, I can tell from the tone.
From : Jeffrey
BE THERE BUT.
And yeaaaahhh Glenney here!
Harry chuckled as he kept his phone on his lap and took the coffee that was too cold for his liking now. His net worth had recently reached a whopping 125 million USD – a news that was given to him over the weekend, the first thing as he concluded his third solo tour. His mum was very proud of him, so was his sister, they both being in nearly tears. Both him and his mum had decided to give a good percent of it away on charity, the subject of which was yet to be decided.
But for now his ‘friends’ and tour mates needed a party, a well acclaimed event that his publicist wanted a lot of people to know about.
Harry would be lying if he said that it didn't matter. He had always been an ambitious lad, a perfectionist as Niall and often Liam would term it as. And watching a memento of his success, a new notch on his perfect, splashy, non tainted image as ‘superstar who only keeps on going higher’, it made him proud of his over-working nature. But what made him proud even more of the way his tour ended.
It was the most beautiful show he had ever played despite the fact that he said the same thing after every single show. The final show was in LA as it's always been, the crowd celebrating another Harry Styles Victory and it being attended by most of the people nearest and dearest to him. Of course when he looked back at it, in all those eleven years, there were so many more people he'd left behind than take along. But everytime that feeling started crawling up to him, he tried to push it away. These thoughts only made him guilty of his success. And as much as he tries to convince himself that this is how life is supposed to be, it still stung and each absence left a gaping hole in his existence, never mended by time.
As he finished his coffee, placing the empty cup carefully on the table he knew he had to go back to his room in order to get ready; seven was not long away. And then as he turned around glancing at the once crying toddler who was now sleeping peacefully in his father's arms Harry thought, maybe it was how it's always supposed to be – first it's shallow then deeper. He just didn't know where and when his deeper was going to come.
■■■
LA’s dining scene was a notorious fickle. While Harry usually preferred his Cafe Habana in Malibu or the very paps free zone of Cavatina, when it came to anything in public view it always came down to Catch. Despite Harry and Jeffrey's unlikeliness for the dine-here-drink-here restaurant, Glenne happens to drag them there on several occasions, making sure Harry wears his hair well on those days. She usually says, “Harry it's a pap pic day. I need you in a good shirt and do not forget to brush the untamable disheveled wig of yours.”
Glenne was Jeffrey's wife. Sometimes looking at them, Harry felt ridiculously jealous. He was a man of twenty eight, a hopeless romantic at heart and very unfortunate when it came to his love life. All of his bandmates have had some or the other real relationship in their lives, so did his closest friends after the band and even his very shy often geeky sister. All of this only made him pity on his situation, often making him wonder where he goes wrong when it comes to love.
After a whirlwind of congratulatory hugs and being bubbly, jumping from one group to another, and raising a toast in the name of his entire team, Harry felt his job was done for the night. He had done everything mandatory and the rest left was just chilling. That's when he excused himself from Jeffrey's grip, wanting nothing more than some cool air that could parch down his body temperature, some space to breathe until he finds himself oxygenated enough to go back to his mates.
He usually loves a good party, but what he hates is the aftermath. Once the party is over, everyone leaves. Harry, though would spend hours at the party location, not leaving till the echoes of people from the night slowly dims into oblivion and he can actually hear his heart beating – that's how silent everything becomes. That is when he leaves, trying to find another place so loud that he can't hear his own thoughts.
The rooftop was not a good idea. It had a gorgeous view and that usually meant his model friends and guests were out there taking the best pictures of the night to flaunt brazenly on their Instagram pages. And if Harry happened to be in room, as always, he'll have to pose with them – in groups, solo – all of it sounding nothing but another hour of smiles and cameras to him.
So instead he took the spot beside the door of the rooftop, leaning his back on the wall and closing his eyes in silence. The November breeze was cold on his face, as if opening the pores on his skin that had been closed due to excessive make-up. It was a feel good, the music being lighter than ever and Harry felt that he was deported to a silent room yet with lot of human presence, the body heat around him reminding him that — the exact way he wanted it all to be.
“Tequila?” Harry’s face perked up at someone talking to him. For a moment he gasped at the voice but soon came to a rest when he saw a girl with blonde hair, average height and cocked up eyebrow holding out a tequila glass to him.
“Thank you.” He sighed, taking the drink from her hand, something that made her smile. She was wearing a denim ankle length jeans and an overused washed away Rolling Stones tee. For a moment Harry felt she didn't have an idea of what the party was about. Most females here were kind of dressed up (not the gown dressed up, the fancy dinner dressed up). But what a woman wore was not much of his worry, at all actually.
“You're welcome.” She said crossing her hands over her chest and standing beside him.
Harry was still nursing the tequila when a thought occurred to him. He kind of chuckled speaking, “Is it by any means spiked? I mean I didn't ask for this and you're just coming here and offering me a drink.”
That earned him a laugh. “Ah don't worry, I by no means intend of taking you to bed and stripping you down once you're inebriated.” The blonde shrugged, pushing her hair away. She sounded innocent but the glint of smirk on her face said otherwise. “Just thought the host doesn't look good sans a glass of drink.”
“Very considerate of you… but I'm not buying that. You don't even have a drink yourself.” He suggested cheekily when she looked at him with a bewildered expression.
“Come on, can't a girl be nice?” Harry's expression was still skeptical but he nodded nonetheless. When after a few moments he opened his mouth to speak again, the blonde rolled her eyes giving away the act and taking a hold of his arm. “Okay, listen I know it usually happens later at night but I'll keep it hidden and very quick.”
“Are you by any means asking me for a quickie? I usually chat first, maybe share a drink-”
“A bill. A green note.” She interjected him.
“So you're asking me for money?” Harry still sounded as lost and confused as he did.
This only made the blonde sigh, she stretched on her toes moving closer to Harry so she could whisper into his ear. “A rolled green note? I know you might have it hidden around.”
Realisation hit him, only making his eyes go wide before he awkwardly chuckled. “I..I don't. Sorry, I don't do cocaine.”
“That's a lie, pal.” She scoffed. “It's just me you can let with the nice guy act slip. Nothing wrong in mild spliff.”
It's just me. Harry never understood that line. Maybe because nobody ever said anything like that to him. And nobody did because they were intimidated by him, his name, his fame and things that come along. But now that this girl had said it, he wanted to know what that line actually means.
“You really don't?” She asked moving a hand around his face only getting a guilty shrug. “How do you not? Cocaine is like water for celebrities.”
“I've heard that.” He nodded being reminded the above statement too often. “But I roll away with a weed max, that too very rare.”
“Weed at max? Not even acid.” He shook his head kind of embarrassed at this point the way she was looking at him. In that moment he thought she might rebuke him and leave but when she pouted, still keeping her stand he had started feeling more comfortable. “Damn you. What did I even sacrifice my tequila for?”
He laughed taking his first sip of the tequila. “I am so sorry that you had sacrifice your tequila. But I can promise you that later at night a lot of people can give you a rolled green note.”
“I'm not staying that late.” She announced once she had checked time from her watch. After what looked like a little thought, the blonde added, “And actually thank you that you don't have it. I have a class early morning tomorrow and can't be jammed before that.”
Harry was overwhelmed by this information. It was rare finding people who go to school at such parties. Nonetheless he nodded. “Tequila? If that's not jamming.” He offered her a drink that he had just taken from the tray one of the waiters was carrying. The blonde nodded with a small smile, taking his offer.
“Abigail Quinn.” She brought a hand forward and he gently took it in courtesy.
“Harry Styles.”
Harry said that because it seemed the only right thing to say. Abigail Quinn was no random name. The world knew her as childhood star from a famous Disney sitcom called ‘Bunker Hill’, who's been doing vodka shots since she was eleven. He remembered that he had to meet her somewhere when he was nineteen, very vaguely though. Niall had a huge crush on her, he had stolen Harry's cologne because it apparently ‘attracted woman’, to impress her. She never came to meet them. They were told she got stuck in work hammering Niall's timid heart but the news of her being arrested on the account of drink and drive the next day was not something that could be hidden away from them.
“Where do you study?” Harry questioned in a cautious tone, with everything about Abigail's past it was a rather caution worthy subject.
“UCLA psychology.” She answered without a click as if the answer was lying in the tip of her tongue. Though her further addition came after a good pause. “Well I'm kind of focussing on substance abuse issues.”
Harry tried everything in him to keep his demeanour as normal as it can be, too scared he'd do something that will offend her away. He could only imagine how most people react to everything she does nowadays after the wildest history from her past – all splashed on papers. “So you went back to school?” Harry asked, sounding even to himself somewhat uncomfortable.
“Yeah. My mom said that the only way I'd be allowed to come back in LA is if I go to school.” Abigail shrugged. “It's fine, you can ask if it's weird or not.”
“Sorry,” Harry's voice was like a drawl, genuinely guilty. “No offense but it's already weird being in the public eye. Then school.. I'd never be able to do it.”
“I hope you never have to. At least some of us can stay a stellar superstar.” The last part came as a mutter and Harry could see that Abigail regretting saying it. But it was the first time ever since this conversation began that he had looked at her face properly, brazenly, not peeking a glance but rather studying every feature; not even blinking properly. “What's actually weird is being 27 and an undergrad. I look like a middle aged woman with six children. Even if I talk to guys they act as if I am a madam. ‘Lady Quinn, can you tell me the schedule of tomorrow?’”
Her mocking voice was extremely humorous and Harry didn't mind laughing along. “I think you're being too hard on yourself. You look pretty fit and young.”
“You would say that, you're my age. Ask the kid who nearly drools on my shoulder whenever he's too sleepy in class.” She rolled her eyes before they both had started laughing. What seemed like a laughter for eternity but rather lasted a few minutes, she looked back at him nudging his side. “What about you? How do you feel about your 125 million grands?”
Harry sighed at the question. “It's a great feeling of accomplishment and I'm glad I'll be able to help people. A good share of it is going on charity.”
“Charity? I would've brought a wine cellar with it. Not that I didn't have one.” She told, this time being quite more confident.
“That's a very nice investment. At the end of my next tour, I'll be sure to contact you to get a wine cell.” The sarcasm in his voice earned him a slap on his chest.
There onwards, for the first time ever since his last show ended, Harry felt like himself. It was not much except for a constant bicker, throwing in comments about the weird metallic furniture or mocking the group of social media addicts on the rooftop. But it made something alive in him, something that could expand his jaw in wide smile. They were drinking tequila for the longest time known to man, it might even have been a little more than an hour as they sat on the couch right beside the rooftop door, laughing incessantly.
Due to the flame of the fire that was a part of the decor, Abigail's face was lit up highlighting the golden of her hair or the pale skin and pink chaste lips. It made Harry blush slightly when his eyes lingered on her lips a little too long.
“Abigail why don't you go home already? You have a class.” Harry asked.
“Yes but I can't leave yet.” She shrugged sighing in a slurry tone. “All thanks to you this place is very much pap friendly, sneaking inside was already a task now leaving would be much worse. Especially when there's no one else leaving.”
She probably said that all in fun but it made Harry feel ridiculously guilty. Time and again he had been reminded of how he influenced the lives of people around him but he never knew that he even impacted the life of people outside his life.
He offered her a crooked smile, unsure of what to say next. After contemplating in wry silence, he offered. “How about… I drop you? My driver, I mean. There's a backdoor and we will have our privacy.”
Abigail bit her lip opening and closing her mouth several times. “That's very sweet Harry.. but I'll have to pass. It's your party, you don't have to do so muc-”
“I insist, please,” he cut her off, placing a hand over hers.
Abigail lived in a quiet residential area of Century City. It was close to school and allowed her to commute easily, she told him. The entire ride their conversation was very similar to the one in the restaurant just this one delved more into the recent happenings of their lives, superficially. It was blatant that Abigail enjoyed school more than acting, even at an unconventional age, from the way she talked about it. On the other hand Harry seemed more intrigued by the psychology student beside him.
The car pulled to a halt outside a three storied, little building beside a flower shop. He couldn’t help but examine the area outside to see if there were any photographers, who might have been following them. Abigail got out of the car, keeping her head low. It kind of made Harry feel better that she was accustomed to this life just the way he was.
She turned on her toes to a pulled down window, “Thank you so much for this ride.”
He nodded in generous appreciation, beholding for a little while if he should accompany her to the door. So when Harry got out of the car, following her with his hands in his pockets, Abigail looked at him in a strange yet nervous way.
He couldn't blame her though, she must've been used to men thinking it was their right to let into any woman's house if they had offered to drop her. Those terms were often synonymous in Hollywood.
“Uh.. don't worry. I just thought of dropping you to the door.” He reassured, rubbing his neck uncomfortably.
She winced dramatically, “Bad luck Abigail! First I couldn't spike your drink, now I couldn't seduce you to inside.” Harry laughed very hard at her statement and from the looks of it, Abigail appreciated it. “Not every guy gives me a ride home and goes back from the door. That's sweet, popstar.”
“Not every girl gives me a her tequila in order to get a rolled green note. That's-” He spoke cheekily before being cut off.
“I'm taking the sweet back.”
■ ■ ■
December 2022
Abigail was mates with Glenne. Harry discovered this when Glenne asked him how she was in his car – something he was sure the driver must've told her. What more sufficed was that Jeffrey wasn't very pleased with the situation, even after being reassured by Harry several times that he came back from the doorstep.
They were taking some time off. They usually did post touring but with this album being just on the verge of beginning, Jeffrey knew that it wouldn't be the same time next year that they'll be touring. As much as Harry loved believing that Jeffrey was his mate, he was first a part of his management team. Hence his concern of Abigail Quinn was not just a concern of a friend but one of a manager. Harry somehow hoped he'd let this topic pass off.
A few weeks in, Harry had to move into his Beverly Hills mansion. He was glad that his first night in the house was raided by Jeff Bhasker, Alex Salibian and some other of his music colleagues, it only made him feel more in the buzz, the way he was used to.
He needed coffee and exercise, in that order. His mum often joked that he had technically turned American given how he has traded his family favourite Earl Grey for darker and bitterer caffeine. Sometimes he wished he was a fan of instant coffee, that would have cut him a good slack of work but he was not and that's why when his coffee machine gritted and didn't respond due to lack of usage he knew he had to take some on his way to his Soul Cycling class.
The Soul Cycling class was a twelve minute ride on normal traffic from his place. Taking on his Chevy, he found a spot closest to the door incase a quick escape was necessary before walking into the tiny coffee shop beside the building. The queue this morning was unnecessarily long but Harry was fine as long as people didn't approach him for anything more than a selfie.
“So tequila at night, coffee in morning?”
He recognised that sound quickly. Particularly he recognized the word tequila said in that sound quickly. Tequila had not been the same word since Harry met Abigail.
“Abigail, to what do I owe the honor.” A very warm smile was an instinct as he turned around.
“Who would've known you enjoy a coffee pre-exercise, superstar?”
“Well being absolutely guilty here but these ones are too good to resist.” Harry shrugged. “Better point, I don't get women asking for a rolled note in exchange of their coffees.”
Abigail rolled her eyes at him without any hesitation. “At least I'm not the person who hasn't even taken acid in his thirty years of lifetime.”
“Twenty eight. And I proudly steer clear of them.” Harry bit his lip once, a certain memory coming in his head. He contemplated for moment if they were on the page of him mentioning one of his ex band mates. He hadn't mentioned them to anyone in a long while, as if they were never a part of his life. But then he remembered her words – it's just me and so he went with it. “Once my bandmate, Louis tried a narcotic, only ended up in fits of nosebleeds. A terrible sight, he was only twenty.”
“Poor guy. But he just needed a good tutor. I'm sure he's got used to it by now. Or if not you can always send him to me.” She winked playfully. “I can even tutor you.”
“Tutor for taking narcotics? Thank you so much but I'll have to decline.”
Harry didn't know how joking about drugs had become so normal to him. This is something he's never done. When all of his band mates, Niall included, were trying their firsts in the world of substance, Harry had steered away. He never judged people who did it, he just didn't want everything he had being wasted because of it. Time and again he had promised himself of discipline. He always thought it was only discipline that could make him who he aimed to be – ‘superstar who only keeps on going higher.’ Harry was an ambitious workaholic – another reason as to why he had missed and lost so many things in his life. It wasn't just drugs or it wasn't drugs at all. It was everything and everyone else his farce cry for discipline sent away.
“I never knew you were mates with Glenne.” Harry said putting a hand in his Nike track jacket.
“Glenne Christiaansen?” Abigail earned a nod compelling her to continue. “Yeah we met through a common friend. Crazy girl to say the least.”
“She says the same thing about you.” Harry could tell that Abigail was amused that she was a subject of his conversations with his friends. He was somewhere hoping she wouldn't say it loud, it'll only make him blush. “Says you two haven't talked in a while.”
“I haven't been in LA in a while, otherwise we're pretty good.”
Harry glanced up to place his order as they were next in the queue. He took a simple americano and moved aside for Abigail to take her turn. But when she instead followed him, he was compelled to ask.“What? You won't be taking a coffee?”
“I left my wallet at home.” She wrinkled her nose.
He furrowed his eyebrows together. “Don't be daft; I wouldn’t let you pay anyways.”
"Why not?”
“Because I am a gentleman,” Harry explained. And just before Abigail could argue on the topic of feminism, something he knew she was about to, he added “You can always pay me back.”
Abigail didn't actually go for a coffee. When Harry told her about his mother's personal favorite chai latte at the shop she was adamant to try it.
“How will I pay you back?” Abigail asked Harry for the tenth time when he told her that she had nothing to worry about.
“You've got a point. Given how you don't even have my number.” He cheekily commented knowing where this was going.
“If you wanted my number, Harry all you had to do was ask.” Harry was smiling sheepishly as a pink patch crawled up his neck. “Just kidding, you can have it of you want.”
He reached out for her phone that she had unlocked and slid in his direction. “Why do you have emojis in front of all your contacts rather their surnames?”
“Because they're emotions.” Abigail shrugged. “And I associate people with emotions.”
“What do I get, then?”
Abigail put a tongue to her cheek before slowly forming a grin. She took her phone from his hand, keeping him to only watch her deviously pull his contact, sneaking a glance at him every once in a while. She passed it back to him, earning a loud laugh from Harry as he saw the a tequila shot emoji in front of his name.
Abigail was an avid conversationalist, Harry learnt very quickly. The entire forty five minutes of stationary cycling was highly dominated by Harry and Abigail’s inappropriate amount of laughter and bizarre looks that the rest of the cycling mates were sending their way.
“You're not coming?” Harry asked Abigail when he was just a few steps away from the door after their class was over.
She coughed awkwardly in response “I have to meet a friend. Catch with you later.”
Her words only received a tiny nod and respectable smile from Harry though the roll of her lips told him how it was a lot more to do with the line of paps waiting on the road in front than her meeting a friend.
■ ■ ■
February 2023
When Harry returned to LA a week after his birthday, he again went to a hotel instead of pulling into his Beverly Hills ‘bachelor pad’ as the media would term it. He personally thought he was too old for the term. Most of evenings he was not working, were spent in Abigail’s studio apartment that was too tiny to hold a place for two yet managed to grasp Harry's heart every time he went there.
He would cook her dinner as she managed to get her assignments done, mostly a soft tune playing in the background to fill the voids of silence. He would laugh whenever she complained about her professor being a sleepy moronic prick or her not finding her school supplements in the mess of her apartment, but let her go on anyways.
Fact was that Harry loved listening to her. It was probably the way she talked, with expressions and pressure that managed to intrigue him, making him realise why a good population of the world swooned over her acting skills on silver screen back in his teenage days.
“Do you think social media addiction can be qualified as an addiction?” Abigail inquired, eying Harry's plate of remaining Bolognese pasta after she had finished her own.
“Well given how you put the term addiction there, I think that's already a giveaway.” He chuckled, taking a sip of water directly from the bottle lying between them before snapping her hand away when she was trying to sneak in a bite. “Oi!”
“What? You're using my kitchen, my packet of pasta, my utensils. I deserve an extra bite, at least.” She argued, side-eying him before placing her hands in front of her chest.
“And you're having this because of my cooking skills, so steer clear.” He said proudly but when Abigail pouted at him he couldn't help but divide his leftover in half to share with her.
Grinning widely, she took her bite before continuing, “No, I meant, is it addiction enough to qualify in the realms of a post-graduation subject?”
“You're thinking of post-graduation?” He was inquisitive when he got up from the single couch in the apartment where they both had been sitting, having their dinner.
“Not me, just something I heard in the campus. To be frank it was weird in my opinion.” She followed him to the kitchen as he grabbed an apron from the doorstand, “Hey you can leave the dishes, I can do them tomorrow.”
“Yes just like we could've ordered a chinese takeaway but I cooked for us on this Friday night and didn't even get much of a thank you.” He dotted a boyish grin, one that earned him a little slap.
“Correction, superstar. You cooked for my gifted shirt, because it seriously has more pasta than my stomach.” She chuckled looking up and down the simple, white button up that she had gifted Harry for his birthday few weeks back.
She had gotten it on a sale at The Grove while Harry was in England for his birthday. It wasn't much, not any Gucci or Louis Vuitton that he was used to yet it was his favourite ever since he had received it. That is why Harry had gasped multiple times, even freaking out a little when, while cooking, his shirt was contaminated with a good amount of pasta sauce. Abigail told him it was nothing that a little wash won't run away even promising him that they both can wash it together this Sunday.
“I told you I am sorry.” He shook his head guilty but both of them knew that it was only Abigail pulling his leg.
