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cherienymphe · 3 years

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Stranger Beside Me (Steve Rogers x Reader)

WARNINGS: NON-CON, forced pregnancy, mentions of abortion, toxic relationships, domestic abuse, I don’t know if I’ve ever written anything this angsty in my life

DNI IF THIS OFFENDS YOU

Here is the long awaited boyfriend!Steve fic.

summary: you and Steve have the perfect relationship, and you want to keep it that way. It’s why he can never discover your secrets, but your secrets wouldn’t even exist if it weren’t for his own.

The first time you got pregnant, you had never been more disappointed with yourself in your life. Not even failing a major class during college had made you feel as bad as you did when you were staring at that little plastic stick, trying and desperately failing to convince yourself that you were just seeing double. How could you be so careless? How crazy it was to think that a small insignificant piece of plastic could change your mood and life so drastically.

You had sat down on the toilet and remained there for hours. So many thoughts were swirling in your head, possibilities that you didn’t even want to entertain but you found yourself doing so anyway. Eventually, you came to a conclusion that was easy to say: you weren’t ready for a baby. Admitting and accepting that wasn’t hard at all. The hard part was the question that followed.

What were you going to do about it?

You had struggled with that particular part for days, and you were grateful more than ever that Steve was on a mission. You knew what he would do if he found out, what he would say, and it was an argument you were unprepared to have. You weren’t ready to break his heart like that and face the possibility that this could be the end for you.

Steve Rogers, Captain America himself, was the best boyfriend anyone could ask for. You were Pepper’s stylist, hired for special events, and having been in town for a company party thrown by Tony Stark himself, that was where you met Steve. The attraction was mutual, but you were a woman of the world, constantly jetting off to whatever celebrity needed you at the moment. A stationary girl trying to have a relationship with a superhero would be hard enough, let alone one whose feet never remained on the ground.

And that was what you told the blond avenger after the second time he slept over at your place. The first time, a week after the party, was only meant to be a one time thing. At least, that was your impression, but Steve liked you, and no matter how much you pretended you didn’t, you liked him too. Before you knew it, you were leading him into your apartment for a second time, mouth starved and hands searching.

He was the most attentive lover you’d ever been with, touching you like you were nothing less than fine china, desperate for the taste of you on his lips. He held you like he was afraid to break you, and considering that the man was a super soldier, you understood that, but still. His touch, combined with the way he looked at you, made you feel like you were literally the only woman in the whole world. It was intense.

“I know,” he had sighed, staring up at the ceiling as you looked at him. “You just...make me feel so comfortable.”

You had frowned, never considering that. After all, this was only the second time you’d slept together.

“I do?”

He turned to look at you, a small smile on his pink lips, blue eyes sparkling.

“Of course.”

You rolled over onto your stomach, resting on your forearms as he continued, watching as he reached out to brush a finger over the skin of your back.

“You don’t look at me like a superhero, but instead just some guy who is really great in bed.”

You let out a sheepish chuckle, dropping your head, and he joined you.

“Don’t feel bad. It’s surprisingly refreshing. It makes me feel like I have room to...be less than perfect,” he murmured.

Your eyes met his then, and despite the words never escaping his lips, they were front and center in his eyes, and you sighed.

“We would never work, Steve,” you whispered, surprised at how disappointed you sounded. “You’re always off saving the world, and I’m always off dressing it.”

He didn’t respond right away, mulling over what you said.

“Maybe that’s exactly why it would work,” he said, surprising you.

You frowned a bit before raising an eyebrow at him, curious as to how he came to that conclusion.

“I’ve tried to date. God knows I’ve tried to find a girl who wants Steve Rogers and not just the face of America…”

Steve sounded sad, maybe even a bit bitter.

“...but nevermind the fact that they only see the suit and shield, they’re always left to their cozy lifestyle while I'm off saving the world. They’re always waiting around for me, eating dinners alone, sleeping alone. Having a superhero boyfriend is never what they think it will be, never worth it, and while the breakup is expected, I still feel bad.”

Your heart clenched, and you found yourself scooting closer to him. He wrapped his big arm around you, pulling you into his chest, and his whole face shifted. He smiled at you, eyes hopeful.

“...but you? You’re running around the world almost as much as I am. By the time you even have time to miss me, I’ll already be there, and if not…”

He trailed off, but he didn’t need to say it. Your lifestyle wasn’t exactly compatible with a relationship. At least, not a conventional one anyway. Spending nights alone was normal for you, and having a boyfriend that wasn’t there half the time would hardly impact your lifestyle.