She asked him to stay over, arguing that it was too late and too cold for Harry to go back to his place. Harry tried putting in his courtesy but truth be told he was elated to spend some more time with her. They took turns for the washroom, him going first before changing into a trouser and loose t-shirt for decency.
When Abigail went to the washroom, she left Harry alone amidst his thoughts and some time to vaguely pass. He spent a little while scroll down his newsfeed but eventually gave up, feeling bored. That's when he stood up, examining the walls of Abigail's house. There were numerous pictures, some of her and her family who lived in Pennsylvania, some from her teenage days. She looked very pretty even back then, he thought. He was still in the midst of going through them when he saw a small jammed drawer. It wasn't hidden on purpose but looked like it was discarded, full of old stuff...
“Those are a couple of awards I got for my sitcom back in day.” Abigail broke his trail of thoughts, her wet hair open only sitting on her shoulder. Opening the drawer and picking a trophy from what seemed a bunch of them, she said, “Outstanding Children's Award for Best Actress. Can you imagine I was children's favourite artist at sixteen? I hated children back at that time.”
She showed him the old, stained trophy laughing at it before going for another and another. But Harry wasn't paying much of an attention to the list of awards in her name. He was paying attention to the way she mocked them, as if she was embarrassed about them.
“Have you thought of going back?” He catechised, out of the blue. “Into acting I meant.”
“Never.” Abigail replied closing away the rack and going towards her bed to set pillows and sheets. “There's a reason why you leave some things. Sometimes the reasons are so strong that they control your life.”
Harry nodded knowingly. He knew that feeling, the only difference in their case being that he still didn't know the reason why he had left so many things. Sighing deeply, he picked up a pillow and a cover from her side, walking subconsciously.
“Where are you going?” She asked him with furrowed brows.
“I was thinking of sleeping in the floor.” He replied earnestly.
She laughed at him.“H, we can share a bed. You're cute and all but don't worry, I can control myself.”
■ ■ ■
April 2023
It was five days in April when Abigail finished her winter quarter finals and the first thing she demanded after stepping into Harry's Chevy, was to take her to his home. By instinct Harry turned in the direction of Century City, not long before she pulled him to a halt, rephrasing it as, “Your home, not mine. The Beverly Hills one.”
What would usually make him feel embarrassed, made Harry anxious. She had clearly stated ‘his’ home in the first place. But home was not what he linked with his Beverly Hills pad; actually home has always been an incognito term for him. Yet how he had subliminally taken the word home synonymous to Abigail's tiny apartment bewildered him.
It was a weird feeling creeping down on him. Attachment, he'd tell Glenne or Gemma whenever they brought it up. But then again, he knew better than anyone else that attachment is one thing that ruins you more than love can. At least love is a term of assurance; attachment is love without clarity. Attachment is so near to love yet so far away; attachment almost love. And that almost ruins you.
The entire car ride, Abigail was talking about her exams and her final year nearing by. And Harry was listening, listening and listening. He wanted to listen to her forever, maybe that would help him forget about the devious feeling hovering over his head. And it did, as always.
As Harry gave Abigail the code to the gate of his mansion he suddenly felt more apprehensive than ever.
This house was supposed to be his, but every night that he had to spent here (whenever he wasn't at Abigail's) he felt lost in his own world. He would walk the halls three times at night, unable to sleep, passing through the massive piano in the hall that he didn't play anymore. He would check out the pool, the foyer, the wine cell, even the barbecue lawn that was never used. There were several nights he would simply jump into the pool, sitting alone in the cold water for hours with his equally cold thoughts. There was nothing here except for overrated, comfortable silence.
And now for the first time Abigail was walking into this place, completely unaware of Harry's thoughts on it.
“Voila!” She sang entering the main hall in anticipation, pulling her hands wide in Vanna White style. “Why does this place echo, H?”
“Maybe because of lack furniture. Ain't that what science says?” He said placing the keys of his car on an underused coffee table and following her into the main hall.
“I think it's because of lack of people.” Abigail countered, running her hands over the fine leather of the main sofa. She placed her backpack on the floor beside the table, taking off her shoes and popping down on the sofa.
“Would you like a tour? Or we can first have some wine from the cell.” Harry asked in a humble tone, standing in front of her tired form.
“You have a wine cell?” Abigail gasped loudly at his statement, standing up at the speed of flash. “Do you know how fucking lucky you are?”
“Right, not lucky for having headline tours, back to back albums and awards, being chosen into One Direction. But lucky to have a wine cell. Nice perception.” He mocked her joyously before walking towards the black, all packed wine cellar which could be mistaken for a textured wall. “Which one?”
“I mean it's your cell, you have every right to chose, superstar with a posh Beverly Hills pad.” She spoke, following him into the massive room starred with wine on all four corners. Abigail tried to remain decent but it was evident how much in awe of the cell she was; and Harry was just as much in awe of her.
“Ladies first. My mum taught me manners, remember?” His voice was low and sexy as he spoke into her ear from behind. When she whipped her head halfway to see him in the vicinity he was, he raised his eyebrows, a hand slipping into her waist. They stood there for a while, not breaking their eye contact in between sporadic breaths and growing pulse. Harry took his time to appreciate every corner of her face – from her eyelashes to the highlight of her nose, back up to her glowing forehead marked by a single blonde hair strand and finally down to her lips. The extremely pink, highly kissable lips he often spent time thinking about.
Abigail breathed audibly, something that was followed by an awkward cough. Moving towards the directory of the cell, she scanned through the book aimlessly under Harry's deep gaze on her. He could see that her cheeks were burning red and she bit and chewed her lips nervously. “This is a gorgeous collection, H. I really get to choose?”
When she looked back at him humming a yes, she thanked him with a wide smile before moving forward to take out the wine she had chosen. It was a red Bordeaux encased in dark glass, one they decided to share directly from the bottle. Abigail proposed to toast on their way because she was extremely excited to see Harry's ‘home’ and all other wonders he had kept hidden from her.
They walked down halls through the floors, admiring the kitchen, the foyer, the paintings that Harry had collected over the years but never looked back at, the lawn with its multiple exquisites, moving to the pool area and back into the interior. Abigail gushed over the walk-in closet that was probably more spacious than her entire apartment and the sick, new television launched by Google with virtual space technology, one that Harry doesn't even remember how to switch on.
Half a bottle later they were back in the living room and Abigail was still swooning over the entire place when her eyes fell on a black and red box in the corner of the room. She stood up and trudged towards the corner of Harry's living room, primarily focussed on the cute Crosley record player that was resting there comfortably.
“You are such an untrustworthy person, Harry. First you have a wine cell then a record player and you were keeping them all from me.” She accused him, hands running over the victrola.
Harry followed her suite in order to comprehend the reason of his indict. Realising her reference, he pulled his hands up, “In all of my defense I cook us dinner at least four times a week and I never pegged you for a record player fan.”
“Really? What did you peg me for?” She asked him with a frown.
“You always play Apple Music, you know the modern world girl. Not vintage.”
“Well then you surely had a few strong wrong inhibitions on me.” She countered, looking over to the drawer with his vinyl collections in awe, “ My mother used to play her vinyl collection everytime she had to make me do my homework after shooting. They kind of soothed me because it was usually past dinner when I'd get time touch my books.”
“You worked very hard, Abby.” He enunciated softly as if it was a fact.
“I guess.” Abigail laughed, shaking her head. “Is it vintage? The record player.”
“Sure is.” Harry confirmed.
“Play me some?” It was more of a statement than a request but Harry was quick to abide. Abigail move aside, giving him enough space to go through his vinyls. Music was Harry's reign, his love, his way of expression, his art and Abigail trusted him with it.
After a protracted period, he brought out a single CD, putting it in the player and turning on the sound.
“‘Love Me Tender’, very appreciable.” Abigail raised her eyebrows in reverence, recognizing the Elvis Presley song as soon as words entered the track.
Harry turned around slowly after putting the record on, his hands behind his back as he took long, slow steps in her direction. “Well what would be more appreciable is if you dance with me? For Sir Presley.”
She stared at his outstretched palm, before laughing and shoving him aside. “Bucker off Styles Boy.”
But Harry was quick to get a hold of her hand, swinging her back, right into his arms. “Come on, don't tell me you only study over music. The best way to live music is to dance on it.” It was probably the wine that had given him all the confidence in the world because Harry was too calm and confident for their faces being only inches apart. Abigail on the other hand, wasn't. “Do you trust me, Abby?” He asked looking straight into her eyes receiving a very weak but sure nod. “Then dance with me.”
This time Abigail took Harry's offered palm willingly, something that brought a huge smile to his face. He parted away from her guiding them towards the hall where they had some empty space before pulling her towards him. Her hands snaked around his shoulders and his went around her waist, pretty smoothly to say the least. It was feel good, rhythmic and slow with Harry leading their dance.
“Okay, this is not as awful as I thought.” Abigail observed slowly with a smile.
“I guess I can be of some use.” Harry said proudly, thumb tapping on her hip.
“So tell me, are there any stories to this?”
“A lot of them – few girlfriends, loads of shags, it often starts with a romantic dance.” Harry winked at her cheekily, gaining a deep glare from her. “Oi, I was kidding Abby.”
He took her hand to swirl her twice before pulling her back into his arms, it had her giggling loudly. “I meant the vinyls, how you have them listed and arranged by genre.”
The cheery smile on his face was replaced my one that was slightly sad. Nonetheless he replied, “The entire collection was my dad’s. Every time I visited him, growing up we would listen to it. He.. he left it for me with a note after...after his death last year.”
“Oh,” Abigail took a moment to absorb the new information, stopping her feet slowly. “I am so sorry Harry.”
“Can we please keep on doing this?” Harry gestured, referring to their dance, he knew well he needed some sort of distraction if he was going to continue. Abigail nodded in response, now their once seemingly romantic dance turned into simple swaying in rhythm. “It was weird, him leaving even though I didn't grew up around him much. First Robin left us a few years back, then dad. That kind of made me more of a man of the family than I already was.”
Abigail nodded understandingly, watching live the glint of sadness in his eyes that she'd always seen somewhere hidden.
“You know dad hated my job.” Harry added with a dry chuckle. “He told me that it would ruin everything, that every celebrity goes down into a deep pithole someday. I had challenged him that my behaviour will never falter down, I'd be clean.”
Abigail had her eyes furrowed deep in concentration as if it was the most important thing she had ever heard. “And that's what you've been trying to live upto all this while?”
“You know this world, Abby. It's pretty easy to slip, ain't it?” He looked down, biting his lips.“I did everything in me to prove it to him but… but he didn't. I couldn't make him proud while he was here,” Harry mumbled a ‘shit’ when he realised a little tear escaping his eye.
“Oi,” Abigail instinctively reached the tear before him, wiping it away.
“I'm sorry if I'm a bit emotional.” He chortled nervously between patchy breathing, “I've never really shown these vinyls to anyone, never said these things loud and I mean just.. fuck.. I'm a mess.”
“It's okay. It's absolutely okay.” She lifted his chin, making him look up at her. Harry had never appreciated her more than this moment itself, her look enough to calm down his nerves.
He was still swaying slightly, Abigail's head resting on his chest as she spoke more words of brightness to him. He wanted this to go on forever, her telling him how everything would be okay through and through and him listening; listening to her for hours, days, maybe even years.
“H, can I ask you something?” Abigail’s voice was timid and raw from not speaking for a long time. “Why did you show it to me when you’ve never shown this to anyone?”
“Because it's just you.”
She lifted her head slowly from Harry's chest and he watched her hair stuck on the button of his shirt. To be frank he never wanted to let that strand of hair off his shirt, maybe that would mean that she'll stay here in his arms, her warmth wiping away the coldness of the floor. And maybe for the first time this warmth won't burn him.
Harry couldn't formulate anything, it was all conveniently spontaneous when his hand cradled her jaw, tilting her head upwards. A slight shiver went down his back when Abigail responded by fisting his shirt tightly.
He could smell peppermint on her breath and hear the low, sporadic breaths that escaped from her parted lips. His lips grazed over her own, the simple hesitation casting a shadow of doubt in his mind. But when her mouth met his, all feelings of uncertainty in his mind vanished immediately.
It wasn’t much, a simple feathery brushing of lips, mouths moving gently over one another and then fell into a rhythm of sorts.
Harry had never anticipated this with Abigail. They've been friends since November when they first met. Most of his endeavours till date were either quick attraction or purposeful dating. But with Abigail it was so different. There was a built up, like a story with layers. Everything here was slow, everything had a meaning and this everything was what he was getting attached to. With Abigail it was first shallow then deeper and Harry was ready to dive in.
A friendship that started with a simple tequila came here to them taking off each other's clothes tonight. And Harry didn't know where any of this would go ahead. But all of the thoughts and consequences could patiently wait for the next day.
■ ■ ■
May 2023
It was one truth that Harry Styles found nothing more endearing than a productive day of songwriting and recording.
And another that Harry Styles was unstoppable, more because he never really wanted to stop than because he geared competition. When he recorded his first album, he had done it in Jamaica and Los Angeles, purposely renting an entire mansion where all of his mates could sit and focus on making his debut album a hit. During his second album, he was more public – through the year he oscillated between LA and London, in between his MET Gala chairmanship, his Gucci campaigns and a fashion line coming out. The third one was marked by casual dates, meaningless relationships and loneliness, the events in his life at that time. But what all of them had common was that they were never about a single person or emotion. Every song had a different story as opposed to the entire album being one story with different chapters. He blamed it on the fact that he had no one to go home to once the recording was over.
This time it was different, very different. Because this time Abigail was a huge part of his album. The tone, the lyrics and the sounds did not have voids anymore. They seemed somewhat full, somewhat content even if it all was just halfway there.
And it did not go unnoticed.
“What was that girl's name, again?” Alex asked resting on the sofa where Harry, Carl, Mitch, and Alex himself were all seated, drinking water after completing a session.
“I think it started with A.” Carl earned a glare from Harry at his words. He knew well that they were just messing around with him.
“Abigail.” Mitch commented before excusing himself to call his fiancé, Sara.
“Abigail. And now I see what all the fuss is about and who you’ve been writing all these songs about,” Alex commented cheekily, before sharing a clap with Carl.
The songs. They were everywhere – from his antique leather journal to scribbled on the corners of waste newspapers. And every night after Abigail went to sleep, Harry would take out his typewriter, trying to phrase out something tangible from his cluttered words on the journal to printed form. It was not much, just diluted words put into grammatically wrong sentences and a mess in summary. Just like what Harry's mind was everytime he thought about the night they first had sex and every after.
It had become a routine. After initial hesitation, Abigail and Harry had eventually given the shadow cast of doubt away and used actions more than words. They would kiss each other every time they were leaving the house (his mansion or her apartment wherever they had spent the night), snog incessantly over tequila and sleep on the same bed often waking up to each other's naked bodies.
But never talk about it.
Nonetheless Harry was happy. Now he was no longer jealous when Mitch would call Sara everytime they finished a session (whenever she wasn't there herself) or when Glenne would surprise Jeffrey over lunch in the studio.
Sure Abigail hasn't done any such thing, but now he had someone to think about. It was strange, really, how Harry transitioned from having no one ‘special’ in his life to having Abigail.
“What about Abigail?” Jeffrey walked inside the record room to a cracking Carl, Alex and Harry. Seeing him, Harry immediately stopped laughing knowing well of his disapproval on this subject.
Carl and Alex took their time pulling Harry's leg in front of Jeffrey – from laughing about Harry smiling like an idiot to his phone sitting on the patio between recording sessions to the excessive crumbled papers in the bin filled with frustrated words. Jeffrey laughed with them as well but on the contrary his laugh sounded very shallow.
So when Alex and Carl excused themselves, leaving only Harry and Jeffrey back in the room, Jeffrey was induced to ask. “So… Abigail. These songs are about her?”
“Jeffrey...” Harry nearly winced, closing his eyes. He felt too old for this conversation.
“No, they're nice, pretty songs. One of your best works, Carl told me.” Jeffrey added with uncomfort dominating his voice.
“Mate, can't you just be happy for me because right now that's exactly what I am.” Harry explained in a very sure tone.
“Harry I know you like that girl but-”
“But what Jeffrey? I like her, ain't that all what matter.” Harry cut him off in a slightly frustrated tone. He had never really felt the need to rebuke Jeffrey, thinking that he understood Harry in the best way.
“She doesn't have a clean past. She's done drugs all life, was highly arrogant at the peak of her career, addiction, rehabs. You've never associated with such people, H.” Jeffrey breathed a moment, “Believe me or not pal, you both are a combination of a catastrophe.”
“Yes but those were things of past. She's a changed person. She goes to school, focuses on course work and exercise, even stays away from media.” Harry defended, clearly unamused on the topic of Abigail's past being brought up.
“Then what is she doing with you?” he finally said, “A person who wants to stay away from media will never be with you.”
■ ■ ■
August 2023
“Harry I'm not coming to Vegas with you.” Abigail announced, trying to take her pen – one which Harry had purposely held high in air – from his grip.
“It's just one weekend and your entire schedule is clear.” He reasoned, pulling the pen higher. “Your last class ends Thursday evening at six. I'm pretty sure you don't have any homework in the first week of school so we can conveniently leave Friday morning at three and coming back your Health Science class is due Monday, two in afternoon. We'll be back and fresh by then.”
Harry had been trying to convince Abigail almost ever since she walked into her apartment to the smell of paninis and heath milkshake. It was only the second day of her term but she was certain holidays had a terrible impact on her circadian rhythm cycle. Especially with Harry being around. It could be easily said that they had somewhat moved in together. Not officially but none of them ever questioned walking into their homes to find the other sprawling on the couch watching television or cooking dinner.
The summer went away quick – something Abigail dreaded a lot. Not only because going back to school sounded hectic but also because Harry had become like a habit to her and school definitely meant she could not spend as much time with him as she did over the summer.
Abigail went home for a week in summer to visit her family. Harry and her had talked of dates so they could mutually come back to LA. But when Abigail came home anticipating that she had to wait another day for Harry to arrive, she was welcomed by Harry himself. Turns out, Harry never really left LA. It was a weird feeling that had crept on him, stopping him. His mum visited him over the weekend but that was it. He was in no mood of leaving the place that smelled lavenders and peppermint due to a certain blonde haired girl he had grown too fond of. And his mum recognised that way better than himself.
As of now Harry was trying to convince Abigail to accompany him to Vegas for the Video Music Awards due coming Sunday.
“Whoa! Is a multi millionaire, VMA performing superstar my personal assistant now?” She bulged her eyes, overwhelmed while going around to her study table to grab a spare pen.
“I've done my homework, thank you my lady.” Harry followed her, adamant on his stand “On a serious note whatever coursework you have, we can do it together in the plane.”
“As tempting as that sounds, Harry I don't think you are literate enough to do my homework.” She turned around, hitting his forehead with a new pen lightly.
“Oh I am.” His voice had an exclamatory tone. “And even if I'm not, I'll do anything. I'll hire you someone to do the coursework or maybe I'll personally meet your professor. I'll do anything. Please come with me, please, please, pretty please.”
When Abigail understood that Harry was not going to give up anytime soon, she sat on her bed defeatedly. “H it's not the coursework. It's…”
“It's the media?” He completed her sentence as the air around them got thicker. “Abby you have an invite yourself. We don't have to go together but I really would love it your were there. It's my first live performance since last year and I've been nominated for four awards. I would love if you’d be there.”
He was now seated beside her, his eyes on her while her was on the floor. “Harry you don't understand this.” She explained, “Every time I'm in front of those cameras I see pictures of me doing those horrid things I did back in time. It makes me feel like I'm still her, the girl who set fire in a rehab to escape the place… what bullshit.”
“Oi, you're not a horrible person.” Harry took her hand in his and she closed her eyes at his touch. “You are the person who would take an injured cat to a vet even if it means you'll miss a test, you are the simple girl who hates color orange and has abnormal amount of love for tequila. Your allergies flare high in March, and out of everyone Pearl is your favourite in Nemo, you-”
“Pearl resembles you, so don't complain.” She frowned though the tiny hint of her smile was enough to make Harry smile himself.
“You are an adorable, amazing human being. Never think otherwise, Abby. It's fine, you don't have to come if you don't want to.” He reassured her before giving her hand a comforting squeeze.
The next hour went with them having food and catching up generally. Harry told her about the funny guardsman he met at his fitting for the award show while Abigail imitated an eighteen year old boy in college asking her out.
After awhile they both split work, with Harry doing the dishes and Abigail setting their bed straight. Harry was in the middle of wiping away the last spoon clean to the stand when a pair of hands slipped under his arms, running over his shirtless torso.
Abigail planted several kisses on his back, slow and soft before he turned around giving her all the attention she deserved. His hand slipped down on her hip and hers encased his shoulders, both of their mouths attached, when he lifted her leg up to his waist, guiding them both back to their bed.
Somewhere in between their lazy and long snog, running hands and aching bodies, Abigail mumbled, “H, I'll come with you.”
Harry pulled apart, brows furrowed in confusion. “What?”
“To Vegas. I'll come with you.”
■■■
The arrangement was crystal clear. Abigail had insisted on staying back at their hotel (that was merely a walk away from the event hall) for the show at least. If it was upto Harry, he would've preferred her as a date or at least as a friend but the fact that she had agreed to come to Vegas solely for him, was enough at the moment. He knew if he asked for anything else, it would just be him pushing his luck.