You slowly returned his smile.

“Okay, Rogers. Maybe this could work.”

And work it did. 2 years and 7 months later, and the two of you were happier than ever. Tony was surprised that Steve found a girl who stuck around, and Pepper was surprised that you’d found someone who convinced you to settle down. You simply told her that Steve had made a convincing argument, but the truth was that Steve was genuinely the perfect boyfriend. You two talked whenever you could, and he had been right. By the time you even had time to miss him, he was somehow always there, knocking on the door of your apartment, doing so until he upgraded to waltzing through the door of your shared apartment.

Steve treated you like a queen, constantly making you question how you got so lucky. He always kissed you like it was going to be the last time, and he made love to you like he was personally trying to drive you crazy with pleasure. You loved him, you loved him, you loved him. You had even told him first, and he had been sad because he had wanted to tell you first for a long time, and that made you sad. So you let him tell you, and then you said it back, and he’d made love to you like he never had before, and it was there, coming undone in his arms, that you told him you loved him again and again and again.

That was why he couldn’t find out you were pregnant. It would start an argument that would ruin you, ruin everything. Steve was hardly home, and you were no different, and while it was never a problem before, it was no environment to raise a baby in. This was the truth. This made sense. Your doctor agreed, and while Steve was off saving the world on an early weekday morning, you were doing what you felt was right.

The 2nd time you got pregnant, you weren’t just disappointed at your carelessness again, but you were also angry. It was no secret that Steve wanted a baby, probably since the first moment he saw you. You always noticed the way he looked at families, the way he smiled and waved at awestruck children. The man had probably come out of the womb ready to be a father, and you loved that about him. And it wasn’t like you didn’t want children too, you certainly did, but just not anytime soon.

You still had a thriving career, and so did he, and neither one of you seemed ready to give that up in the near future. A baby required sacrifice, and you weren’t ready for that yet, and if the way Steve readily took on missions was anything to by, neither was he. You knew that if he found out, he would fight to convince you to keep it, and you would fight to convince him that neither one of you were ready. Like before, you thought to yourself that it would start an argument that could very well be the end for you.

That was where the anger came in.

Why did you keep doing this? How did you keep doing this? Both of you had always been safe, never going without a condom, but after the first pregnancy, you had even gone on birth control too, paranoid and determined to be more responsible. Yet, here you were, pregnant again. You knew what this would do to your relationship, so how could you be so negligent again? It was as if you were subconsciously trying to ruin everything and you hated yourself for it.

Steve had not been away on a mission this time, and you immediately took all of the garbage out under the guise of cleaning the house. He seemed far more attentive that night than usual, but it could have just as easily been your own paranoia. His mouth covered yours in a heated kiss as he pressed his hips to yours, pulling a moan from you.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he murmured into your mouth, pulling back before sliding into you again.

Your legs were tight around his waist, and his hands were tight on yours. The only thing that filled the room was the sound of heavy moans and harsh breathing, occasionally interrupted by whatever Steve chose to say. It never not surprised you how much Steve enjoyed talking to you in bed. Praising you, degrading you, teasing you. He enjoyed making you squirm from more than just his cock.

“You know what would make you even more beautiful? Radiant?”

“What?” you breathed, hands running through his hair.

“A baby,” he mumbled, lips ghosting over your chin, making you freeze.

At first you thought that maybe he knew. Although there was no logical explanation for thinking that, you’d been very careful, you couldn’t help it. Your heart picked up the pace, but then you realized that Steve was just being Steve. He had mentioned children in passing, but it was done in the way that you mentioned children. Always in a future tense. It had never been like this, so straightforward and with a sense of urgency.

He wanted a baby now.

“Come on,” you chuckled, trying to brush him off, attempting to press your lips against his.

He moved out of your reach, and you tried not to let it show how much you were bothered by this conversation. His blue eyes searched yours, a faint smile on his face as he hovered over you.

“I’m serious. Think about how beautiful you’d be, round and glowing with my child,” he continued, finally kissing you.

His hips snapped into yours, more force behind his thrusts, like the idea of you swollen with his child was the biggest turn on. You never even got a chance to truly voice your displeasure, a moaning and quivering mess until you finally came around him. Once your heart finally settled, you laid there, thinking about the fact that Steve wanted a baby now despite the fact that neither of your lifestyles could accommodate one.