He was enamoured though, he got an entire weekend to spend in the bounds of a luxury hotel room with first class room service and no phones or impending coursework to disturb them. Except for the few hours of the show and few hours prior for checking the stage and dressing up, Harry had all the time in the world to spend with Abigail.
They arrived early morning on Friday through his private jet. He was lucky that it was awards season and LAS was a busy place, storming with celebrities who all arrived in short spans between each other. There was a special car arranged in the back that would directly take Abigail to the hotel while Harry walked through the main gate, knowing well that he'd be mobbed.
“Steven Nicks? You didn't get a better name?” Abigail laughed when they had first checked into the hotel under a fake name.
Soon after breakfast, the duo explored the hotel for a while, finding different locations to hangout. Abigail was particularly in awe of the spa where she decided to spend a good chunk of her Sunday when Harry would be busy with the stage practice.
Saturday morning was pool time. Harry booked the entire rooftop pool for four hours straight, where he and Abigail could spend hours under water and many more in each other's arms back in the hotel room. Vegas was a sight at night and Harry made sure Abigail got a whiff of it when they took a helicopter ride over the most enlightened city of the States. Abigail might have even shed a few tears at the sight itself.
Despite the show marking Harry's comeback on stage the first time since last November, Sunday was the worst day of the trip according to him. What he had anticipated to last only half day was dragged to the entire. He could barely sit through the countless hours of pre-show interviews and red carpet nonsense coupled with the actual award show itself. The only part where he thoroughly enjoyed was his performance; it made him realise why he had been here, in this world in the first place. It was sterling if Jeffrey and his team were to be believed, Harry Styles showing the world how to truly be a superstar.
Harry was proud of himself, with smiles and dimples prominent but he was equally nervous about what Abigail had to say about his performance. She was watching it live from the television in their hotel room like the rest of the world but her opinion still mattered the most for him.
The after party was a mandatory, though Harry wasn't able to sit through it for long. There were interviews lined up for him soon after he had won three of the four awards he was nominated for and that made him curse deep under his breath. His feet popped up and down restlessly as the interviewer standing in front of the entrance of the after party location asked him one over the other questions.
“So Mr.Styles, are you seeing anyone right now?” The young man inquired turning the direction of the mic towards Harry.
Harry had his jaw slightly clenched as he pulled a fake smile, frustrated enough that he could not be done with this soon and meet Abigail. He was about to dodge the question the way he was trained to when his eyes fell behind the glass door of the entrance. He squinted and blinked, even thought of pinching himself to assure it was real. It indeed was; there stood the blonde girl who had his heart in her hands, behind a bush of pink roses wearing a pink and gold dress that made his breath hitch tight under his chest.
Harry didn't know what possessed him when he said, “I am.” He bit his lip in order to hide the smile growing widely on his face and in the moment of realisation, hugged the interviewer joyously. “Thank you mate, you have no clue what you have done for me.”
Without sparing another glance at him, Harry literally ran inside, taking Abigail in his arms, walking a little way from the glass door and swirling her around. They were lucky for the bunch of roses that their little act of amour was hidden away from the cameras.
“Harry!” She exclaimed, hitting his shoulder.
“I can't believe you are here, you look absolutely stunning babe.” Harry giggled through the widest smile on his face as he put her down on her feet. He could see that she was a bit taken aback by the usage of the term but instead of calling him out on it, she blushed.
Abigail gushed over and over again about his performance, his awards, his awards speech, his suit - actually everything. She had made it to the show with the help of Glenne and Jeffrey, taking a seat somewhere between them, with his team. Harry had his lips between his teeth, the smile too wide, the blush to deep, all the while as she spoke about him and him alone.
He thanked Glenne and Jeffrey the moment he saw them at the party. Jeffrey patted Harry's back with a wink when he hugged him, whispering, “Reach out to me for any boyfriend guidelines.” Harry smiled, nodding to him appreciably. The four of them shared a couple of laughs over drinks. All the while, Harry had his hand on Abigail's lap, rubbing circles in request to return back to their bedroom. Abigail glared at him on occasions, shoving his hand away playfully.
It was a little while later when they both finally got a while to make their escape. Harry's lips were on hers the moment he entered the elevator, and it did not leave until they were on the bed. Her hands had somehow managed to get rid of his blazer and shirt in the time being.
“God, I've been meaning to take that dress off you even since I saw it.” He whispered, searching in all directions for the zipper.
Abigail giggled at his frustrated form and decided to help him by turning aside, “It's a side zip, H.”
And just like that it was gone as well. They were in the hotel bed, under white lights and lavender room freshener with Harry nibbing on the bottom of her lip.
“Need you now, H.” Her voice was soft hiding under the deep moan. Harry didn't needed to be told twice. He closed his eyes, pushing in slowly feeling her inside contract and expand around him. He swallowed every moan that left her throat and intertwined their fingers as their bodies moved in a perfect rhythm they had created for themselves.
Harry fell down once they had reached their climax, rolling over but keeping their fingers intertwined. He watched her closed eyes and sweaty forehead that must've resembled his own, both their chests heaving up and down breathlessly.
That's when it kind of hit him. He needed to say this now or it might become too late. All the faux confidence that he had donned all night disappeared almost immediately as he rested his head on his palm supporting his body by the elbow. “Abigail I want to tell you something.”
She hummed in response, still with closed eyes. It made his heart beat faster.
But with a deep breath, he continued. “Tonight an interviewer asked me if I was seeing someone.” He spoke softly, playing with her her hair. “And I said yes.”
That lead to her opening her eyes, pronto. Her heavy, quick breathing converted into slow, inaudible one as she asked. “Why?”
“I don't know, Abby,” He spoke nervously biting his lips, “I saw you there and I knew I was seeing you, I was seeing you and I wanted to see you forever. You were behind the rose vase and even thinking that you'd seen me perform live, that you had seen me take up that award – it made me feel like there's a star everyone wants to look at but that star was looking only at me. I..I know I'm sounding stupid and mad and you might want to slap me right now-”
Harry's speech was cut off by a loud laugh from Abigail. He watched her laugh with equal amounts of bewilderment and anxiety. “I didn't know I had such a nervous wreck of a boyfriend.”
“I'm not usually this nervous but you do something - wait, did you just call me your boyfriend?”
“I can again, if you'd like it.” She shrugged with a notorious smile.
“I would love it.”
■ ■ ■
December 2023
Harry had locked himself in one of the washrooms of the hotel where his album listening party was supposed to be held. Nerves were high on him as he walked back and forth in the washroom, rambling worst case scenarios that even under the light of Satan, could not occur.
“Harry, slow down.” Glenne said, knocking on the door of the loo and inhaling deeply when all she heard was more rambling.
Anyone could decipher from the bags under his eyes and the shortness of his breath as he talked, that he hadn't slept well, maybe even not at all. The last few weeks were dreaded with the finalising of contracts, one over the other, going through the labels and concluding the order of the songs in the album that Harry had changed at least four times.
He was extremely scared for this album, especially because it was dominated by two of the most important things in his life - his dad (and family) and Abigail. Both the emotions were completely in contrast to each other and arranging the songs in order that it would not only hit best with him but his fans was a task that had Harry up for days.
If the exhaustion from work was not enough, Abigail had her finals going on just in the while. That indicatively meant that she could not mumble soothing words into his ears to calm him down, not give him a comforting massage after a long day of work and he could not tell her about all of his rising anxiety. Harry had no intention of distracting her from the exams, he even told her it would be fine if she couldn't make it to the album listening party. Her third exam was due next day, after all.
Truth be told, he was extremely down that she wasn't here with him tonight. Maybe if she was, at least for some time, some of his thoughts would be calmed down.
“Harry I'm seriously going to call Abigail if you don't open the door now.” Glenne warned Harry from outside.
“She won't pick up the call. Her phone is on silent whenever she studies, so don't bother.” He replied, soon before sitting on the bench, his hands going in his hair in absolute, torturous frustration.
A million thoughts ran through his head back and forth about what everyone would think about his album. Harry always knew that no one else can ever know the actual meaning, story or feelings behind any song no matter how many music journalists sit and over analyse his lyrics and tunes. But it petrified him how well he did or did not put his own thoughts into words, if he even did them justice.
“I heard somebody is being a baby tonight,” Harry's trail of thoughts were broken by a distinct female voice which was not Glenne’s. There was a split second before her speaking and Harry's face breaking into a grin. He rushed towards the door opening it, pulling Abigail inside and closing it - all within a span of two seconds. Taken aback, she squeaked, “Harry, what are you doing?”
“They will force me to go out. I'm not going out Abby.” He answered without a breath, quickly wrapping his hands around her.
“Harry-”
Pulling away, he added nervously, “It's bullshit, the entire album.”
“Harry-”
“I think this hotel is a curse, absolute curse.”
“Harry-”.
Harry interjected her again, “You know that feeling when you're super excited about a new idea and you give your entire self to complete it. You even like it when it's complete, but then after a few months you see it and you know that you could've done so much better… that the songs are dumb and everyone will laugh at you.”
Abigail looked at him with a stern look before pulling a fake smile. “You know what, I think I should be leaving.”
He held her hand stopping her before she could filling turn. “What? Why?”
“I was your muse for the album,” she pointed at herself raising her brows, “but since you think the entire album is dumb, that probably means our feelings for each other's dumb or our relationship is dumb and what else did you say… yeah a laughing stock. So what am I even-”
“It's not dumb.” He interjected her with a serious face, holding her arms to still her. “Babe, how can our feelings for each other be dumb. It's the purest thing I've ever felt, it's the purest thing that has ever existed.”
“Then how can the songs that tell our story, be dumb Harry?” Abigail reasoned, her voice now low and calm. She lifted Harry's chin to make him look up at herself. “Hey, please look at me. I know that I'll always be proud of whatever you do but this.. this is seriously the closest music to my heart, Harry. This is us, it's the one album that may or may not be the biggest hit of the year but it's the biggest hit of my life. It's about us.”
Harry looked at her in awe, eyes twinkling as if he was watching the reflection of a star. “How do you always do this?” He shook his head, chuckling to himself before he pulled her into his arms. They stood there for a while until realisation hit Harry, “Shit, Abby what are you doing here? You have an exam tomorrow. I'll take you home directly, just give me moment-”
“Don't worry,” She stopped him from taking the keys of his car out of his pocket, “ I'm good with the exam, might walk through the party with you.”
Harry's eyes almost doubled in size, a shadow of uncertainty in his voice. “Abby, there are a lot of cameras. It's a public event… public.”
“I'm pretty cool with that.” She reassured him with a squeeze of his hand.
“Are you sure? We don't have to do this now.”He asked her, not at all trying to do anything she wasn't ready for.
“H, they have to find out someday right. Don't worry, I'm ready.”
At her words, Harry's smile grew two folds. This was not something he had thought about much but right now he loved the idea of the world knowing about them. Them, together. Harry and Abigail, Abigail and Harry - as couple.
Abigail's hair brushed Harry's arm as they sat in their respective seats, listening to the songs he had spent last year working on. He was already on the edge, hyper-aware of everyone’s reactions in the room, attempting to analyze whether they were pleased or not.
“Relax, my boy.” Abigail whispered in his ears, intertwining their hands together. She probably had the biggest and proudest smile in the room after his mum and sister.
What Harry didn't know was that he wasn't in need of comforting squeezes and uplifting words. She was.
■ ■ ■
January 2024 to July 2024
Harry Styles blinded in love!
This new year did not start on a great note. Looks like it's going downhill from there. Sources confirmed that Harry Styles has been swiped off his feet by troubled, former actress Abigail Quinn who you might remember from Disney's super hit sitcom Bunker Hill somewhat a decade ago.
The couple first photographed in early 2023, had as of yet kept their amour under wraps, but looks like they are just ready to go public now.
“He is smittened by her,” a close friend said. “It's completely different watching Harry play a dotting boyfriend but we were quite sure this one would be serious. She is a huge part of the album, if not whole.”
Quinn made an official appearance alongside Styles on his album launch party end of December last year where she was seen posing for the cameras first time since 2019.
With Styles latest record speaking bounds of being in heart-wrenching love, it's safe to say that rockstar is off the market, this time for a long while. Tell us below in our comment section, which song did you love the most from his latest album.
■■■
Popstar Harry Styles buys a new Los Angeles mansion in a family friendly neighbourhood
Riding off the success of his latest album, our favourite popstar recently splashed a whopping $29.6 million on a Bel-Air Mansion in the neighbourhood of David Beckham and Beyonce.
The six bedroom three bath household was formerly resided by musician The Weekend. As of yet it is believed to be undergoing a makeover under LA based famous interior designer, Vaughn Turing.
“Abigail is in direct contact with the designer,” a source referred, “Harry wants the house to seem exactly like a home Abigail wishes to have. All he is doing his signing cheques while she is leading the planning of their future house along with Anne and Gemma.”
“He wants a family friendly neighbourhood. He's always been close with the Beckhams and dreams to have a family like them with Abigail,” another source added.
■■■
Harry Styles and his girl Abigail Quinn make their MET Gala debut in New York City!
No year is complete without seeing Harry Styles on the red carpet of MET Gala. The handsome hunk has been co-chairing the event ever since his debut back in 2019 and this year is no different.
Or maybe it is. Styles, for a first time attended the MET Gala in hand with girlfriend Abigail Quinn. The pair were unabashedly displaying their affection all through the event. Both matched each other's outfit in a modern fairytale-esque piece by Ralph Lauren, seemingly looking like a pair made in heavens.
Prior to this, they attended Audi's pre-gala party in New York together before they were spotted dining in The Rainbow Room within the Rockefeller Centre.
Being etched to each other makes sense though, since Harry would be hitting the road with his fourth solo tour in beginning June and his lady love graduates last week in May. So maybe the in-love duo are just trying to makeup for all the time they are about to lose.
■■■
Is Abigail Quinn trying to get back to acting by using Styles?
Uh-oh! Former actress Abigail Quinn, better known today as superstar Harry Styles’ girlfriend might be using her beau to get back into acting.
As per reports, Quinn who recently graduated from UCLA as a psychology major has refused a few job offers, instead choosing to travel with her beau for his tour.
She has been spotted at a lot of industry affairs ever since she publicly started dating Styles back in December last year. A few directors maybe interested in working with her, now that being with Styles has cleared her act a bit.
Does that mean Abigail is using her relationship for professional purposes? We don't know but what we know is that Harry doesn't mind one bit.
■■■
At this rate, can Harry Styles go bankrupt?
Harry Styles donated a total of $2.2 million in just the first half 2024 to various non profit organizations. But if you think that's a huge money, wait till you hear the next.
This year Styles seems to be very reckless about his bank account. Beginning from splashing almost $30 million on his and his girlfriend’s current residence, to various exotic vacations around the world, Harry has been throwing in an unexplainable sum of money.
If LA famous investment banker Oliver Logan is to be believed, Styles could've got the mansion for less than $23 million had he waited for a few months. But apparently he wanted the place as soon as possible and ended up paying a lot more than the market price.
A lot of people have also mentioned this could be Quinn, Styles’ girlfriend's influence on him, who herself is known for being bankrupt in the past.
“It is slightly disturbing how enamoured Harry is with her,” an insider close to Styles’ team told us. “He seems like being at the top of the world nowadays. As if following the ‘only live once’ motto.”
If sources are believed, Styles’ tour was supposed to start end of May but he purposely shifted the dates so that he could see attend his girlfriend's graduation. The entire shift almost costing his team $1.3 million.
With Styles adamant to stay a charity god, and a boyfriend who spoils his girl, can we assume that the guy might be drilling a hole to bankruptcy soon, just like his girlfriend?
■■■
Couple of the Year alert: Harry Styles and Abigail Quinn were the most publicly in demand couple this summer
It's only a little over half of 2024 gone but we already know our ‘couple of the year.’
The pair have been dating for almost half an year under public scrutiny and unlike rest of Styles’ relationship, this is going strong as ever. From soul cycling in Beverly Hills, taking trips to the beach, shopping at Rodeo – we've seen the couple do all that a typical celebrity couple would do in LA.
Residing amongst Los Angeles’ elite, Styles and Quinn are the youngest couple in their neighbourhood and as per an interview of Victoria Beckham, they are the most in love couple she has ever seen. Not to forget, very respectful, ideal neighbours.
And with Abigail featuring on Harry's Gucci campaign as their first couple photoshoot, it's safe to say Harry Styles and Abigail Quinn are taking the world by storm.
■ ■ ■
August 2024
Harry loved a lot of things about his Bel-Air Mansion. The perfect sunshine invading his room every morning at the perfect hour, the white curtains flying under the wind, the green sight of the entire city that made him feel that he indeed was at the top of the world; but the thing he loved the most about his Bel-Air Mansion was the woman in his bed.
She had recently got back to the bed, clad in his ‘Treat People With Kindness’ shirt with two cups – one of chai latte and the other black coffee. It was early morning and Harry smiled rubbing his eyes. He doesn't even remember how Abigail slowly fell in love with chai latte so much that she made sure to wake up earlier than him to make her own cup. She hated it when Harry made her the chai. The only other person she would accept it from was Anne, Harry's mother.
Harry's usual dark circles had vanished just like the darkness in his life. He no longer woke up every morning still feeling exhausted beyond his life. Rather there were a lot of moments in the day he would agree with gratitude that he was well rested. And all of it's credit went to one woman.
“Good morning,” he mumbled in his ever so raspy voice as she bend down to press her lips against his chaste ones.
“Good morning, superstar. Did you sleep well?” Abigail asked, her entire weight on his body as she put her chin on his chest.
“Do you ever let me sleep well, babe?” His smile was still very persistent.
At his statement, Abigail squinted her eyes before lowering down his body. Slowly, very slowly. It was torture for Harry to say the least. He was only in his Calvin Klein boxers, the one he had changed into after having sex last night because sleeping clean is something Abigail insists on.
It was maddening to Harry, how even after an year together, he was still extremely nervous when it came to Abigail. She was his, she was his. He knew that yet couldn't believe that.
Her face was somewhere near his navel when he chuckled nervously, “It's okay babe. You don't have to.”
Abigail rolled her eyes, hitting his side with a couple of envelopes that lied beside. “I was only getting these. Why? What did you think?” When she rose her eyebrows all in faux innocence, Harry rolled his eyes still found himself chuckling along. Getting up from above him, Abigail reached for the other side of the bed, popping down the mail envelopes in front of her. “There's an invite to a charity ball by Disney for the 23rd, its entire hamper waits downstairs for you. There is a thank you note from Gucci headquarters for our campaign. And there is a...”
Harry was happily taking a sip from his coffee listening to the mails he had received when Abigail suddenly stopped, prompting Harry to look up. “There is a what, Abby?” He didn't receive much of an answer instead a frown and her just rolling her lips. “Here show it to me.”
It was a bank notice.
Harry sighed opening the envelope and reading the context before throwing it on a drawer on his bedside like the many others stocked up there. When he turned around he saw Abigail looking at him with an anticipated, concerned expression.
“Oi, it's nothing.” He pulled her onto his chest and she softly kept her head there. “They want me at the bank. I'm sure Smithers only wants to discuss investments regarding the tour.”
“Please don't lie to me H,” Abigail said. “I told you we don't need these extravagant purchases and vacations. You spent $32 million at this place Harry. That was a terrible bargain.”
“Abby what are you saying. It's our home. For me this is the only one that hasn't felt entirely empty.”
Abigail shut her eyes at his words. They were absolutely true, she knew that. “I know babe. I'm just saying… we could've avoided the vacations. I mean Bali, Miami, Australia, Valentines day, my birthday, the lawsuit against paparazzi – it was all too much H.”
Harry chuckled at her tone, well aware that she was blaming herself for this entire situation. “It's nothing, darling. The lawsuit was for your safety. I don't want them following you everytime you're out. Trust me we don't have financial issues to take care of. I'll just get the meeting done quick.”
“I'll come with you,” Abigail insisted as Harry got up to the wardrobe, grabbing a towel.
“No, no need I'll take care of it and Jeffrey will be there as well. Nothing to worry about,” Harry shook his head getting out of his briefs as he held a hand out to Abigail. She took it willingly, her own thumb rubbing her man's wrist. “As I bathe please pick me a good dress shirt and while I'm gone you can pack our bags. We leave for New York tomorrow morning, remember?”
Harry watched Abigail bite her lip hardly for a little moment before she broke into a grin and pressed a kiss on his lips in a gesture of agreement. But for some unknown reason, Harry felt the grin was highly undermotivated.
■■■
The negativity he felt was bound to happen. It was something that Harry felt whenever he had to go through these meetings with his financial adviser, lawyer, managers and a group of bank officials. What was supposed to be an hour of discussion turned around four hours of it, more because Harry could not see eye to eye with any of these men who claimed that they were trying to help him.
Most of the time, they listed his newly developed, heavy ‘spending more than earning’ habit with examples of his recent splurges – most of which were on Abigail. Harry could not even imagine cutting any of those. The mansion, the lawsuit, the occasions – according to him it was all necessity rather than luxury.
The lawsuit itself caused him a big chunk of money but Harry was adamant not to sacrifice on Abigail's safety. As much as he loved posing in front of the camera and proudly showing off his girl to the world, he liked doing it on professional platforms – events, galas, photoshoots. Not when they both were walking down the street to grab coffee, and especially not when she was walking alone.
“I'm so fucking exhausted, Jeffrey.” Harry exhaled running his hands over his face. He sat with Jeffrey in the cafe at the bank, their coffees and lunch placed in front of them.
“Why the hell are you exhausted? You have done nothing but throw money and listen about it.” Jeffrey said through his deep frown.
“Not you as well, mate.” Harry licked his lip reaching for the silver fork to cut his food. “You're my friend.”
“And that's exactly why I am telling you this.” Jeffrey reprimanded, hitting their table with his fist in a clear sign of pique. “Right now you're in a bubble of love but one day that bubble would burst and you'll see nothing will stay pretty in pink.”
Harry watched his friend in a vexed manner, too sure of his own tone. “I don't care if the bubble bursts. I'll still have her. It's her, us I'm spending my money on and I'm sorry if I don't see how her safety is bargainable.”
“Her safety is not bargainable, H.” Jeffrey replied exasperatedly, “ I care about Abby as well. I'm talking about the vacations. You've spend the entire summer abroad, taking flights every other day.”
“Let me live, Jeffrey.” Harry rolled his eyes, he was too tired from everyone telling him the same thing over again. “I worked so hard on the album, I'm working my arse off on the tour. Let me spoil my girl, she deserves an extravagant life. Don't tell me if you earned that much, you won't be doing the same for Glenne and Thea.”
Jeffrey winced audible at Harry's choice of words, “Even if your extravagant life is on debt?” Jeffrey spoke this time in a lower tone than earlier. “$2.2 million on charity, seriously?”
“Don't talk about charity.” Harry said, “You know I've always done it, it gives me a sense of purpose.”
“It gives you a fucking reputation, Styles.” Jeffrey replied in a dark chuckle. “Till one moment it was because you wanted to help but right now it's nearly mandatory. As if you want to outdo your own amount, you don't even give a damn for the cause. Fuck pal, you don't get it you're hurting yourself.”
“Shouldn't you be pleased?” Harry narrowed his eyes at Jeffrey, “I am the most charitable musician right now, I have a girlfriend, a stable home, perfect life. And the world knows it, they know it and they are jealous. Maybe you're too because I'm not longer a pathetic, sad pop star you can save, Jeffrey. I am happy.”
Harry had always been perfect professionally for the world. For once he was perfect personally as well, for the world. Harry Styles was at the top of the world, it was a different kind of high he was experiencing and by far, he had loved it.
Jeffrey kept his eyes on the untouched food on his side for a little too long. He tried cutting his food but instead only ended up playing with with silverware all the while as Harry took bites over bites of his food. “I care about you more than this faux rep, H.” He let out a deep sigh, “But I suppose we we have very different working styles now.”
That caught Harry's attention and he suddenly stopped eating. “What.. what do you mean?”
“I quit.” Jeffrey announced raising his hands up in air. “I.. I can't deal with you any longer. You're not the guy I signed up for, the guy who used to be private. You're just another bag of celebrity bullshitery – the one you were so determined not to be.”
“I'm not. I'm fucking not.” Harry rebuked too quickly and too loudly. “I'm tired of hiding everything. For years I've seen you and Glenne in public, holding each other's hands, proudly telling the world you both are in love. I was jealous...I was fucking jealous that I have to keep my single label open so that my fan base is not hurt. And whenever anything I did went public the media ruined it.”
Jeffrey chuckled shaking his head. “What tells you they won't ruin it this time?” With that he got up from his seat, leaving his food untouched and his once best friend bewildered. “I might not have as much money as you but I've paid my share of bill. I hope you get a better manager, H. Good luck.”
Jeffrey left after that but Harry could only hear the words he said before leaving – ‘What tells you they won't ruin it this time?’ He shook his head, throwing away the thoughts and continuously telling himself that this is different, this is love and this is Abigail. No fucking one would ruin it.
What Harry didn't know was playing with fire and not touching it was practically an impossible task that even knew the man who could conquer the world, couldn't do.
■■■
“Thank you, Abby,” Harry said taking the champagne filled flute goblet from Abigail's hand before patting the space beside him. She took it, instantly putting her head on his chest. He could tell that she was tired, so was he, both of them trying to find solace in each other. They sat there, on a faun leather seat of Harry's private jet, their breathing synchronised and so were their thoughts.
“I am sorry about Jeffrey.” Abigail mumbled softly.
“No, I am sorry babe. I am so fucking sorry.” Harry let out in an exhausted tone. “We.. we had this argument and he doesn't see it. He's one of my best mates, I didn't want to let him go. But why is it always me who should understand, with him, with the boys, with dad. Why can't they understand?”
“Hey, hey. It's fine.” Abigail got up from his chest to rub his arms in an attempt to calm him down. “You don't have to understand anything, Harry. You don't have to keep it so hardcore. You can talk about your dad with me, if you want to. Especially today.”
It was his father's birthday. It would've been his 67th birthday had he been alive. That is why today was no less than a day of mourning for Harry.
“I know you're really tired and probably don't want to be bored-”
“Don't do that.” Abigail stopped him, her hand lifting to his shoulder. “Harry, I’m here to listen to you for as long as you want me to, about anything.”
Harry watched her in awe. Sometimes it filled his eyes how lucky he had gotten to have this woman by him. There and then he knew that as long as he had her, he was ready to take all the daggers thrown at him; by others or by himself. “Okay.”
So for the next hour their conversation centred around Desmond Styles and the life he lived. Harry left out no details about his father, even marking the smallest bits that could easily go unnoticed by people. There were stories all scattered before the band, during and after. There were a lot of open ended points that Abigail wanted to question; like the time his dad called him out after a fight with Zayn, the time he went straight to his father's house disappearing when the there was a drug racquet in the band's hotel, but she decided against it, giving him his own time. Abigail could figure out that Harry felt a plethora of things about his father – anger, disappointment, love, resentment but the one he felt strongest was guilt. But she also knew that guilt was a significant part of who Harry Styles was and with every passing year, the amount of people he felt that emotion towards increased. After a while the chat lingered from Harry’s family and past and moved onto the tour and his plans of the rest of the year.
“Don’t worry. Glenne told me he is a bit angry right now but he'll be fine.” Abigail caressed him but a cloud of anxiety hovered over herself. “Soooo… this afternoon I went with Glenne for Thea's check up.”
“Yeah right. I completely forgot about that. How's her fever?” Harry perked his eyebrows, asking about his goddaughter and Jeffrey's biological one, in concerned tone.
“She's okay, just a common cold. They said it will be better in a few days. But Harry I… I had a checkup for myself.” She rolled her lips in after saying that.
“Y-You?” His eyes were wide, her words more the cause of perturbation to Harry. “What happened? Are you not feeling well? We can call off the show, I'll take you to the best doctors as soon as we land. Tell me-”
“I'm fine.” Abigail announced before sighing deeply. “Harry I'm… I'm pregnant.”
And just like the entire hole of guilt Harry felt towards his father vanished. He had spent last three years wondering why, despite being on his best behaviour always, he could not convince his father that this life would not ruin him. Maybe he was at fault somewhere or maybe his father was, for not supporting his son. But all of that vanished the moment he heard this news. This was his chance, his chance of rectifying all of his mistakes, all of his father's mistakes.
“Harry?” Abigail shook him out of his thoughts.
“Can you pinch me?” She rolled her eyes pinching him just hard enough. Harry let out a wince before tears swelled up in his eyes, so fast he didn't know how to control them. “I love you, I love us… fuck I love… thank you so, so much babe.”
He pulled her into him, wrapping his arms around her before showering her face with kisses. Usually he would have her pressed against himself in the closest hug known to man, but today his hands were slow and cautious. Abigail pulled away from him with a frown. “Oi this is the hug I get?”
“I don't want to crush our baby.” He remarked slyly.
“Jesus, you're an ass.”
■■■
It was impossible to miss Abigail in the crowd. Even in the sea of fans, the silk white fabric of her dress stood out. She sat with her family, sandwiched between her parents, beside her brother and his fiancè. Harry felt extremely lucky that her parents took the liberty of time to make a quick trip for his concert before they returned back to Pennsylvania.
There were thousands of people crammed into Madison Square Garden, fans of varying age groups, some with him since his One Direction days others finding his solo career their new favourite thing about pop music. Harry doesn't remember a single tour he had completed without playing in The Garden, each time the entire hall making him feel at home.
But this time it was different. This time his real home was here, amongst the attendees and now that a part of his own lived and breathed in her, Harry wasn't sure what else heaven sounded like.
His attention was on each part of the crowd, making sure his fans had the time of their lives as long as they were in this room, but every time his eyes fell on Abigail it made him grin so wide that his jaw ached. There was a certain patch of the show he saw she wasn't in her assigned location but when she returned back he assumed she must've gone to the loo.
She swayed with the crowd, whistling every once in a while. They were seated far back in relation to the stage, so Harry imagined the proud smile Abigail sported. It was the same one she showed off backstage when Harry was greeting his fans after the show was over.
He invited her family with his tour mates to their hotel lobby for drinks and dinner. Abigail's brother and his fiancè chatted with Harry while her mother praised his performance to no ends. Abigail was equally celebratory before she urged to return to their room. Harry assured her he will be joining her shortly.
Harry sent Abigail's family off with leftovers, hugging each of them before their flights back to their respective homes. He didn't bother as much to see off his mates, instead making his way up towards his hotel room, the urge to finally talk to the love of his life making him smile like an idiot in the elevator.
“Abby, Abby, Abby. You have no clue how much-” He started saying but stopped abruptly when he saw her bent down over drawer closet with a vial in her hand.
Abigail looked like she’d been caught trying to steal something, but rather she addressed it completely innocently.
“Uh, hi ” She blurted, abruptly closing the drawer behind her and taking a step towards him. “I didn't see you there.”
“All good, love?” Harry's voice cracked asking her this. He didn’t know why he felt like he was the guilty party here. She had been clean for years and as far as Harry remembered not once had she touched a drug in their entire year of relationship. Especially not now that she had a baby in her.
“Yeah, just a few medicines the doctor gave me. Pregnancy stuff.” She shrugged.
He believed her, completely relieved. Maybe the logical part of him didn't want to given how he had been the one in contact with their doctor. But because of the pious fact that she would never lie to him and his belief that she would never want to harm their baby, Harry believed her, he believe her, he believed her, he believed her.
“But I'm glad you're back.” Abigail said, walking towards him.
“Me toooooo.” He drawled, hugging Abigail from behind in the entire process showering her with limitless kisses. “So tell me how are both of my babies?”
She giggled in his arms, her blush exceeding even though she had wiped away her makeup. “They are very happy and very proud of Daddy.”
“Of Daddy?” He pulled apart to look at her with a prominence of a smirk and haughtiness.
“You're ridiculous,” she said rolling her eyes. “But since I love you here's an offer. I'm in shower, you can feel free to join anytime.”
“I'll join you in a while.” Harry smiled pressing a lingered peck on her cheek. For a solid minute after she left, he contemplated checking the vial label but finally shook his head smiling in thought of how his girl would never lie to him. He was stupid to even think that, of all, at this point would she lure back into drugs.
He had to change out of his tour suit before giving in to any kind of cruel desperations. That was an expensive item made exclusively for his tour and as many others, this wasn't his in the least sense of words.
Harry retreated to the bed, carefully taking off his shoes and watch, placing them on his bedside. His blazer and button up followed next. When he was in middle of pulling the black fabric of his shirt over his head still humming to the tunes of one his closing songs, his phone buzzed. Without even sparing a glance he answered it, putting it on speaker.
“Hello,” He sang through the speaker of his phone. Anyone on the opposite end would be sure to figure out his extremely bewitched mien.
But what followed next put his brain in a kind of turmoil he hadn't ever experienced. The weight of the voice on the opposite end overburdened his soul, making him feel as if even the sturdiest anchor in the sea could not prevent the drowning he was feeling. This drowning throwing him into a past full of stormy, tumultuous shadows, from where he has continuously tried escaping but has still not managed to succeed.
He wasn't sure if it was the words, the voice or both. Or it was when the person called him ‘mate’ after all these years. But he knew he was blanking. Harry could not hear what the person at the other end was saying, but he could only hear the echo of the words that person said the last time they had met. Over and over again.
Fuck you, Harry. Fuck you, Harry. Fuck you, Harry.
Contemplation wasn't even an option, he had to escape this. So the first thing he did was press the red sign blinking on his phone so hard, he might have broken tiny little blood vessels underneath his skin.
It petrified him how fast his heart was beating. He had no clue that this pace was even medically possible for the human body to endure. He wondered what if the walls of his arteries were not strong enough to hold the amount of blood rushing through him and they would burst, bathing his organs in the plasma, too demented to find their own place – the place they had held to for so long. Just like him.
Harry didn't know how long he sat there, on his bedside with his head down in his knees and the bubble of his perfect world struck by a meteor of his own skeleton.
“H, you didn't have to-” Abigail closed off the door behind her, but stopped mid sentence when her eyes fell Harry's timid frame. It was either shock or fear that stood on her face because as opposed to a concerned one, she had a terrified tone. “W-What happened, babe? Are you okay?”
“Yes.” He was too frantic, speaking robotically. “Absolutely. I am perfectly okay.. look at me… I'm completely okay..”
Abigail stood there for a moment clearly trying to comprehend what could drive Harry to the extend she hasn't seen him in almost two years of knowing him.“Okay,” She added with caution in her voice before moving on to change the subject. “So who was it? On the phone?”
“No one. No one important. No one at all.” He replied a little too quickly, his head knowing only two phases – turbulence or blankness.
“Are you sure? It looked like the person knew you and was in need of help-”
“Yes I'm sure. It was no one.” His reply was too stern and too certain to be true.
“Harry is everything-”
He didn't want her to complete that. He didn't want to talk about anything regarding the phone call. So he changed the subject. “Do you want to watch a movie? I was thinking we could watch a romcom.”
Abigail watched him for a moment before nodding defeatedly. “Yeah. Yeah.”
The following hour Harry and Abigail spent cuddled in their suite bed, under dim yellow lights watching Love Actually. Despite this being one of Harry's all time favourite movies, he could not concentrate one bit. He didn't laugh in the moments he usually does, he didn't smile in awe at the mention of his favourite line, he didn't even rub circles on Abigail's arm. He simply sat there like statue. Any signs of him being alive were blinking and breathing – just the mandatory.
Abigail wasn't concentrating much either, her eyes more on her boyfriend than the television in front. She did try to make a little comment here and there but never really received a reply from Harry. Not even a hum. After a while, she switched over to catch over the news channels. It was the regular as well, the weather, the gossip from who's dating who that both of them were too old hear. It was only one certain live report that caught their attention.
Harry's attention.
Everything after happened in slow motion and all Harry could do was watch in horror as the video of his once-closest friend taking a bullet shot surfaced on the screen in front of him. Abigail suddenly sat up from her position, watching just in as much of a shock, glancing back at Harry. But Harry, he didn't move, he couldn't move. Anything that could move were the little droplets of tears from the corner of his eyes.
“Covering live outside Zayn Malik and Gigi Hadid's New York apartment. Ex-popstar Zayn Malik has been shot on his chest by an invader who reportedly held his wife, supermodel Gigi Hadid and four years old son Eric Malik hostage in their Upper West Side house for nearly two hours.” Harry watched as the reporter on screen spoke, “Malik was supposedly visiting a friend in Queens when the invader, identified as an ex fan of his former band, One Direction called him in demand of a ransom. As per reports he, a serial criminal, was not keen on the money but blamed Malik for the dispersion of the band and was seeking revenge. Ex-popstar Zayn Malik has completely given up on his music career after the failure of his third album in 2020, ever since taking care of his son's upbringing. What do you think Malik's ex band mates would like to say about this? Harry Styles, the most successful member of the band is indeed in New York City for his fourth solo tour. Malik has been immediately admitted to New York Presbyterian Hospital and fans are requested to respect privacy.”
“Harry,” Abigail snapped at Harry. He suddenly gasped as if he was breathing after a century worth of time. Guilt surfaced his body, rising higher and higher until it practically lodged itself in his throat. Harry felt nauseous all over again, his stomach tying itself into knots, twisting and turning until he cracked. “Harry we need to go.” Abigail repeated in commanding tone. She was already in front of their half packed luggage hunting a decent piece of clothing for herself and him, one that could be worn in a hospital.
“A-A-Abby.” He mumbled through broken words still catching his breath. “Maybe we don't.” Harry licked his lips again and again, reaching for her hand to stop looking through the bag all the while as his own body shaked tremendously. “H-he didn't need me. He doesn't need me. He's been living in this city for years, he has so many people here to call, to help him. I don't even know his son, fuck I don't even know his wife. Why would he need me? Why would he call me? I'm the last person he would ever like to see, he hates me. He-”
The guilt surfaced again in him, terrifyingly clutching his lungs. Harry was rambling, probably not even listening to himself but Abigail could. And so the one thing she did there and then was slap him. Hard enough to snap him into reality.
“Are you even listening to yourself?” She screamed, shaking Harry by his arms before closing her eyes in at attempt to calm herself down. “Harry I have no fucking clue what went down with you two. But if you have a single decent bone in your body, change your clothes now. I'm driving.”
■■■
The first thing Harry heard as he reached the VIP floor of the hospital was the crying of a little boy. It very much resembled his own when his dad left the house for the first time after his divorce. Shockingly it also resembled his silent crying in the washroom of his childhood home in Holmes Chapel after the burial of his father's body, even though at that time he was a man of twenty seven.
The boy had Zayn's features. The shiny dark hair, the exact almond shaped eyes, and same sleeping posture. Gigi, his mother had him cradled in her arms telling him how his father is okay but she herself could not help the excessive black tears flowing from her eyes. It was a slow process, him going to sleep but as soon as he did, Gigi couldn't help but ball her eyes out with her son clutched close to her chest.
Harry came back to reality when a hand slipped down his own. He looked at the two hands joined and then up at Abigail giving him a tiny smile of encouragement. She raised her brows for consent to move further, one that Harry replied to with a little nod.
“Gigi?” Abigail spoke cautiously.
It took Gigi a moment to realise she was being addressed and another to realise who was addressing her. Her expression moved from glum to fury in the same synchronicity. “What the fuck are you doing here?” She growled placing her child on the seat beside her and getting up.
“Gigi-” Abigail attempted to reason, being the only one with a stable head in the moment but she was soon cut off.
“I'm sorry.” Harry abruptly said not even knowing what he was sorry for.
“Sorry? What all are you sorry for?” Gigi screamed at the top of her voice. “Actually it's not you, it's Zayn. He is the stupid one in this entire situation that he called you out of everyone to help us out. You've bailed him so many times in the past, he should've known that you'll fucking cut his call. Cut. Even after knowing what was going on and here you are showing up now. My son could've died, Zayn could've… can..can fucking die.” Her tears were endless, so was Harry's guilt and what else was endless was Abigail's shock. “And it's all because of you, Harry Styles. All because of you. I hate you, he hates you… we all hate you. You don't understand this now but the day you'll have a child and will be on the brink of losing it, you'll know how he felt when he called you and you cut his call.”
Before she even knew it, Gigi was on the floor in front of Harry's feet and the only thing audible was her cries, one after the other. Abigail knelt down to hug the blonde woman in front of her, giving her a shoulder but her own eyes never left her guilt stricken boyfriend.
Harry could not stay there anymore. He had never felt more real and vulnerable in his life as if he was being stripped naked, this time not only of his clothes but his soul. So he left, straight for the empty staircase behind a hospital door.
Abigail came there after almost an hour, the entire time Harry feeling like a child who has recently failed in a test and was waiting outside as his parent read his horrible report card.
“I didn't know. I didn't even hear him, I couldn't. He called me for first time after eight years. What did you expect me to do?” Harry spoke robotically not even looking her in the eye. “I should be leaving.”
“Harry, stop.” Abigail held his hand, stopping him in his tracks.
“You heard her, he hates me. And if anything else I hate him too.” He had his lips bitten too hard after saying the last words.
“How much do you hate him?” It was more of rhetorical question Abigail had asked him, her brows together in frustration. “You hate him enough to leave him dying?”
Harry whipped around scoffing loudly, “Come on, I'm not that person. I told you I didn't even hear what he was saying on the phone.”
“You know very well that's not what I am talking about. As opposed to your thinking running away from this will not solve this issue.” It sounded more like a warning coming from her mouth. “Zayn might be on his deathbed right now. If anything you should be begging for one fucking chance to reprimand everything, but here you are.”
“Reprimand? There is nothing left. The person who needs to reprimand is on the other side.”
Abigail was high on frustration, clenching and unclenching her fist. “Harry, fuck do you suppose your ego needs any more inflation than the fact he himself called you when he needed to save his son and wife – the most crucial point of his life? What if this happened to me and our baby? Would you still not talk to Zayn for help?”
Harry felt like he had been slapped, a combination of solemn and shock in his eyes. “Abby-”
“Exactly that.” She pinpointed. “That's what he would've felt. Yet he called you, Harry.” Abigail breathed loudly before speaking.“ I have said this before and I am repeating that this is an issue. You hide the most important things, all your stories are incomplete because somewhere they are altered versions made by you that you've repeated to yourself so many times that they have become your own version of reality . The bank notice, your dad, Jeffrey and now Zayn.”
“I know that, I know this very well. Everyone have their issues, you had past issues of your own. You can't throw them on my face in an argument like that.” Harry turned around from her, taking one step down the staircase.
“You can't avoid them forever either. Somebody needs to tell you this before you make a big mistake and decide not to see Zayn,” She chided, taking a single step towards him. “I promise you, you’ll regret it if you don’t.”