When he came back to bed after disposing of the condom, he pulled you into his arms, and you settled against him. He pressed his face into your hair, breathing you in, and you closed your eyes, feeling like the worst girlfriend in the world.

“I can’t wait til we never have to buy those again,” he whispered.

Your heart clenched, and you forced yourself to go to sleep by listing every reason you could think of as to why you were doing the right thing. A week later, Steve kissed you goodbye in the early hours of the morning before he had to leave on another mission. 2 hours later, you were in a doctor’s office doing what you felt was best.

The 3rd time you got pregnant, you were no longer disappointed. Not even angry, but just confused. You were leaning against the closed door of your bathroom, once again staring at that little piece of plastic with nothing but confusion. You were as careful as you could possibly be. After the 2nd pregnancy, you always triple checked to make sure that you never forgot your birth control. You made sure that the house was always stocked with condoms.

You didn’t understand it.

You had been startled by a knock on the door, and you hurriedly rushed to get rid of the test. You hadn’t realized how long you’d been in the bathroom, and Steve had started to get worried. At least, that was what he told you through the door.

“Are you okay?”

What a loaded question. Were you okay? Here you were, pregnant for the third time within a year and you couldn’t figure out how. Of course, it was obvious as to how, but it should have been very unlikely. You knew that condoms, even when paired with birth control, weren’t going to be 100% effective. You were an adult with common sense. That you understood. One unplanned pregnancy wasn’t the most ridiculous thing in the world. Shit happens.

Two within the same year still wasn’t absolutely crazy, but it was a little mind bending when you were more than careful.

But three? Three was concerning.

You opened the bathroom door with a soft smile, nodding at Steve as you stepped out.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

He looked like he didn’t quite believe you, but being the great boyfriend that he was, he didn’t press you further.

“Okay. Breakfast is on the table. Come eat?” he offered, holding out his hand.

You took it and allowed him to lead you to the dining room. Breakfast was as it always was. Steve told you about the last mission he’d just gotten back from only days ago, and you told him about the latest celebrity going through a meltdown over a dress. You enjoyed these talks with Steve, these moments with just the two of you, and you weren’t ready to alter that in any way. Not yet.

Sometimes you felt like the worst girlfriend in the world, wondering if you were being selfish for wanting it to remain just the two of you for a little while longer. You adored children, but having them wasn’t just some hobby. You would no longer be able to put yourself first, and with so much of your life still ahead of you, you weren’t ready to stop being selfish.

And that was okay.

What wasn’t okay was the lies. No matter how you tried to spin it, no matter how many justifications you made, you were lying to Steve. Perhaps in one of the worst ways possible. Sometimes you felt like you should tell him, but what purpose would it serve? Nothing could be done about the past, and he’d only end up hating you. That was what you were really afraid of. Having Steve stare at you like he didn’t even know who you were.

But you knew how Steve could be. How clouded his mind could get when it came to children and starting a family. The man enjoyed a simple life. He was nostalgic for what he felt he missed out on, and while there was nothing wrong with that, you knew that he wasn’t going to hang up the shield for it. Just like you weren’t going to put your career on pause for it, and you had no intentions of just letting some stranger raise your child.

You knew that neither one of you were willing to sacrifice in order to raise a baby in the proper environment. That was why during breakfast, as you held Steve’s hand while you two talked and ate, you decided to go through with it for a third time.

The first time had been hard. You kept second guessing everything. You knew that it was the right thing to do, but was it the right thing to do without telling Steve? Without getting his input? Without even giving him the chance to love this baby before you snatched it away? Your body, your choice right? But was it really that black and white? Was any of this fair to him?

The second time had been easier. You still hadn’t felt any better about it, but at least you weren’t going through an internal crisis. At least you knew what to expect, because that had been the most nerve wracking part, fear of the unknown. Afterwards, your mood wasn’t as sullen for as long as it was after the first time. You had moved past it fairly quickly, but after all, you had been sure it would be the final time.

The third time wasn’t anything like that. The guilt still ate away at you, but it seemed more like a standard doctor’s visit. A routine checkup. That was what you told Steve it was. He had offered to take you, but you had declined, and he had sent you off with a lingering kiss. You went to get some coffee from Starbucks afterwards.