“You don't even know Zayn, why are you so sure about that?”
“Because he so easily could be dead right now, if that happens you wouldn’t be able to live with yourself. It's been more than three years your father passed away and you still beat yourself everyday that you couldn't change his opinion,” Abigail's words had suddenly dignified in Harry's opinion. He closed his eyes, running a hand through his hair before he slid down to sit on a stair platform. “If Zayn leaves too you'll be carrying another pile of guilt for the rest of your life Harry. And even for king of tolerance that you are, it's no easy task.” Abigail slowly followed his actions, sitting right beside him. “Be honest with me H, why don’t you want to see him again? Even after this? What’s stopping you?”
“Because I’m terrified,” He admitted pathetically. “I have done terrible things to him as well. I was twenty one, Zayn and Louis were taking morphine in a hotel room beside mine when we had a raid, it was illegal in the country. They called me and I… I left the fucking hotel, Abby.” He cried for a while, his voice reeked with guilt. “Zayn wasn't any better, though. I almost went to prison for him.”
“You both were pretty close?”
“Closest.” He replied with a tiny smile, still keeping his head down. “Growing up, things changed, what we wanted with life changed; within the band there were disagreements, but especially we both disagreed on everything. Everyone saw it, Niall sided with me, Louis sided with him and Liam was mostly trying to cool things but he was busy in his relationship back then. Worst thing, none of us ever said sorry. And,” Harry breathed deeply, “and then I did one unimaginable thing. ”
Harry looked as guilty as he sounded when he sneaked a glance at Abigail. It was difficult for him to contemplate whether telling this to her was a good idea or not. Abigail was Harry's everything and he had every intention to shower her life with confetti and roses not thorns of his own.
“H, it's just me.” She reassured him in her raspy voice.
He nodded weakly, “One night Zayn and I wrote a song together, in one sitting. He was high off his ass but I was sober, he didn't remember much of the night… so, so I never told him he wrote that too.” Harry inhaled because he needed oxygen at the moment. Abigail had her eyes closed in disappointment but what else was even expected. Harry was more disappointed with himself than anyone else could ever be. “It went to my first album, was a massive hit. Abby sometimes I really wonder what if I didn't have that song, would I still be this huge.”
“Yes,” She recited abruptly, snaking her arm around his and keeping her head on his shoulder. “Your entire album was a hit, Harry. Not just one song.”
“I know that, just can't get the thought off.” He admitted apologetically. “And what if he had it, would his career still be going strong? Mostly I think maybe that song could've helped us rekindle our friendship.” It was something Harry thought about a lot but never cared to admit. Sighing deeply, he added, “But it's been years, I'll only hurt him more by talking to him now.”
Harry has always been ricocheting to the next high, striving to be better than himself. So much so he never even realised that the skeleton in his closet was no ones but his own. And the thing about skeletons was that they were the most deep-seeded part of your body, under the fascia, beyond the organs and tearing the strong inbuilt network of nerves and vessels – the most difficult to reach. But then once you throw them off your body, all that was left was your flesh – immovable, raw, useless flesh.
So was there really a question? Sometimes keeping your skeletons in was only viable option.
Abigail nodded in that moment, pretending to understand but Harry could see very well that this was another story he had left incomplete. And with the law of life, every incomplete story needs to be completed. The more you delay the ending the biterrer the climax gets.
■ ■ ■
November 2024
“I have that covered, Mr. Styles,” Fearne, the manager of West Hollywood restaurant Catch, replied to him after a minute long listings from Harry regarding the event.
As soon as he received a nod, Harry rushed over to the foyer where a number of cameramen were assigned their positions, to take a look over the setting in the area. The restaurant was enlightened in black and gold, fire playing a important part of the decor, in a complete modern gala esque demeanour.
It was a charity party organised by GQ magazine and hosted by Harry himself, one like so many others he regularly attended.
He stood in the foyer wearing a Dior black suit and hair trimmed for the event because he wanted to personally receive his guests, especially over the first half hour. As and when his guests arrived, he would smile, hugging them all before guiding them towards their introductory glasses of champagne.
Slowly everyone around him started filtering inside, filling the once empty interiors of the restaurant. They were all in groups, of friends, associates and uncos who laughed together a bit too much to be strangers. At one point, he greeted Jeffrey and Glenne as they arrived, giving Glenne a long, friendly but keeping it highly professional with Jeffrey with a mere handshake. There was tension between the two, one that Glenne attempted to crack with a joke but she failed miserably.
But Jeffrey didn't occupy much of his thoughts, Abigail did. As time kept on rolling, Harry frowned everytime a car would arrive but it won't be Abigail's. She had told him she was feeling tired and would rather join in with the guests a while later.
After multiple calls from his new manager to come back to the party, Harry finally did. It had been forty-five minutes since the event began rolling but Abigail was not there yet. His manager guided Harry, both of them jumping from one group to another, laughing with strangers. Abigail was mentioned every time, her not being clutched to Harry's arm like she always was, questionable to people.
Harry though, could see nothing bad in it. He smiled everytime her name was taken telling them how she would be arriving soon.
After a whirlwind of congratulatory hugs and dismissable conversations, Harry excused himself from his manager's grip to look for an isolated area. He wanted nothing more than hearing Abigail's voice for once. As if on instinct his feet rolled towards to rooftop, stopping right beside the door of the rooftop as he leaned back on the wall; all the while his eyes were busy scanning through the 4000 contacts on his phone down to one name.
It was the same line repeated: ‘The number you are trying to reach is currently unavailable, please try later.’
With every passing moment, Harry’s concern kept on growing but he tried not to over think about the situation. Closing his eyes he allowed the November breeze to hit his face, as if opening the pores on his skin that had been closed due to excessive make-up. This felt like a deja vu for him, the light music, the silent haze in a busy room, the rooftop of Catch, November… of course November of 2022 — two years back when he had first met the love of his life in a very similar environment.
“Tequila?” Harry’s face perked up at someone talking to him. For a moment he gasped as if all of his last two years were a dream and they were about to come to reality, restarting right from the beginning.
“Abby,” He said abruptly opening his eyes, the rate of his heart ricocheting to a new high. But there instead of his girlfriend, stood a waitress dressed in a uniform holding out a tray full of tequila to him.
“Sir, tequila?” She repeated in a melancholic tone and Harry smiled taking a glass from her tray before thanking her. The waitress left but he stood there on his spot smiling faintly at the glass of liquor in front of him.
Abigail had slowly engraved herself in Harry's life. Starting from the party at Catch when she asked him for a rolled green note, then the soul cycling trip, when he first took her to his Beverly Hills mansion, when she gave him the privilege to call him her boyfriend, when she told him she's having his baby, Zayn's accident — everything had and breathed her. He breathed her.
Harry had always been a musician, he never knew he was an artist until now that he had every picture of them together, painted right in his brain.
And it all started with tequila.
It was in the midst of his thoughts when Harry heard a prominent thud from the lower floor. He ushered as quickly as the crowd around him, excusing himself through the mass. There on the ground floor, in the foyer was Abigail arguing with a guardsman over something.
Something about her didn't seem alright. Instead of the designated, sophisticated dress of Gucci, she was wearing a silver-blue sequined piece that was too short to barely cover any part of her legs, it's strap falling miserably. Her hair was untamed and wild and her eyeliner was too thick and smudged for her usual liking.
She was in the midst of an argument with flailing hands and uncontrolled movements when Harry reached there, “Abby,” he called out.
“Haarryyy! Babyyyy!” Abigail's face lit up seeing him and she took a single step towards, tumbling and falling in the process. This made Harry rush ahead so that instead of the floor, she landed in his arms. She giggled like a child, squirting in his grip. “Don't I look the hottest of all? They said this is not the dress code. Something fucking sophisticated.”
There were endless clicks from the photographers in the foyer and all Harry wanted in the moment was to protect her from becoming a public nuisance. “You look brilliant, just come with me.”
“Sir I apologise, but she does not have an invitation. I'm afraid I'll have to take her.” The guard beseeched him.
“Don't dare touch her.” Harry warned in an aprising tone.“She's with me.”
While Harry was busy talking to the guardsman, Abigail had somehow managed to release from his grip moving towards the fountain that was placed as an ornament in the foyer. “Fountain?” She gasped dramatically, “That's so much water here. No, no close it. We're saving water. Harry and I will save water.”
She was pathetically trying to close the fountain, jumping in her heels to reach its top. Harry flustered even thinking how badly she reeked alcohol; and his concern proliferated as soon as the thought of his baby came to his mind.
Just then Jeffrey came up to him with a concerned tone. “Harry is she okay? There are cameras around, she's causing a scene.”
In an alarmed tone, Harry rebuked. “She's fine, I'll take care of her.” Moving towards her, he held her arms ever so lightly whispering into her ear. “Babe your strap is a little off, let me help you.”
“Oh this, let it be. This is what they live for.” Her voice was loud and messy. “Abigail Quinn can't handle herself and her dress. Abigail Quinn using beau for getting into acting. Abigail Quinn purposely got pregnant to take relationship to the next level.” She enacted them all in a mocking voice before letting out a laughter, “Let them live, H. Let them talk and slander me all they want.”
“Babe please let me take you home.” He closed his eyes, trying to take her hand but she immediately withdrew, moving closer to the main foyer where she was under the direct gaze of the cameras.
“Home? Who's home? Your $30 million mansion that I didn't even pay a penny for? Sorry-sorry, stupid me. I don't even earn, how can I pay for anything.” She laughed like girl gone mad.
“Abigail you are not in your senses right now. Come with me, please.” Harry was begging her now, him being too sure that it was the alcohol speaking not her.
“Glenneyyy!” Abigail greeted cheerly, escaping Harry's grip. She hugged a frantic Glenne almost taking her down to the floor with herself. “I missed you so much. You and Jeffrey left us and this idiot didn't even talk to Zayn, we have no friends.”
Jeffrey and Harry fast approached the two women, trying their best to protect Abigail from being hurt. Glenne on the other hand, was a frustrated figure. “Guys, what the hell? Abigail why are you shouting?”
“I am shouting? I think I'm talking too low. There's so loud music here, I can't hear a thing.” There was indeed no music. Rather everyone's attention was only on her in a pin-drop silent mode. “Can you guys hear me? Helllllooo.”
Abigail was flailing her hands, asking for a response. It provoked Glenne to quickly shove her into Harry's body, herself holding her from the other side. “Jeffrey, I need a car fast.”
Together the trio helped Abigail into Glenne and Jeffrey's car, quite like the first time they had met before Harry gave away the address to his Bel-Air Mansion.
■■■
The night seemed infinite for Harry. From the car ride to the bedroom where Abigail dozed off like she was a dead girl — Harry was only left to process what had happened. There were multiple occasions she woke up to throw up making the floor of their once paradise room a mess of bile and tears. Harry desperately cleaned it three times, spraying his best perfumes through the room to somehow wipe away everything that happened.
But what was done was done and it was out there for the world to see.
The remaining night went with him watching her sleep on their bed as he sat on the floor close to her side, running his fingers through her hair. His eyes were bloodshot and no amount of makeup could hide the once etched dark circles that had started showing up again.
It was a little over three in morning when Abigail winced loudly, almost crying while opening her eyes. Harry immediately smiled through broken lips and glistened eyes trying to contemplate what to say. But before he could, Abigail shoved him to the side and stubbed her toe on the way to the bathroom.
Twenty seven minutes from there she came from the bathroom, now dressed in a loose trouser and a tank top of her own. She stopped in her way when she saw Harry sitting on the little sofa in their room, repeatedly hitting his forehead with his knuckles, still dressed in his white button-up and dress trousers from the event.
He sat up alarmed as soon as he heard door creake close. “Are you feeling alright, now?”
She scoffed lazily taking the seat beside him on the sofa. “How would you fucking feel after pulling a stunt like that, huh? Alright? Fantastic? Sorry, sorry you don't know this feeling. You have never pulled a stunt like that, you're all clean Styles.”
“Hey, it's fine.” Harry breathed deeply keeping a light hand over her shoulder but she pushed it off as if opposed to a hand, a bulldozer was put on her. “I'm not mad at you at all for last night, we can forget it happened. I forgave you the moment.”
“You forgive me? I didn't even apologise, Harry. I don't fucking need to,” she retorted in derision. “And of course, forget. Let's forget it happened, like you forget everything else that happens.”
“Babe-”
“Don't babe me out of this.” She snapped in the instant, the next thing that followed being a little cry. One that grew into complete balling with time. Harry tried pulling her into his chest being that his own face was wet with tears. But everytime he tried touching her, Abigail would hold his hand to stop that. And this final time she kept her hold strong caressing the anchor tattoo on his hand. “The things I said last night...in.. in that condition they were all true.”
“No, no Abigail. They are not, you said them because you were not in a clear state of mind. You didn't even know what you were talking about.” He replied in a light voice yet was very sure of his statement.
But Abigail only watched him with a disgusted, ill look, “Say it loudly… no, actually face it. What do you mean by ‘not in a clear state of mind?’ Say it loudly that I was high. That I was so fucking high that I ruined your perfect image, that golden man fantasy that you worked your ass off to create.” She was frantic using hands and all. “And yeah then throw me out. Throw me out of your sick, shallow popstar life and this mansion because you're too ashamed to be near this nuisance.”
“Are you gone mad? What are you talking about?” He was too aloof and naive.
“Even now Harry? Even now you are not going to say this loud? How much of a shallow coward are you?”
Any other day Harry would probably sit her down and talk to her about this issue but right now she was guilt stricken and maybe those were the kind effects drugs brought to people. So he thought he'd only talk to her once she was well rested. What Harry didn't know was that she was too tired from being well rested.
“You're not feeling okay right now. Let's get you some rest.” He tried getting a hold of her.
“Okay? Frankly Harry I haven't ever felt better because we might just be talking about this.” She replied in a much more energetic tone. “You can't keep on avoiding the topic as if it's bleeding nothing.”
There hasn't been a word made in the Oxford dictionary for how Harry was feeling. It was chaos in the least sense of words — his heart in knots this time instead of his stomach.
“It's them ain't it?” He bit his lips to prevent any more tears to fall down — an attempt that miserably failed. “It's the media who did this to you. They always, always fucking do it to me. They chide everything that is ever good for me. It always ends this way. People have no choice but to leave me.”
“Where are you in this equation, Harry?” she asked him earnestly, leaning back to the sofa before getting up from there. “You think it's the media who fucks up things for you? Goodness you blind man, you are the one who fuck things up for yourself, Harry. At least a hundred celebrities live in this city alone, the media slaughters them all, but you act like you’ve got no say in any matter. As if they are the cause of every problem of your life and you are nothing but perfect. Flashnews, you're not. It's just a fantasy crafted for the world, that's not real. At what point do you realise only you’re responsible for all the people who left you?”
“You think my whole existence is a fantasy?” He scoffed and then shook his head, “You know how terribly difficult discipline is. Yes, fucking yes, I've never touched drugs, I've always kept my behaviour in check, but do you know how damn difficult that is?”
“And what I do isn't difficult?” Abigail berated in him putting a hand on her waist, “Being a trophy girlfriend you show off to the world, who has nothing else to do but chose your clothes, make you coffee, socialize with your friends and roam like a puppy to each of your shows — isn't difficult. Fuck Harry I graduated six months back and yet I have no job.”
Harry was everything synonymous to confused. “You said you needed time. You told me you didn't want any of those jobs.”
“Did you ever ask why? Everytime I went to an interview, they pinpointed every scandal of life and turned it into a resume not even looking at my real one till they came to the final. ‘But seeing how you've cleaned up your act, being with Styles, and keeping off substance abuse, we would be willing to hire you.’” She spoke her heart out. “They didn't understand I wasn't clean. You don't fucking make me clean Harry. There were still nights I tempted to unlock that closet, to take that vial out and just-just do it. Just inhale the coke so badly that even I can't hear my voice — feel so damn high. It's such a vicious cycle that even if you touch it once, you can't get off it.. you fucking can't. That is why I never ever wanted to do it again, not even think about it again.”
Her voice broke at the end of it, one that even softened Harry's own. “W-Why didn't you ever tell me? You always told me you were clean ever since you returned to school.”
“Because you would've left me.” A chuckle escaped her lips just as a tear did from her eye, unapologetically, “You would've left me like you leave everyone else who's a threat to your image.”
He winced, “I wouldn't have left you, babe.”
“How do I know?” She shrugged, “You left Zayn and Louis. You always stay away from these things, these people.”
“They were different.” He replied with a slight frustration.
“They were your fucking best mates.”
“What do you want me to do? Be reckless like they were. And see where they are now, nowhere. There is a cost for success, I have to pay it.” Harry tried reasoning his life choices despite knowing he was somewhere always wrong.
“They are in their homes, the ones that may not be as huge as this but at least it's not empty. They have people in their lives whom they love more than fame, and who love them. They have spouses that have fucking names, Harry. Not just ‘popstar xyz's girlfriend.’” She spoke without a breath. “You see where they are now? They are exactly where I am.”
Silence was Harry's only answer as Abigail sat on their bed with a thud. A million things ran through Harry's head and for the first time since the end of the band did Harry feel that life was happening too fast.
“Babe, we both have it right? I love you more than fame and you love me as well.” He spoke timidly.
“Oh you do? Because I don't see it one bit. Do you even care how I imagined my life when I started school? Do you remember the times I told you I could do anything to not be in the public eye anymore?” She stood up facing him again, “No, you don't, otherwise you wouldn't have thrown the cameras on my face. I don't blame those outsiders Harry, but what when you yourself aren't with me. Why would this – us, even be a thing then?”
“I am not on your side? I?” He tried everything in him to not bring this up, but now he had had enough. “I have been so fucking patient with you, Abby. I kept on tell myself that vial in your dresser is just a medication, that the rolled packets of paper in the kitchen just have sugar. But no, no I am not on your side.”
She clenched her jaw, speaking ruthlessly. “That's not called being patient, that's called being in denial. That you've always been, you still still are. These are the decisions you take in your life? Avoid, deny, close your eyes when you see something wrong, cut a phone call when it's from a person you don't like, fucking leave your best mate to die.”
They were cut throat in this fight. It was not anywhere near to a discussion now.
Harry said pacing through the room. “He's not my best mate. He's a terrible human.”
“And you aren't?” She followed him before snapping at him. “You are worse Harry. You are worse.”
“At least my decisions didn't ruin my life… And if we are talking things, I think you owe me some good explanations.” Harry crossed his arms in front of his chest. “How long have you been taking that poison of coke? How long have you been planning to assassinate our baby with that never ending addiction of yours?”
“Wrong question boy.” Abigail had a deep mockery in her tone. “The right question is why am I taking it. After three years of being clean, why I jumped back into something that fucking ruined me. And the answer is you… because of you and the countless articles tagged in your name.”
“Abby, you can't completely blame me for your addiction and you know that.”
“I know that and I'm not blaming you for it. I'm blaming me, that I even thought you were worth it. Do you have a clue of how fucking entitled you sound nowadays? Have you bleeding seen your attitude over everything?” She chided him. “Or maybe that's been you always. You've just plastered a princess face to the world and me when I met you. But when I got to know you, this boy,” she pointed up and down at him, “he is a dammit disaster.”
“What do you want me to do Abby?” Harry deadpanned defeatedly.“I.. you want me to get a plastic surgery that people won't recognize me. It's a part of me. Famous is a part of me, you have to accept that. You knew what you signed up for.”
“Yes but I expected you to be there for me, you never have.” She cried, “And buying this outside-your-budget-house, getting me gifts and taking me to your fucking stupid vacations don't count as being there for me.”
“I… I d-don't c-choose this Abigail. I don't.” He shook his head as an array of tears fell down to his hand. Harry could see what was coming, he has seen this apocalypse too many times to discern, he just didn't know why everytime it hurt more than before.
“It's history repeating right? This happened with everyone else. With Zayn, the boys, your dad?” She accused, too sure of herself. “You are given a choice to choose between your fame and these people. And you always, always chose fame. Didn't you?” It was rhetorical question but Harry wanted to shake his head at it. Denying it, but maybe even denying it will be of no use now. “You just look for escapes. Soothing escapes. Before me your work was your escape.. then I became your escape and now that even I am ruined enough to stay with you… you'll find another escape.”
“Please don't say that… I'll leave it all.” He spoke suddenly alarmed. Harry wiped his tears abruptly before holding Abigail's arms, trying to promise her something impossible through frantic words, “I promise, I'll make the world forget who Harry Styles is. For you Abby, for us, for our baby.”
“There's no baby.” She broke through his grip so harshly that it also broke his heart. “I aborted it. I.. I knew if I keep it, I'll always somehow be associated with you. I don't fucking want that.”
Just like that Harry's entire world was ripped apart. The bubble of love disappeared, the haze of their perfect world — one with him, her and their baby — burned in the warmth of Hollywood, leaving back not even ashes.
His back hit the wall and there stood no one but a lifeless man.
It felt like a few minutes expanded into eternity, breaking the dimensions of time. And eternity was a long enough time to comprehend a lot.
He spoke exanimately before a tear dropped off his eyes. “You hate me, don't you?
“No baby, no. I love you… I love you so much I can't even tell you. I just hate your choice,” she wailed, just like him. “And Harry if you want the world to forget who Harry Styles is, tear yourself apart. Fucking get a pair and apologise, Harry. Apologise to everyone you did this to. Everyone you never stood up for. Everyone you lost for fame. That's the only goddamn way you’re gonna get yourself out of this mess. And I…I have my own mess to clear, once again.”
The fight seemed closed off on both the ends. Silence enveiled the air around them as he slid to the floor, his knees pressed to his chest. He wrapped his arms around his legs, burying his face into his worn out jeans.
“You're right, this is me. I ruined it all and only I can fix this.” He said exasperatedly before looking at her with begging eyes.“B-But.. n-not... us. Not us, right Abby?”
Abigail's face crumbled at his words as endless tears dripped down her cheeks. “Maybe Jeffrey was right when he said we are a combination of a catastrophe, hmm?” she chuckle half-heartedly, taking Harry's face in her hands, his tears wetting her palm.
Harry didn't reply. He had never felt more tired in his lifetime, but watching everything you've ever built, slowly and painfully crumble down in front your eyes could do that to you. Rumours and articles had never bothered him much because the things printed were nowhere near truth. But what she said, each word off her mouth was true and that cut him like a piece of glass.
He had her head leaned against his shoulder as she briefly closed her eyes and letting time escape them. For one moment, just one moment, he needed to feel okay again. But okay was not going to come so easily, it would take years to walk down the ladder of success, to meet and apologise to everyone he had once lost, to find Harry more that Harry Styles and worst part; even if he did all of that he would never get the one woman he wants in his arms ever again.
He knew he had to start with Zayn. He owed him more than he owed anyone anything and if he is anyhow lucky Zayn would accompany him in his trip ahead, only if he was lucky.
In that one night numerous stars garnished the moon on the navy skies of California, children slept in peace between their parents in their tiny beds, concert shows sold out in a single moment, birds slowly started waking up before the break of dawn, the entire universe worked just in the equilibrium it was supposed to – amongst it all in an empty house of a posh street – a star was torn.
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Hello, could you do number 1 in the new year prompts for Robb and Rhaenys please? Thank you !
For this meme. An anon also asked for this.
1. Person A is setting off New Year’s Fireworks–Person B had wanted to go to bed early, and it wakes them up.
Going to bed at ten-fifteen on New Year’s Eve isn’t exactly Robb’s idea of a good time. But he’d drawn the short straw amongst his colleagues to work bright and early on New Year’s Day, and thus here he lies, staring up at the ceiling trying and failing to catch some shuteye while everyone he knows is out having a grand time.
Jon had offered to make a show of solidarity by also missing the festivities, but all Robb had had to do was remind him of what happened the last time he’d voluntarily skipped out on a party Arya hosted, and “solidarity” was instantly removed from Jon’s dictionary.
His self-pity finally begins to wane into drowsiness when he hears the first of the firecrackers outside his window. It wouldn’t piss him off half so much if he hadn’t specifically put a note in each of his neighbors’ mailboxes explaining his situation and gotten confirmation that they would comply.
He waits, hoping it was a mistake, but then he hears again the telltale fizz-bang of store-bought pyrotechnics. Peeved, he goes to his window and looks out to see a handful of people in the driveway of the house across the street, each watching happily a colorful spinner whirl on the concrete. That house had been on the market for so long he hadn’t even noticed it’d been sold.
Begrudgingly, he allows that since he hadn’t thought to put a letter in that particular home, the occupants aren’t deliberately messing with him.
Still–it’s noise.
Fed up enough with both himself and the new neighbors, he puts on a sweatshirt, heads outside, and approaches them. It’s a family of three, he sees, and–well, he stops short when he spots the daughter, who is, he doesn’t think is an exaggeration, the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.
Which is an exceptionally superficial observation he’d feel thoroughly ashamed about if he weren’t so frustrated and dreading the wakeup call in the morning that is sure to be brutal.
“Um, hi,” he greets. “Recently moved in?”
The mom answers, shaking his hand. “Yes, earlier today. We thought we’d make the rounds tomorrow, but it’s nice to meet you. I’m Elia, and these are my kids, Rhaenys and Aegon.”
Ridiculous names, he thinks before it occurs to him that maybe those are family names and he shouldn’t be so judgmental. After all, his siblings’ names aren’t exactly commonplace, and the spelling of his own name is unusual.
“I’m Robb,” he replies. “Listen, I’m not usually one to complain, but I work an early shift tomorrow and I was wondering if you could wrap up the fireworks? I’m just across the street, so they’re pretty loud.”
Fortunately, the mom becomes apologetic rather than combative as he’d feared. “Oh, I’m sorry!” she effuses. “We had a few things to celebrate and New Year’s seemed an appropriate occasion to do it.”
“What are you celebrating?”
The three of them answer all at once. “My divorce.” “My new house.” “My fellowship.”
“So it’s your house then?” he asks the daughter.
Play it cool.
“Yeah, first one. Wasn’t my goal to make a bad impression, though.”
“It’s fine,” says Robb, though that’s really true. “You know what, go ahead, sounds like you deserve the fireworks.”
“Are you sure?” asks Rhaenys. “We can do it some other time.”
He glances between the three of them, who all have equal levels of glee clearly written on their faces, and can’t bring himself to be the one to put a damper on that. And anyway, coffee exists.
“Yeah, I’m sure. Have fun.”
Work is indeed brutal, but thankfully much less busy than normal due to the holiday. It significantly improves when he finds on his front door a pineapple, a movie theater gift card, and a note:
Sorry about last night. Enjoy the international welcome fruit–though now that I think on it, I’m pretty sure it’s me who’s supposed to get that–and a few flicks.
See you around, neighbor :)
– Rhaenys
#robb stark#rhaenys targaryen#robb x rhaenys#asoiaf#gotfic#elia martell#aegon vi targaryen#my fic#compliance: modern au#princessgalaxydust#btw as it says on my blog i'm not taking new prompts#i'm filling old ones
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A Well-Behaved Dog
Part four of “Our Lucky Dogs” is here!
Tagging the poms crew: @ravenhaired-mc @aldreaoakley @otome0heart (If someone want me to tag him/her, just tell me!)
And don’t forget you can read it on AO3 too!
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Genre: Fluff? Maybe comedy? MAYBE DOGS?
Fandom: SLBP.
Word count: 3578
Summary: Ichigo is not the sweet dog that Ieyasu thinks she is.
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Spring had already arrived. The air was full of the characteristic scent of freshly cut grass. The cherry trees were already in bloom, bringing with them hanami and celebrations. As well as the classic spring cleaning of the house, new clothes to wear.
And before she knew it, with a smile on her face, MC was sacredly preparing ichigo daifuku to please the palate of a certain demanding lord.
While MC finished filling a teapot to serve this evening, Daifuku sniffed around the kitchen floor. Upon encountering a small piece of carrot, the dog tried to hit it with his little paw wanting to play with it. Unexpectedly for him, the orange piece jumped before his eyes with a sudden movement. As usual in this circumstances, the frightened puppy moved backwards and started barking.
Noticing the animal’s complaints, MC laughed softly. She reached out to pick up the piece of vegetable and threw it in the trash. Then, she stroked Daifuku's fur affectionately. His nervousness still noticeable, she managed to make him relax a little bit by him caressing behind his ears.
Silently, MC arranged the elements of the tray again. There was tea and ichigo daifuku; and for a twist, she had also made sakuramochi.
The last time she had practiced making different kinds of sweets, Ieyasu hadn’t accepted all of them willingly. His favorite would always be the ichigo daifuku, but spring demanded her to make food with floral motifs. The pink hue of the little cake made her happy and nostalgic at the same time. For a moment, she remembered her family and the moments they had spent together under the cherry trees.
She felt suddenly alone. In recent days, Ieyasu had been working hard, to the point that she hardly saw him if it wasn’t for the meals. Daifuku sometimes cried outside of his study, missing him. Preparing sakuramochi was almost like celebrating a hanami inside their house, but that still didn’t filled her heart.
She shook her head from side to side, taking away those ideas from her head. She then left the kitchen with Daifuku following her closely behind until they reached Ieyasu's studio. The puppy sat with his hind quarters resting on the ground, moving his head to the left— they had learned to recognize that action meant something had made him curious.
MC cleared her throat before calling“Lord Ieyasu, may I enter?”
The murmur that was heard on the other side quieted down the moment she finished speaking. She looked at Daifuku, who was already waiting for the door to open. The little one seemed almost unable to hide the joy that came from knowing he was so close to his master. His tail moved incessantly. His ears pointed, his snout seems to draw a smile.
After a momentary silence, the blond's voice was heard. “Try it if you dare.”
MC opened the door delicately. Upon entering, everyone turned in their seats, however, not to see her.
Daifuku ran quickly to greet everyone.He stood on two legs to greet Toramatsu, licking his ear, to which the page responded laughing and stroking his chin. Then he went on, standing between Tadakatsu and Yasumasa, circling around to show how excited he was to see them.
“Well, look at you. What a bothersome little thing you are.” Yasumasa looked the other way with weariness, implying that Daifuku's joy didn’t interest him. Contradictorily, he reached out and stroked the dog’s back while Tadakatsu patted his head, smiling.
After having finished there, he went swiftly to where Tadatsugu was. He threw himself on his back in front of the old man, showing him his belly. With small barks, Daifuku tried to get his attention.
“Ohoho, don’t listen to him, little one. You're not silly at all!” Sakai reached out to stroke under the dog's chin. When he was about to continue advancing down to caress his belly, they heard some claps. Daifuku stood up straight away, knowing what was going to happen.
“That’s enough, Daifuku.”
The pup rushed towards Ieyasu, standing on two legs once he was close to him. To obtain stability, he rested his front paws on the blond's shoulder, and kissed him on the cheek repeatedly, giving small licks that were answered with caresses on the puppy's lower back.
Once all the greetings were over, Ieyasu took the dog with both hands and seated him on his lap, stroking his neck under the collar.
MC responded to all this with a smile. She had already become accustomed to Daifuku's effusive greeting routine. She also knew that, secretly, everyone was waiting for him with affection, even Lord Sakakibara.
The moment MC finished setting the tray on a small table, she wet a cloth with water and brought it to the Lord of Mikawa to clean his cheek. Then, she served the tea in silence while Ieyasu wiped his face with one hand and stroked the adorable dog with the other hand.
When her husband had finished, she took the cloth and put it aside. The woman left a plate laden with sweets in front of everyone, so that they could decide on their preferences. Once she finished the tea service, she got up apologizing for her interruption. However, before she walked to the door to leave, Ieyasu interrupted her.
“Stay here, dimwit. This will be interesting.”
The blond glared at everyone in the room as he continued to pet Daifuku, who only let himself be loved by his master without realizing the true spirit in those caresses.
MC took a cushion and sat on it, next to her husband. She couldn’t help frowning a little, what could be of interest to her?
The ambience was tense. She noticed how Tadatsugu swallowed loudly. She also noticed that Toramatsu's eyes were turned down and that Tadakatsu's forehead began to bead with sweat. The only one who seemed to be in control was Yasumasa, until she looked at his hands and noticed that his knuckles were white from clenching his fists.
Ieyasu sighed loudly, showing his stress. His calm hands didn’t stop caressing the puppy. However, even if his attitude was tender with his dog, his mouth didn’t stop spitting vitriol to the others.
“How utterly disgusting. What in the hells are my retainers doing? How you dare blaming my sweet and dearest Ichigo?”
MC turned to Ieyasu, asking what the little one had done. She started to bite her lower lip, unable to hide her worry.
“Toramatsu,” the Lord of Poison Smile addressed his page, who had to look up. “Please, repeat word for word the nonsense you said a moment before.”
The dark-haired boy stood for a moment in silence, meditating, thinking exactly what he had said. He took a breath and began his story.
“As you may know, MC, every morning I give food to the sparrows that come, especially now in the spring.” She responded by nodding.
On several occasions, she herself had given him some grains to give to those visitors. That way, they didn’t eat the vegetables in the garden. On another note, MC thought it was cute to find nests with newborn baby birds sometimes.
“That's what I did this morning. I went out to the garden, next to the koi fish pond, to feed them. They were already waiting, so when I reached out to throw food… she stepped forward.”
“She?” asked MC.
“Yes. I’m talking about Ichigo.” Toramatsu was very serious, but his eyes showed a certain sadness. “She came running suddenly, leaving me behind, and started barking. The birds were frightened and flew in all directions. Some hit me, causing me to throw away the grains unintentionally. Ichigo…” The black-haired young man sighed again, disappointed, as if he regretted the outcome of the situation. For some reason, it was hard to talk. “Ichigo seemed to be delighted with the chaos, and once all the birds flew, she looked at me wagging her tail, as if she was proud of what had happened. Before I could react or say something to her, she had already left.”
In the meantime, Ieyasu listened to the story again without paying much attention. He took the cup of tea with one hand and stroke Daifuku’s fur with the other. He was silent during the tale, more concerned with untangling the puppy’s fur with his fingers.
The pup was happy in his arms.
When Toramatsu finished speaking, Daifuku got off his owner's lap to go to sleep next to Tadatsugu, who allowed his hand tenderly to stroke the dog’s head. The pup responded by sitting closer to his body, calmly.
Leaving his cup of tea on his desk, Ieyasu looked at Toramatsu, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. Once again, the poison controlled him as he said, “Are you expecting me to believe this lie? Don’t make me laugh.”
Reaching out to take out a sweet, he glanced sideways at the sakuramochi, tempted by its color. Yet, he took with his right hand an ichigo daifuku and brought it to his mouth. Biting into the treat, he let the sweet flavor of anko melt in his mouth beforechewing the strawberry that gave the dessert a refreshing and delicate touch.
It was an invitation. Seeing their lord eat, the rest of the men felt free to take a sweet off of the tray for themselves. Everyone stretched out their hand at the same time, and that was the moment when MC noticed something out of place.
“Lord Tadakatsu”, MC pressed her lips before asking. “What happened to your hand?”
Tadakatsu looked at his right hand, which held a sakuramochi. On the back, there was a small slash, along with some scratches and red-blooded dots. He opened his eyes with surprise at have been discovered and tried to hide it quickly with the sleeve of his kimono, however, Ieyasu frowned as he, too, noticed his retainer's wound.
“Speak. And do it quickly, don’t make me wait.”
Tadakatsu became serious after hearing his lord’s voice and his eyes went to MC, who was the one who asked the question in the first place.
“This morning I arrived late for breakfast because I was cleaning this wound. When I entered the main hall the first time, I found Ichigo sitting at my place. I wanted to put her aside without bothering her since she was asleep, but she got angry and bit me.” Tadakatsu shrugged, implying that he wasn’t very concerned about it. Then he looked at the wound and with a frustrated gesture mentioned “It's funny… Ichigo has the same personality as Lord Ieyasu, however, I didn’t enjoy the bite.”
Absently, Tadakatsu took the sakuramochi to his mouth and made small sounds of delight. His face showed how much he was enjoying the sweet.
“… Ugh, so annoying.” Ieyasu rolled his eyes. After having listened to his retainer, the blond got up from his place to look for something in a chest.
MC, not paying much attention to this, got up to approach Tadakatsu and check the wound. She delicately took the retainer's hand in her hands.
“So… Ichigo did this?”
From behind, the weary voice of Ieyasu was heard approaching. “Didn’t you hear, dung beetle? He just said that Ichigo did it. Are we even paying attention?”
Once he sat down, Ieyasu threw some bandages and sage to Tadakatsu.
“Here. It's repulsive to see you with that untreated wound. Make sure you keep it clean or I'll make sure to cut off that hand from you myself.”
“… Ooh, with pleasure, milord.” Tadakatsu's face lit up with pleasure at the threats he received as he opened the small jar and applied the balm on the damaged hand.
While Tadakatsu tended to his injury, MC sat down again in her corresponding place, next to her husband.
“Hey, don’t start with that attitude, or you'll really piss me off, Honda,” Yasumasa hissed while standing aside, avoiding touching the other man. “Lord Ieyasu, I don’t know why we keep arguing over this absurdity. That our little Toramatsu can’t stand for his little birds to escape shouldn’t be a reason for a council.”
Toramatsu, unable to avoid it, expressed his annoyance once he finished sipping his tea. “Says the person who has the back of his kimono full of dog hairs.”
"Wha—!" The lord widened his eyes, as if they had discovered him committing a crime. “How you dare, you little piece of sh—!”
“Yasumasa.” Ieyasu’s icy tone showed that he was trying to control himself. Nevertheless, his gestures betrayed him. The absurdity of this situation had made the blond absolutely furious. He clicked his tongue irritably as he crossed his arms. Everyone in the room could practically hear him gritting his teeth. “Turn around. Now.”
As soon as he turned his back towards his lord, Yasumasa showed that his black kimono had dozens of thin white lines crossing it. He almost quailed when he felt his lord's hand touching the fabric of his back, watching the dog’s fur accumulate between the man’s fingers.
The Lord of Mikawa sighed with annoyance and only limited himself to hissing the word “disgusting”.
An ashamed Yasumasa turned to face the Tokugawa clan head, who had once again returned to his seat. He sighed a barely audible “forgive me, milord.”
Everyone, with the exception of Ieyasu, lowered their heads. It was better that way, instead of continuing to exalt his anger.
“Say, baldy.” The blond lord, exhausted, began to massage his temples. At this moment he just wanted everyone to leave, but he knew that he had to settle the matter once and for all.
“What was the damage that Ichigo did to you?” He smiled petulantly at the mention of the puppy. He decided to rest his elbow on the desk and lay his chin in his hand. The sweet smile he showed was a paradox compared to the eyes full of rage and fire he had in those moments. “Choose your words wisely. We don’t want to stay without a single hair on our heads, do we?”
Tadatsugu kept his mouth shut, coughing softly. He withdrew the hand that had been caressing Daifuku, knowing that the situation was complicated.
The dog, being deprived of affection, complained slightly. However, reading the tension in the environment at last, he went to lie down in silence between his owners. His ears were raised, not knowing what to do.
“Milord, I haven’t been affected by Ichigo's behavior yet.”
“You don’t, huh?” This calmed Ieyasu a bit. It meant that there was at least one person whom Ichigo respected.
“Certainly not. I'm well aware of that.”
“What the hell does that mean, old man? Are you implying that Ichigo will do something to you?” Ieyasu’s browns knit severely.
“No, milord.” Sakai's voice trembled a little, knowing that if he didn’t choose his words well enough, the situation could get out of hands. “Still, my suggestion is that we need to give her some incentive to be as well-behaved as Daifuku.”
“I have heard enough of this crap. I will give her a punishment myself.” The blond found himself looking up with apathy in the room, looking for a white smudge.
Fearing that the puppy would become another victim of her husband's anger, MC begged “milord, please spare—"
“Silence.” The only thing she found was ice in his words and a frown. “Now, where in the seven hells is she? She was supposed to be with you, kitchen wench!”
Her eyes widened in shock as she gasped. In the kitchen, it had just been Daifuku and herself. Ichigo hadn’t been inside with them during theday, and looking around the room, there was no sign of her here either.
She got up quickly, and headed for the door. Just at the moment she was going to go out, the door opened from the outside.
“Dear me, could it be that I’ve arrived at just the right time?”
A breeze scented with camellias entered the room. A kind smile adorned the face of Hattori Hanzo, as he closed the door behind him and performed a bow, greeting the Lord and Lady Tokugawa.
“What do you want, Hanzo? I’m too tired to be dealing with you.”
Ieyasu made no attempt to hide his bad-tempered mood. Next to him, Daifuku raised his head, barking at the silver-haired man.
“You have been really busy this week, your lordship.” Hanzo took no notice of Tokugawa's attitude, smiling while he looked through the window. “It's a shame, such a splendid season wasted in this four-walled prison.” A dramatic sigh filled the air. The silver-haired man’s sleeve went directly to his eyes, as if he were wiping invisible tears. Anyone who saw it would think that Hattori was representing a play.
“This spring will leave our lives before we know it. The larks will cry and there will be tears in the eyes of the koi if people don’t realize we have to enjoy the opportunity given to us by the season for such recreational activities like hanami.” Bending down to pick up something behind him, he asked “Isn’t that right, Ichigohime?”
Speak of the devil! There was the little one in snake’s arms, happy as if nothing had happened. Her fluffy tail moved with emotion from one side to the other,yipping as if confirming the words of the apothecary.
Lord Ieyasu's lips pursed briefly. His eyes refused to believe the love his princess seemed to have for that serpent. The smile ghosting across Hanzo's lips made him burst in anger on the inside.
“Explain this. Now. Or I will remove your tongue myself, you pox-ridden snake.”
“Of course, milord. As I said before, it’s time to enjoy the seasons and what’s better than to celebrate a hanami with the best companion available. A well-behaved lady, indeed! Shall we show them?”
The moment Hanzo said this, Ichigo responded by licking his cheek.
With his immutable smile, the man left her carefully on the floor and ordered her to sit down. Everyone held their breath when they noticed that she obeyed him. While everyone was attentive to the puppy, Ieyasu bit his lower lip in frustration.
Delicately, Hattori pulled a cherry tree branch from his sleeve and handed it to Ichigo, which she took with her nose waiting for the next order.
“Now, please, go apologize.”
And so she did.
Ichigo advanced showing some embarrassment. Her ears were low as she approached Tadakatsu and put the flowers at his feet. Then, she inclined her head looking at him with her saddened little black eyes.
Tadakatsu looked at his lord, who nodded as he stared incredulously at the scene. The giant took the branch with his bandaged hand and the little one moved towards him. Honda was already moving to withdraw his hand, with some trepidation, but he only received a couple of licks to his fingers from Ichigo.