The months that followed were filled with the usual bliss that surrounded your relationship. You two went to Tony’s parties, occasionally hung out at the compound with the rest of the team, and Steve took you out whenever he was home. Despite your relationship ruining secrets, everything was perfect.

Almost.

“Everytime you come to one of my little soirees, I keep expecting to see you 4 months pregnant,” Tony said, making you bark a laugh.

Steve only chuckled, and you squeezed his hand, sending him a soft smile. The baby talk had increased as of late, but truthfully, it had been gradually increasing for pretty much a year. If it hadn’t been obvious before, it was now. Steve was ready to have children, and while it had been a topic that was only thrown into conversation here and there, you found yourself skimming over the subject at least once a week these days.

Surely you would get to a point where a serious discussion about it would be unavoidable. Steve loved you, and you were sure that you could talk him into waiting. After all, it wasn’t like you would be saying you never wanted kids. Just not now.

“I’m serious. All ‘Capsicle’ here talks about is kids. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think the two of you had been trying for months,” the dark-haired man continued, taking a sip of his drink.

He was throwing his annual holiday party tonight, always placed in between Christmas and New Year’s, despite the fact that he threw parties on those days too. You just thought that Tony liked any excuse to party and drink.

“Sadly no,” Steve said, his tone surprising you. “We’re still just enjoying each other as much as we can. Right?”

He looked at you, and your smile faltered a bit, but you nodded. That was what you always told him whenever the topic came up. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say that Steve sounded bitter, upset even. You turned away from him, taking a sip of your champagne with a frown. You suddenly wondered if he knew, but that was easily dismissed. If Steve knew that you had secretly aborted 3 of his children, you’d be on the receiving end of more than just a strained smile and a passive aggressive tone.

You worried that tonight would be the night where you’d have the big talk, where you’d have to come out and tell Steve to give you more time. It was wild to think that even though there was nothing wrong with waiting to have kids, you felt horrible about asking Steve to do so. Maybe it was because he’s so sweet? Or because he’s literally never asked you for anything else? Or maybe it was because you had deprived him of what he wanted three times over and the guilt was getting to you.

However, you weren’t able to do that. You hadn’t even realized that you had started to sway until the glass in your hand hit the floor, shattering upon impact. Steve had only a second to turn towards you before you were collapsing in his waiting arms. Against your will, you succumbed to darkness.

When you woke up, you were in the compound. You had been in the infirmary a handful of times so it was recognizable almost immediately. Nat was there when you woke up, and she sent you a small nervous smile.

“Well, hello sleepyhead. You gave us all quite the scare,” she murmured.

You hummed, briefly shutting your eyes as you pressed your hand to your head.

“Sorry. What...what happened?”

“You fainted,” she said, handing you the glass of water that was beside the bed.

You gratefully took it, gulping it down, surprised at how thirsty you were. You thanked her when you handed it back to her and was just about to ask her where Steve was when he strode through the door. His lips were pressed together, and you worried that he’d worried about you, but the sparkle in his eyes betrayed him, and you frowned.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Nat said before making to leave. “Take care of her, Steve.”

He was at your side just as the door shut behind her, and your frown deepened when a blinding smile spread over his lips. You were confused as he took your hand, keeping his lips there as he kissed it.

“Steve…?”

He shook his head.

“Sorry,” he said, sitting down next to you on the bed, facing you as he held your hand.

The other reached out to brush over your cheek and across your jaw. Despite your confusion, you placed your hand on his, blinking at him, a bit unnerved by the look in his eye.

You hadn’t seen that look since before you two officially became a couple.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Everything is more than okay.”

He leaned in to press his lips against yours, soft and loving, and you kissed him back. When he pulled away, he looked at you like you were the most precious thing he’d ever seen, like you’d break with one touch.

“You’re pregnant,” he told you.

Your lips parted as his words washed over you, and you struggled to find something to say.

“...what?”

He repeated it with a smile, kissing you again before pulling you into a hug, one you did not return. Everything after that was a blur. Tony came in to make sure everything was fine. Dr. Cho said you were 4 weeks along is what he told you. He’d offered his congratulations, Steve took you home and wasted no time before wrapping his arms around you.

His touch was gentle throughout the night, but it lingered as if he never wanted to stop touching you. You don’t know how many times he made you come around him, but Steve didn’t seem to care about your exhaustion. With his lips constantly attached to your skin, he only cared about getting drunk off the taste of you. You let him have you as much as he wanted. You let him rejoice in this, because it was the least you could do before you broke his heart.