The same scene was repeated with Toramatsu, Yasumasa and Tadatsugu. A delivery of cherry blossoms, just as if it were an offering of peace to all the men.
Ieyasu formed a fist under the sleeves of his haori at the scene.
Once Ichigo finished her deliveries, she sat down next to Daifuku, wagging her tail with joy. The blond looked at both puppies, narrowing his eyes.
“How did you…”
Unable to finish the sentence, the apothecary interrupted his lord. He approached MC, who was still standing by the door, with gentleness. Hanzo placed a cherry blossomed branch in her hands. A soft smile floated onto his lips.
“It's very simple. If you neglect someone for too long, do not they long to play with other toys?”
MC flushed when she noticed that Hanzo's gaze was fixed on her hands and then on her eyes, as if seducing her. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back in Ieyasu's mind.
“Every. Single. One of you. GET OUT!”
Frantically, the retainers got to their feet and hurried to the entrance, leaving the room one by one in quick succession.
Master Hattori laughed lightly and said "Well then, I must depart."
MC, knowing that her husband's anger wouldn’t calm down with anything at that moment, also left excusing herself that it was time to start cooking dinner.
The room emptied. The Lord of Mikawa was alone with his dogs. Ichigo gently licked one of Daifuku's ears, who was at her mercy.
The blond's gaze fixed on the ground. Someone had left behind a cherry blossomed branch. He took it with both hands, watching as a couple of petals fell. After all, maybe Ichigo just wanted his attention…
“Now what are we going to do, little beast? The Europeans were supposed to educate you well…”
With a sigh on his lips, the young man approached his pet.
Ichigo was grooming her partner's face, but as soon as she realized that her master was approaching to her, she stopped and looked at him with interest. Ieyasu's hands stretched to reach her fur, putting the flowers on her head, as if it were a natural hairpin.
“Perhaps we can go to see the cherry blossoms and have a hanami. Just the four of us… But not today.”
He found himself smiling. Maybe another day he could rest, and give his wife’s sakuramochi a chance.
The dogs waved their tails with joy, as if waiting impatiently to have a day out. Just the four of them, like a family.
#slbp#slbp tokugawa ieyasu#slbp ieyasu#Daifuku OC#Ichigo OC#slbp yasumasa#slbp toramatsu#slbp masanari#slbp hattori hanzo#slbp tadakatsu#slbp tadatsugu#omg everyone is here#actually kiyohiro is not here#maybe next time#fluff will save the fandom#fluffiest fluff#STOP IT PLEASE#BAD DOG BAD DOG#I knew that Hairzo is full of secrets
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Gummy Bears || Peter Parker Imagine
Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader
Word Count: 1.5k
Request: Can you do a peter parker x reader we’re mj and bed get so annoyed at how oblivious you and Peter are, so they trap you in a closet and they won’t let you out until you admit it to each other so out of sheer awkwardness you start shoot horrible nerdy pick up lines back and forth before you talk or kiss or something and it’s just Super freaking fluffy and cute love your work sorry if it’s really long
There is only one Homecoming spoiler, you’ve been warned
A/N: The ending is kind of rushed because I want to spend time with my family. I haven’t posted in a while so this is my gift to you. Merry Christmas!
masterlist
The group of teens walked into the not so crowded dollar store, grabbing a basket to fill with candy. “What do you guys want?” Y/N asked as they all walked directly to the candy isle,knowing exactly where it was due to the multiple times they’ve been there. “Ohhh, definitely Pop Rocks….and Nerds.” Ned effused, pointing at the candy.
The four friends, since they became so close, started an annual movie night on Friday’s to ‘de-stress’ from the awful week they typically had at school. Friday’s were also one of the only nights where all of them were free to hang out. So, they had decided to go to the local dollar store to buy candy and 'essentials’ for the night.
Peter grabbed a couple of bags of Gummy Bears and looked at his friends desperately, with his chocolate puppy brown eyes. “Can we get Gummy Bears?” He asked, almost begged, making Y/N chuckle softly.
“Hell yeah man.” She took the candy from his hands and chucked it into the basket she held. This simple gesture made Peter swoon. The simplest things she did always made his heart melt, and his huge crush on her wasn’t very helpful as he would always awkwardly blush around her. He shook his head, getting himself out of his awestruck gaze and focusing back on the candy.
The total came to be about forty dollars so they all pitched in to pay for it. They each grabbed a grocery bag and walked out onto the busy street of New York, starting their trek to the Parker household.
Peter unlocked the door to his apartment, pushing it open to wait for his friends to walk inside first. They all went to his living room while Peter went into the kitchen to see a note from his Aunt, saying that she won’t be back until late at night.
“So, what movie do you guys wanna watch?” Peter asked as his group of friends from his place in the kitchen. Everyone shrugged their shoulders, walking towards his living room to examine all of the movies that he had available after they all dropped their bags in the dinning room. “Well, the only movie that sounds any good is this stupid scary movie.” Michelle stated, holding up the CD case from an old movie.
“Oh, is it the one with a bunch of hot guys?” Y/N asked, turning to face her friend and hoping onto the couch. Michelle nodded her head, following Y/N’s movements by sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table.
“Guys…. I’m not a big fan of scary movies.” Peter nervously chuckled, scratching the back of his neck, entering the living room and throwing his backpack next to the T.V. stand. “Come on,” Michelle urged, “I heard that it was pretty cool.”
“Relax Peter. At least you’ll have Y/N to cuddle with if you get too scared.” Ned snickered standing next to the nervous boy, who hit his arm lightly. Y/N was too focused on her phone to hear their conversation. “Come on dude. Could you at least keep it down? I don’t want her to hear.” Peter anxiously looked back at Y/N to see if she overheard anything. He let out a sigh as he noticed she was completely oblivious, but Michelle was well aware.
“She’s going to have to find out sooner or later, right?” Ned stated matter of factually. He then moved to sit on the La-Z-Boy recliner next to the couch, leaving only one place to sit, next to Y/N. Peter cleared his throat, forcing himself to sit next to Y/N. His heart was already beating out of his chest.
He had known Y/N for a very long time, and he usually wasn’t so weird around her. Ever since he realized his feelings for her, he had been acting weird. All of his friends could tell, except for Y/N.
Peter soon realized that he was unable to protest the scary movie, as Michelle already played the CD. The candy that once filled the grocery bags was now littering the coffee table. He leaned over, grabbing one of the bags that held a sweet candy, gummy bears. He offered some to Y/N and she gladly took a hand full, keeping her eyes glued on the T.V.
“Oh shoot,” Michelle, over dramatically stated, “we didn’t make any popcorn. Ned, care to join me?” She stood up, walking near the boy and lightly nudging him.
“Nah, I think we'r-” Ned started, but wasn’t able to finish before Michelle completed his thought. “Great! Let’s go.” She grabbed his arm and dragged him to the kitchen to make the popcorn. Y/N grabbed the remote to pause the film and wait for her friends.
“That was pretty…weird.” Y/N said, tossing a piece of candy in her mouth. Peter nervously chuckled, hearing his other two friends whispering in his kitchen. “Yeah, that was strange.”
Y/N looked down at her lap and smiled lightly. This boy made her so happy, no one could even understand. She sighed, ruffling a hand through her hair. She was thinking, maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t be a completely terrible idea to tell him about her feelings. She just couldn’t find the courage to do so.
Before their conversation could continue, Michelle and Ned appeared back in the living room. “Hey Peter, this movie is really boring. Let’s go to your room.”
Peter and Y/N gave each other a confused look, but he wasn’t complaining. He really hated scary movies. “Y-Yeah sure. Let’s go.”
He stood up, grabbing a bag of candy so they had something in his room. Peter lead the way to his bedroom, Y/N right behind him, and their other two friends trailing behind.
Unbeknownst to Y/N and Peter, Michelle and Ned nudged each other as they approached the largest closet in the apartment, and it was right next to Peter’s bedroom. Michelle grabbed Y/N’s arm and Ned grabbed Peters, pushing them both into the closet.
“MJ, what the hell!” Y/N shouted, banging on the door. Ned locked the closet, glad that the lock was on the outside. “Hey, I dropped my gummy bears!” Peter stated from the other side of the door. The teens kept fussing, trying to open the locked door.
“So, we’re not letting you out until you two confess your love for one another.” Once Ned stated those words, they both immediately stopped their ruckus.
Y/N and Peter stared at each other, the only light in the room illuminating their faces was coming from the cracks in the door. They both had scarlet red blushes as they were both flush against one another, due to the lack of space.
“I-I don’t know what their talking about,” Y/N exclaimed.
Peter was shaking his head, “yeah, me neither.” His voice cracked and he closed his eyes, pleading for this all to be over. He quickly noticed that his hands were on her waist, and when he pulled them away, they both tried putting as much space between them as possible.
“Come on guys!” Y/N begged, hitting the closet door. Peter looked down at his shoes, ready to confess his feelings.
“I like you.” He boldly stated, fiddling with his fingers. Y/N stopped hitting the door and looked at Peter. “I-I kinda figured from…recent events. I just didn’t think you had the guts to admit it,” she responded.
Peter let out a short breath, “I’ve liked you for a long time, but I just- I just kind of realized it a little while ago.” He moved closer to her, grabbing both of her hands in his. They were both quiet for a minute. “Please say something,” Peter whispered.
Y/N stood there, shocked. She grabbed Peter’s shoulders, still not knowing what to say. He moved his hands to hold her waist. “Peter Parker,” she whispered, “you have been my muse for such a long time.”
She leaned in slightly, and the action made Peter’s eyes go wide, but when their lips connected he was out of his trance. His eyes closed as they melted together. It was like everything fell into place, almost like they fit together like a puzzle.
Y/N pulled away giggling slightly making Peter’s face turn red thinking that it was because he did something wrong. “You taste like gummy bears Pete.” She was still giggling, her hands playing with the ends of his hair. His face softened because he saw that beautiful smile on her face.
“I’m so glad they locked us in here.” Y/N smiled, leaning her head on his shoulder. Peter wrapped his arms around the small of her back.
“Yeah, I’m glad too.”
#peter parker#spiderman#tom holland#spiderman homecoming#avengers#haha not yet son#peter parker imagine#tom holland imagine#spiderman imagine#peter parker x reader#tom holland x reader#spiderman x reader#peter parker headcanon#spiderman headcanon#tom holland headcanon#peter parker blurb#tom holland blurb#spiderman blurb#peter parker smut#tom holland smut#spiderman smut#peter parker fanfic#tom holland fanfic#spiderman fanfic#peter parker fluff#tom holland fluff#spiderman fluff#peter parker drabble#tom holland drabble#spider-man
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i have accidentally committed more mcarfield fic oops
(gonna be re-posting these tumblr fics, some of you will have already seen them on main.)
but it’s not my fault, it is all the fault of andrew garfield for going around begging for kisses outside the theatre, and the fault of this lovely anon:
👀 👀 👀 👀
…..
James has one mission in life at the moment, and that’s to get through this damn play and be the best Louis Ironson he can be without losing his mind over the fact that he gets to spend half of his waking life making out with Andrew Garfield.
Only, as with all things about this goddamn monster of a play, that’s far, far harder than it looks. This is partly because Andrew is amazing and adorable and incredibly, surprisingly passionate and articulate about, well, everything. He’s passionately articulate about this play, and Prior, and the absolute vital importance of Angels in America in 2017.
And he’s passionately articulate about James — or at least about James’s acting. James knows this because of the number of times Andrew has gone into effusive rants, with or without James actually being present, about what an amazing actor he thinks James is. So, James usually goes onstage with confidence that his partner in all things believes in him, and it carries him through most nights with a buoyancy that works as a very nice countermeasure to the constant sense of emotional and physical exhaustion Louis leaves him with.
He’s tried not to obsess over the question of whether Andrew feels about him the way he feels about Andrew, and there are a hundred different reasons for that. Andrew looks at James like James is perpetually brilliant, but the problem is that Andrew also looks at everyone that way. He’s constantly trying to drink in the energy and light of everyone around him, like some kind of giddy human sunflower. It’s incredible that he doesn’t manage to set off all of James’s cynical settings, but honestly James just finds him… lovely.
James knows himself pretty well; he knows he’s on a razor’s edge when it comes to supplanting Louis’ feelings for Prior with his own feelings for Andrew. It’s impossible not to adore Andrew, just… impossible. But James would also prefer not to develop a deep, hopeless, one-sided crush on his straight (sigh) co-star, and James also knows that actors can often be hopelessly needy without returning the favor. Andrew at heart just wants everyone to love him; it’s his Achilles heel, and James has told him so often, but James also suspects the message is undermined by the fact that James likes Andrew so much.
But they’ve got a long, grueling performance road still to travel, and James has been burned plenty of times by assuming incorrectly that whatever bond he had with another actor would survive once the play was all over. So: he’s absolutely not endangering his heart by wasting time wondering whether Andrew’s beats only for him.
Or so he thinks; and then the kiss happens.
It’s Easter weekend and the crowds are out, so Andrew’s swamped signing autographs at the stage door. James has already finished — the crowds mostly flock for Andrew, and he doesn’t like to get in the way, so he tries to go outside early, sign a few autographs, and then clear out before Andrew and Russell make the rounds. Tonight, however, some of the cast is headed to Denise’s for drinks after the show.
“James, make sure you fetch Andrew and take him with you,” she orders.
“Why me?” James asks. “It’s bloody cold out, you’re a torturer.”
Denise rolls her eyes at him. “Because you’re each other’s appropriate adult,” she says. “Now go on, he’ll stay outside forever catching cold if you don’t.”
Andrew’s always immersed when James finds him outside the stage door, and tonight is no different. “Hi, love,” he says to Andrew, and he doesn’t intend for his touch to turn into a caress — god knows they’re too intimate as it is — but he slides his hand gently over Andrew’s back before he’s thought about it.
Andrew glances up.
“Some of us are heading out to—” He halts. Andrew’s looking at him expectantly, lips parted, and James’s brain actually grinds to a complete halt for a moment as the realization hits; he wants me to kiss him.
It all feels like slow motion, but can’t be more than a few milliseconds: James is tractor-beamed forward, tugged into the kiss by Andrew’s eyes and his gorgeous fucking mouth, and it’s barely a peck, but it’s Andrew and it’s themand it’s public and — Andrew just kissed him.
The thought bursts over him, right in chorus with the shrieks that erupt from the fans all around them:
Andrew likes him.
His grin is unstoppable, he can feel it splitting his face, and Andrew looks so smug and coy and James must look ridiculous but he can’t stop smiling. Andrew likes him, not just his acting, Andrew likes this, Andrew likes this thing and it’s their thing, they’re friends, and —
And James is such a fucking lost cause, honestly, who did he think he was kidding?
“You saucy minx,” he says, laughing and swatting Andrew’s arm.
“I knew you couldn’t resist me, I knew it all along,” Andrew says, clearly delighted.
James tells him he’ll wait for him in the car, and then he beats a hasty retreat so he can piece himself back together.
It’s not like they don’t kiss, they kiss all the time; performative physical intimacy on and offstage is the language of theatre, and James recognizes it for what it is — just that, a performance. But a gratuitous kiss in public, where anyone can see them…
No, ridiculous. it’s Andrew, he’s like this with everyone, James watched that Golden Globes Spideypool kiss on loop just like everyone else did, he’s only human. And actually the fact he even knows what Spideypool is should tell him just how much trouble he’s gotten himself in.
Get yourself together, lad, he orders himself. You’re here to put on a very important and prestigious play full of social commentary and trenchant political invective, you’re not here to obsess over your co-star or keep tabs on every other time Andrew Garfield has been flirty and metrosexual with someone who isn’t you.
He’s fully convinced himself of this when Andrew slides into the car next to him. “Hey, you,” he says, taking James’s hand without another thought, and James tries not to look anything like infatuated. “Thanks for waiting.”
James laughs as the car pulls out into the street. “Please, people wait on you hand and foot, the least I can do is hang out in a car for a minute or two.”
Andrew blushes. “Well, you don’t wait around for too many people,” he says. “I’m glad I get to be one of them.”
And there it is, again, the smile splitting James’s face without his conscious control.
“Look at you,” Andrew says. “God, you look so…”
James turns to him, startled by the note in Andrew’s voice. “What?”
Andrew… Andrew shivers. His gaze drops to James’s mouth.
And then his expression shifts into something hungrier; his eyes meet James’s own, and they’re dark with intent.
“If I’d known that all I needed to do to make you smile like that was to kiss you,” he says, voice going low, “I’d’ve had my mouth on you every night.”
All the breath leaves James’s body and all the air leaves the car at once.
They’re just crossing over Waterloo Bridge, and it suddenly feels to James as though he’s poised between a before and an after, between two radically different states of being and awareness.
He drags oxygen into his constricting lungs and tries to sound calm. “It’s not that I’m trying to hamper your self-expression or anything, Andrew, but is it not still the case that you’re straight?” He forces himself to meet Andrew’s eyes, which are still fastened to his, glittering and intense and unfairly earnest. “Because that’s one hell of a drug you’re offering, and I’d like to know how bad the withdrawal effects will be.”
And Andrew, because Andrew never makes anything easy for James, holds his gaze and leans in and murmurs, “Why don’t you kiss me again and find out?”
James’s mouth drops open, because he intends to put up a protest or say no, that this is a terrible, horrible, no-good dangerous idea and that Andrew’s inner Prior Walter is probably shrieking at him that he knows better, and why would Andrew toy with James’s sadly hilarious emotions when the play has already left them both feeling so vulnerable —
— but what actually happens is that he cups Andrew’s beautiful face and kisses him, deep and possessive and sure, the way he’s wanted to for months, and a delectable shudder rockets through Andrew’s entire body and he gasps and bends into James like he really is that fucking flower and James is the goddamn sun. He opens up to James and traces James’s mouth with his tongue and leans up to bite James’s ear.
“No, really not feeling very straight anymore,” he murmurs. “Really liking this new side you’re bringing out in me.”
“Oh, my god, you bloody infuriating harridan,” James rasps, pressing kisses against Andrew’s perfect throat. “I’ve wanted you for months and you’ve just been torturing me—”
“No, never,” Andrew says, suddenly tender. He pulls back and cups James’s face in his hands. “Just trying to work up the courage.” He swallows. “The courage to make this real.”
James goes breathless all over again, but this time the feeling is completely different. He wraps his arms around Andrew’s waist, wondering distantly if that’s just going to be a thing he gets to, to do now, just wrap his arms around Andrew like he has the right, like he has standing permission to touch and lay claim to Andrew’s perfect body whenever he wants?
And then he has the surreal experience of wondering, in exactly the same moment, how he’s ever going to survive it — and also how the hell he survived without it before.
“This is the realest thing I know,” he says. “But, Andrew, you and me together, it can’t be a fluke, it means too much, there’s too much at stake, I feel too much—”
“I know, I’ve told myself every day since I met you,” Andrew whispers, pressing a rough kiss against James’ mouth.”God, don’t you think I’ve been trying not to fall for you? But it’s like standing under a waterfall trying not to get wet, you are this daily deluge of, of beauty and talent and brilliance and fury and younessand all I think about is your fucking mouth and I, I can’t, James, I,” and then they’re kissing again, and Andrew hitches himself up and over James’s lap and grinds against James’s thigh like he was born for this.
“Jesus christ,” James yelps, because if Andrew is going to grind him right now they’re going to have to tip the driver a hell of a lot more and also probably skip Denise’s party altogether, and that is more than okay with James, but he needs, he needs ground rules, he needs boundaries, he needs to think.
“Hold on,” he tries, and Andrew responds by slipping his hands beneath James’s shirt and palming James’ skin. “Oh, god, nevermind, don’t hold on, terrible idea,” James murmurs, biting the underside of Andrew’s jawline.
“So I think I might be demi,” Andrew says. He’s so pliant and twisty and bendable and, okay, they are definitely skipping Denise’s party.
“If you’re demisexual,” he manages, vaguely surprised he’s this coherent with a squirming Andrew Garfield in his lap, “then that means you…you’re in—”
He freezes.
Andrew pulls back and smiles at him, a little wry, a little smug. His cheeks are flaming and his hair is completely demolished, James has dreamt about seeing him this way.
“Means I fall in love first, and the rest doesn’t matter,” he says. He grins, slow, at whatever James’s face is doing. “Don’t look so shocked, it’s all your fault.”
“I wasn’t even sure if you liked me,” James blurts. ”I wasn’t even sure if we were, the kind of friends who’d stay friends after this is all over, I didn’t want to assume you’d—”
“Baby, that’s because this isn’t friendship,” Andrew says, rubbing his hands over James’ chest. “You and me — we’ve been falling in love since the day we met.” He presses a kiss against James’s forehead, and then against his nose. “And that terrifies me,” he says, breath catching. “But not enough to make me want to stop.”
“Don’t stop,” James says, knowing he sounds plaintive, but meaning it more than he’s ever meant anything in his life. He slides his hand up over the curve of Andrew’s precious face and holds him there. “Don’t ever stop.”
“I don’t ever plan to,” Andrew replies, and he kisses James all the way home.
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A car, two cops and a stardust — a RebelCaptain road trip fic
by @pingou7 pingou for @thestarbirdfromtheashes Starbird
(aka the Road trip fic Diego Luna’s filmography made me write)
Read and enjoy, and please consider leaving me a few words.
Summary:
As the dusty roads criss under Kes Dameron’s old car, Cassian Andor lets the wind mess with his hair through the open window. Dust, sunshine, laughter, its easy to recapture the taste of days long gone.
(…)
At a gas station near Corpus Chirsti, when they climb back after taking a piss, both jump out of their skins as a random brunette, eyes thunderous, hisses dangerously from the backseat:
“Just pretend I’m not here.”
UPDATE: Part 3 is up!
Note: I thank @ruby-red-inky-blue for letting me burrow the name of Cassian’s little brother from her story The World Through A Scope! Danke mein Freund.
Read on AO3 (or under the cut)
Part 3 — From Arizona to Gina’s House, San Diego, CA. Day 2
She’s whimpering incoherently, calling out to her Papa, raging about some Saw and Cassian nudges her awake before switching gears. Kes groans on the back seat, rubbing his eyes, but he holds his tongue, while, disoriented, she tries to control her breathing and toys with her necklace.
“Jyn, you’re okay?”
She nods and asks where they are — Arizona, they’re nearing Tacna, it’s close to 9AM — they’ll soon stop for breakfast. It’s Cassian’s treat, so no drive-thru this time, she could have something close to an English breakfast if she feels like it. She seems surprised by the offer, but she soon declares that’s she’s always up for a cuppa of oolong and scrambled eggs with sausage. Confirming his hypothesis about her being British, he figures that’s about as much comfort as he’s allowed to give her. Thankfully, it was the right thing to do since her shoulders aren’t so tense anymore, and she exhales.
That’s how the trio finds itself at the Ligurta Station Restaurant, in Wellton, which is precisely crowded because renowned for its breakfasts. It’s the reason why usually Cassian and the Damerons prefer to refuel before that, in Tacna. But the cops keep this to themselves as they dig in their own plates. There Kes calls home and chats a bit with a downhearted Poe — he’s sick, while Papa and Uncle Cass have fun without him… — and overall it’s nice to have good food, great company for all it’s unexpected, and to be relatively close to San Diego.
“I don’t know about you, guys, but I need the restroom.”
“Do you need us to accompany you?” Kes asks, seeing her scanning the crowd intently.
“Why, you don’t trust me to return to you?”
“Trust goes both ways,” Cassian retorts and she blinks at him.
“I’d be a fool to ditch you now, you’re the best cover I have, I’m just gonna pee.”
When she comes back and they’re ready to drive the last portion, perhaps out of defiance, she cheekily passes each arm under theirs as they exit, making Kes chuckle. Cassian remains stone-faced, but pulls himself a bit closer to her than strictly necessary, and all three walk to the car.
Eventually, after the third rotation and last three hours of driving, they arrive at lunch time in front of the house of Gina Consuelo Alvarez Cuarón. Jyn is not the only one letting out a relieved sigh, for hers was not the only countdown, though the guys — amongst endless chatter — have not evoked it, least they bring misfortune. Charolastras are superstitious creatures, perhaps, but the frailty of the happy woman welcoming them confirms they were right to hurry up.
Cassian and Jyn stand together as Kes greets the effusive lady and explains why neither Shara nor Poe are here, but things get awkward when he tries to introduce the unknown woman they came with.
“Is she your sweetheart, Cariño?” Gina asks Cassian with a serene smile.
“I’m not,” Jyn answers readily, “my name is Jyn and Cassian is… we’re friends.”
“He’s her white Knight,” Kes supplies with a shit eating grin his brother can certainly punch it right off his face.
But weirdly this explanation seems to placate the old woman — like Cassian is used to be chivalrous to every damsel that appears on the back seat of car… — and after patting his hand benevolently, she gives them their space with no further comment.
Jyn asks for the phone, of course, presumably to update her people, and both brothers turn a blind eye as they entertain their host the best they can. The woman they consider like an aunt seems mortified by the fact she did not cook them anything. They downplay it, as she is the one they went to see, not her recipes, but it’s clear that she’s worse than she’d let on, on the phone. As she asks about little Poe, Cassian sees the proud father setting his jaw remorsefully. Suddenly he’s very glad for driving as much as they did since they’ve left Corpus Christi, and not just for Jyn’s sake.
Speaking of her, through defiantly raised, her chin quivers just a little bit after her phone call. She’s quick to cover it, of course, saying a few banalities to Gina who all but beams at her, but he caught that, and Kes sent her a worried glance too. He beckons her over, and she sits besides Cassian, and while their fingers brush under the table for a few seconds, her palm is sweaty.
If only they knew what hails her, who are the people she’s hiding from, and why… the scraps of information they’ve gathered so far aren’t enough to draw any conclusions from. All through the frugal dinner, he can’t help but feel frustrated, about Jyn’s muteness, about Gina’s bad health, about Kes’ forced gaiety. He wishes Shara or even Kay were here, almost childishly, but there’s just an old woman, two cops and a fugitive.
Cassian lends the room that is supposedly his when he stays over to Jyn, and obviously has to bunk in with Kes, something they haven’t had to do — outside of work and service — since they were nineteen or so. It’s obvious neither are looking forward to that aspect of recapturing the good old days. Despite having the speaker on, Cassian feels like a third wheel as soon as Kes calls his wife:
“Hello Babe, we’ve just arrived at Gina’s, how are you both?”
“We’re fine, it’s nice to have our little man all to myself. Things went okay for you on the road?”
“Yep, don’t worry, everything’s fine, only we somewhat picked up a stray.”
Cassian mouths “whipped” to him, despite knowing Kes couldn’t have kept Jyn’s presence to himself if he valued his manhood, but his next answer made him throw is pillow at the married man anyway.
“Another dog? BB8 may be cute as hell, but the pup’s enough already.”
“No, it’s not a dog. From the looks of it, green eyes, claws, defensive attitude, it’s a wayward cat. Cassian have taken quite a fancy to her I’d say.”
“Screw you Dameron!”
The traitor is laughing so much Shara senses her husband is most likely bullshitting again and she groans:
“Guys, I told you I don’t want to play the referee between you. I’ll leave that to Kay when you’re at the precinct. Just, Cass, promise me you won’t get too scratched by this wayward cat, whoever she is.”
Now Cassian is internally cringing — of course Shara Bey-Dameron would have picked the analogy right away… — but he still agrees because these two busy-bodies and their son are the only family he has left. They may be overbearing, but he’s glad to have them looking out for him. Wanting to give them privacy, he leaves the room, regretting the fact that he’s not smoking anymore, for it would have given him something to do.
Jyn stays just on the other side of the door to their adjoining rooms. He ponders about knocking and seeing what she was up to, but then decides against it, because it would be too stalker-ish. The urges he is feeling since she appeared in the car just yesterday afternoon confuse the hell out of him and there’s no need to add substance to Kes’ suspicion of a crush, but she swings the door open anyway.
She wears a bathrobe that covers the essential and she’s so petite it dwarfs her a little. She seems surprised to see him in the corridor and it’s obvious, from the way she’s (un)clothed to the towel she holds under her arm, that she plans to take a shower in the bathroom that is two doors down.
“Oh, Cassian.”
“Hi, Jyn. Kes is on the phone, so I… wanted to give them privacy.”
“I’ll be back in a jiffy,” she replies, showing him the towel with her chin. “So, do you want to hang out a moment?”
“Really?”
He is surprised that she didn’t hesitate to offer, considering the amount of time they’ve spent together in a cramped space already. Her fingers come to touch his wrist as a welcoming gesture. Her nails are cropped short, so definitely no scratches on the horizon, then, Cassian muses, having a hard time repressing his smile. Jyn musts sense something because immediately as he enters, she says, a warning in her tone:
“It’s the least I can do, you would have this room for yourself if not for me, but I’m sure your brother is gonna barge in here soon anyway. He doesn’t like me very much.”
He doesn’t know how she got that impression. Kes didn’t sound too annoyed with Shara on the phone, then again after the cat comment, Cassian didn’t feel like sticking around. Maybe he would not have liked what his mocking brother has to say about Jyn — or about him, for that matter. Still, out of fairness, he replies:
“Kes likes everyone as a rule, you haven’t done anything to earn his distrust so far. I’m the circumspect one.”
“I don’t know about that. You don’t seem cold to me,” she says, surely referring to the uncharacteristic way he came to her rescue.
“Not to you, no,” he responds huskily, taking a step towards her.
“I’m glad.”
These words make him happy, for some reason and as she goes to wash, he is almost smiling again.
The room hasn’t changed since the first time he’d been there. He can’t help but snoop around a little, and to his delight she had left her clothes within reach.
In her vest he finds an handful of cash, not enough to pay a plane ticket or anything, a prepaid phone with a broken screen… and in an inner pocket, some ID: Passports, green cards… there are several of them, actually, all with her photo but different names. His blood turns cold and finding two more worrisome items, he replaces all his discoveries and tries to focus on something else for now, it’d be better once his brain had processed all this evidence, calmly.
In a corner of the nice but outdated room, his preteen self is stiffly standing besides Dameron — if his hair had been way too long, Kes on the other hand, sported a shorter haircut, heavily spiked with hair gel. They were fourteen, or perhaps fifteen for Kes, still wearing black from head to toes, because they bore the full mourning of Gina’s sister, Dolores. Cassian spoke English already, while his brother had not bothered until then. They look like babies but Cassian felt world weary already and it shows, because behind him, Jyn suddenly says:
“Even I would recognize you at once, with him grinning and you frowning.”
“Christ! How can you sneak up like that?!”
“You were distracted, obviously.”
Yes, he was, but still, he’s not easily taken by surprise and it takes some skills — perhaps of the professional kind? — to manage this for the second time in a row. He notes this in the corner of his mind as he considers the granny-like nightgown she wears — it goes to her ankles — and her hair, longer than he’d thought.
“I’m so tired,” she says, flopping back onto the bed, “and I’m not even the one driving.”
“Let’s just say you’re not the only one who’s in a rush. We’ll take our time once we leave San Diego. But Gina was expecting us, so we quickened the pace.”
“She seems like a nice lady. She offered me some of her granddaughter’s clothes for tomorrow, but I am fine with the clothes I got on my back. I’m not often in girlie clothing anyway… but she’s very kind.”
“Yes, she is really sweet. But she’s also old and a little sick, so…”
He leaves the rest hanging up in the air, but she understands and seeing him still standing, taps the bed next to her. He comes over and sits next to her, on the mattress, his back against the wall and his legs spread in front of him.
“So, she’s your aunt?”
“The same way Kes is my bro. She pulled us out of the gutter after her sister died, in Mexico. She didn’t have to, did it anyway. Her husband, Alfonso, he was Spanish. Brought us there a summer, in Pamplona, when we were barely twenty, and Kes met Shara.”
“Pretty romantic.”
“Yeah, I’m not one for romance, but these two are made for each other.”
Both stare at the ceiling but it’s not so bad. For all his qualities, his brother has never truly known the value of silence, of just staying besides someone and sharing the same air, for the beauty of it. He hears her breathing next to him and the sound lulls him a bit. He can’t hear anything else, but he has spent so much time in the car that the vibration of the motor is still present in his body, he feels it like a tidal wave. My, he’s getting older.
“You can sleep with me,“ she eventually whispers as he gapes at her. "Seriously Cassian, if I wanted to do the nasty, you think I’d use that line?”
“Kes would have, he probably did at some point, in fact. But I get what you mean. Thanks for the offer, but I really should get back to him. From what I recall, he likes to grab all the covers.”
“I don’t,” she replies as he sits up, preparing to go, “listen, the truth is… I could use some company.”
He reads in her eyes that she’s afraid of finding herself alone, in a strange place, far away from her brother and with people still on her heels for a reason she has not given yet. He has a really bad feeling about this, but he complies because it probably cost her to admit as much. He feels a rush that he really shouldn’t when smiles at him, a real blinding smile that shows teeth, and if he ever had some doubts before, he can’t deny he’s a total goner.
“Goodnight Cassian.”
“Sleep well, Jyn, tomorrow is another day.”
He feels stupid for telling such platitude, for a second. Only… it was what his parents used to say to him, he realizes, suddenly petrified on the mattress, while she rolls on her side. He doesn’t know what it means, but he’s sure it’s no coincidence: he’s worked too hard to suppress any unwanted reminder of his life before first grade.
There was a time when he knew Kes (his parents and the Damerons had been friends before they were even born) but he wasn’t his brother yet. He had another, a toddler who had learned to walk while gripping his legs, who had been all curls and smiles, a cherub, called back to heaven far too soon. Lord, I command you the soul of my brother Marco, so that he may be safe in your embrace, until the end of all days, Amen.
She must have sensed him crossing himself, or maybe he let out a sound, because Jyn comes unbearably closer and the clean scent of soap fills his nostrils and locks unwanted recollections — and reflexes — in the depths of his memory. He tries to put his hands somewhere, since usually he’s a pillow hugger, but he doesn’t know where to put them without touching hers. He pulls back hastily, force himself to sleep on his back. He’s counting her evening breaths until her fingers touch his, just barely, then he drifts away.
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Welcome to Tea Leaves RP, INGRID, please grab a pot and pour a cup for yourself and WILLIAM MULCIBER!
We are excited to see your take on Ol’ Mulci with his ego, masculinity, and flower laden tea. Please link us to a blog within 24 hours.
II. CHARACTER STATS:
NAME: William Caius Mulciber “Ol’ Mulci” to close friends and acquaintances, a nickname he despises; “Will” to his parents, “Willy” to Mary behind closed doors —- NOTE: I am willing to change the nicknames if the players for Charlie and Mary differ in preference!
BIRTHDATE/AGE: January 2; 24
GENDER IDENTITY & PRONOUNS: he/him and cis male
WAND: After his father’s death, it only made sense for him to get a wand; there was nothing stopping him, after all, besides his mother’s anxiety, and that was easy to overstep. Stepping into the storefront of Ollivander, it frustrated him that it took him several tries to get a custom made wand — at long last, he received a telegram from him: “It’s ready.” Arriving impatiently at Ollivander’s, he listened to the man’s long lecture about proper wandcraft before at last collecting his eleven-inch, ash wand with a core of unicorn hair.
III. DESIRED CHANGES (if none, leave blank):
CHARACTER CHANGES: William didn’t murder his father, exactly; but when the elder Mulciber fell ill, he may have used low quality water for his tea and swapped the hearty green tea for a far cheaper brew. Mary knows this and it is a matter of trust between them — there are not many people William trusts so implicitly, but Mary is one of them.
FC CHANGES: no change, I adore Godfrey Gao!
ADDITIONAL CHARACTERS: n/a
IV. CHARACTERIZATION DETAILS:
SOCIAL POSITION: The Mulcibers’ place was very established towards the top, although they know they are not quite at the aerie in which the Blacks resided, which is why a marriage was essential to propel their heir to that place. The Mulcibers dealt in tea and other commodities, it was only that they gained an entrance into the Tibicena Line that they were able to begin trading in magical curios as well. William has reasserted the family as a sort of grounded sort, at least behind the scenes, by consorting with the lower classes on some level for the collection of favors and such.
EDUCATION: Early on, William was sent to a boarding school for those of his standing; in that raucous schoolboy epoch, he learned much of the ebb and flow of power, and how to control others. On a more practical level, he learned everything a young man was expected to learn — English, arithmetic, geography, Latin. He tried his hand at a variety of instruments but excelled in none (to the disappointment of his mother), but in horsemanship he was on the level of a deity. He enjoyed moving another being to his will, breaking it, and was quite adept at it if the words of his superiors meant anything. During the holidays, he would stay at his family’s manor, and his days would be consumed with Mary, his effusive maid, his wixen maid. They became quite close, a sort of escape from his other duties — William learned a number of small tricks, like unlocking doors and basic Transfiguration. She was quite adept at stroking his ego and making him feel important, something he always hungered for subconsciously.
DAILY GRIND: William wakes up early, kisses his wife on the cheek, and makes his way to the dock. After being debriefed for the day by his assistant, he exchanged words with Macnair, and hangs about in his office for some hours before returning home. Everyone knows that while William is through Andromeda a large stakeholder of the Tibicena Line, he is able to delegate most of his responsibilities to lesser (less ostensibly wealthy) souls. In the evenings, he often prepares for various social gatherings, such as balls, dances, dinners and the like, many of which are tributaries from which stem great offers for business. Every once in a while he shows his close associates some tricks — small, albeit wondrous yet tricks — that may help in garnering a deal. His nights are often spent with Mary, his wife blissfully asleep at the other end of the house.
THE TEA: Rose milk tea: This non traditional tea was first made for him by his mother. Crafted with milk, rosewater, Earl Grey, and topped with a smattering of rose petals, he tended to hide his enjoyment of this tea from his close friends as it was seen as “too feminine”. Sometimes, he still has it and it brings to mind a healthy hearth and his mother, soft and weak, a ghost of a woman, her entire being present in that concoction — it has dubious magical properties, but it instilled in the drinker a sort of atavic epiphany. Earl Grey with Lemongrass: This is more or less William’s signature blend; strong and resolute possessing once again dubious magical properties, he has it every morning with breakfast. Some may criticize it as a “dull” tea, but in its harsh simplicity William finds grace and beauty. The drinker can often expect alertness afterwards, although William swears it increases potency.
GOALS:
— GOAL ONE: POWER & CONTROL. Although not as Machiavellian as he likes think himself to be, for most if not all of his life William has been fixated on the collection and allocation of power. A significant step was his marrying Andromeda, and that has increased his confidence and ego as well. Erstwhile the disappointment — his father was especially harsh, and his possessing magical abilities had to be kept very hush-hush, he has rose above what his father thought of him to become a patriarch of sorts. Whether it be concerning his wife — as lovely a distraction as Mary is, there is something about Andromeda’s pattern of life that bothers him — or the Tibicena Line, if he is lacking in any area he is most likely to increase his efforts tenfold to remedy it.
— GOAL TWO: OMNISCIENCE & OMNIPOTENCE. At heart an intensely traditional and conservative individual, it bothers him that he is not yet an expert where it concerns magic and magical artifacts. Hence his materialism, his need for more — more teachings from Mary, more collection of magical curio, more ability to direct the shipping (the who, what, and where of it) and while not lacking the wherewithal to take things in his own hands, William rather lacks the confidence. He rather thinks it only natural that a company headed in part by matriarchs is so bereft with trouble with every corner, and is hoping to charm his wife and his sister-in-laws into increasing his status.
— GOAL THREE: LIBERTY, DEAD. While a wix, Mulciber is very much against the Wixen Rights Movement, for it rather serves his purposes to have the wixen be a downtrodden people. He often feigns support for such zealots as Narcissa, but widespread rights for wixen at all levels of society — why, he shudders at the very thought.
V. CHARACTER INTRODUCTION:
“Put your arm around mine.” William said, delivered more as a command than anything else, directed at his betrothed, Andromeda. She yielded, her hand a stark white against his navy suit. A sharp exhale on her side, his quick, brusque — “Shall we enter, then?” A curt nod from his betrothed, and the door was opened.
Before them was the drawing room of the Black manor, a sampling of the vast plate that was the Black clan. William could recite all of their names by now — Druella, Walburga, Bellatrix, Narcissa.
“William, is it?” Walburga said sharply. Gazing at her and gauging her to be one of the two Tibicena matriarchs, he smiled graciously, bowing and kissing her hand. “William Mulciber.” He said, delivering the name like a gift.
“Where’s your mother?” Druella said, her lips pursed at him. William smiled at her, as well; seeing the dark look in her eyes, he recognized the tinge of desperation in it. Andromeda wasn’t as glittering as her sisters, but it was an offering he would gladly take.
“She’s ill,” Mulciber said, before kissing her hand as well. It was a half-truth, coated in gossamer; in a way, his mother was always ill, bedridden for one reason or another, so it really took nothing at all for her to feign it a bit more to evade this particular escapade. “She sends her best regards, however. And this —“ Carefully he passed a letter with the Mulciber signet on it. Druella and Walburga took turns hunching over it, deciphering his mother’s hasty scrawl. Nothing of particular note in it, just excuses and niceties, the usual playacting that must take place in these deals. William had promised to support her when he secured the inheritance, so his weak-willed mother had easily bent into being a full-fledged backer of the match.
Walburga flared her nostrils at him, and leaned into Druella, whispering something in her ear. He could imagine what they were saying — they knew of his abilities through the canals of gossip but not much else but that he may be nothing more than an opportunistic cur. Not so terribly distant from the truth, but he had layers upon layers to convince them he was anything but.
But none of that became necessary, as they exchanged a few glances before saying together, simply: “We’ll keep in contact.”
A misleading answer, draped in ambiguity for the sake of it; an hour later when a messenger was sent to the Mulciber estate to notify them that they would meet later to plan the wedding, he smiled, and began to prepare his tea.
VI. MUN BACKGROUND QUESTIONS:
What is your ideal game? I usually tend towards literate HP RPs, and this is the most AU I have ever applied for — usually I’m into canon-heavy Riddle or Marauder era, slight AU but nothing too canon-divergent. This is rather a novel experience for me and I hope I can do this rendition of Marauder-era Mulciber justice!
What is your least favorite element of this game?
Honestly, I wish there was more darkness, more inclusion of a Death Eater-like sect, although contrarily that is part of what I like about this RP in all its unorthodoxy.
I chose this character because…
I picked up a Mulciber over at Morsmordre RP, a marauders RP, my first time doing so, and I have thus far enjoyed it immensely. Playing a male character with such a large ego and too much power who is so easily emasculated — I very much like dissecting such a character over many, many plotlines. I also enjoy the flip regarding Mary — usually painted as Mulciber’s victim, now more or less his puppeteer.
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