He was awake in the morning before you, and the smell of breakfast cooking made your stomach growl. Gratefully, you didn’t seem to have any morning sickness, but your stomach still twisted from something entirely different as you made your way to the kitchen. Steve looked like anyone’s dream as he stood there in a fitted t-shirt and pajamas, pushing food onto a plate for you.

“Morning,” you mumbled.

He looked up and approached you with a smile, pressing a kiss to your lips as he returned your greeting.

“Go sit down. I’ll bring you your food,” he told you.

Reluctantly, you did so. You were quiet as he joined you, and you started nibbling on your food.

“Sweetheart,” he scolded at the action. “You’re eating for two now. You need to eat all of it.”

He was right, and under different circumstances you would do as he encouraged, but there was no point in putting this off.

“Steve, I don’t want to have this baby.”

You hadn’t mean to say it so bluntly, but there was no easy way to say it. There was no sense in hesitating. Steve froze almost immediately, and you reluctantly met his eyes as he stared at you. He rested his forearms on the table, a small frown on his face. He looked equal parts floored and confused and hurt, and you sighed.

“...what?”

“We’re not ready,” you whispered.

Steve scoffed, shaking his head at you.

“Of course, we are,” he argued.

“So you’re ready to give up being Captain America?” you asked him.

He hesitated, and you nodded.

“...exactly. You’re not, and that’s okay, and I would never ask you to, but that’s what's going to be required if we’re going to start a family now. You like doing what you do, and I like doing what I do. Neither one of us are ready to put a stop to any of it, at least not for the time being.”

“To be fair, I save lives. There will always be some Hollywood starlet who needs a dress or the latest shoes,” he replied.

“Excuse me?” you scoffed, looking at him like he’d slapped you.

He suddenly huffed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he eventually said. “I’m just saying that putting that on hold for a few years will hardly impact you. You can always pick it up again like you never left.”

“And why am I the one who has to sacrifice, Steve? You aren’t the only superhero-!”

“Hey, hey, I’m sorry,” he cut you off as your voice started to rise, reaching for your hand.

He brushed his thumb along the back in what was meant to be a soothing getsure, but you were still a bit heated at the way he’d diminished your career.

“I’m sorry, okay? I just… I know that it’s going to be difficult-.”

“It’s going to be more than difficult. We’re talking about a baby! Both of us need to be here,” you told him.

He heaved a sigh, staring at you.

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I don’t want to have a baby right now. Maybe in a few years, sure, but neither one of us are willing to sacrifice.”

You watched as his jaw ticked, eyes narrowing just a bit as he considered your words.

“So what does that mean?”

You crossed your arms over your chest as you leaned back, avoiding his eye.

“Y/N?”

“Steve-.”

“What the hell are you saying?”

You flinched, not used to Steve cursing, and you knew that he was angry. This very conversation was what you had tried so hard to prevent, and once again, you were cursing yourself for your negligence. How on earth did you manage to get pregnant again?

You stood from the table, trying to put off this fight for five more minutes, the same fight you’d been trying to prevent for a year. You and Steve hardly ever fought, but when you did, it was for the silliest of things. Things you’d both look back on and laugh at.

Not this.

You heard Steve follow you, and his grip on your wrist was hard as he pulled you to a halt. You spun around to face him like he’d lost his mind. You tried to get out of his hold, but he wasn’t budging. He knew what you were implying, what you planned to do, and he was angrier than you’d ever seen him.

“This is my decision,” you quietly told him, making his eyes darken. “You don’t have to agree with it, you don’t even have to like it, but you can’t make me go through with this pregnancy. Neither one of us are ready.”

“So I get no say?”

He tilted his head at you, and you blinked away tears.

“I don’t want this right now, Steve. I don’t, and I’m not going to change my mind, so what do you suggest we do?”

His face softened a bit, and he stepped closer.

“Let’s give it a try. Don’t put your career on hold, okay? We’ll try to make it work-.”

He cut himself off as you started to shake your head.

“No. I’m not going to take a gamble with our child’s livelihood. There should be no ‘trying to make it work’. When you bring a baby into this world, everyone involved should be 100% on board. Things need to start moving into place to accommodate that child. This is not how it should be.”

Steve swallowed, nostrils flaring as you argued, and you sighed again. The silence that followed was heavy, thick with tension and anger and an impending sense of doom. You loved Steve, but not enough to force yourself into having a baby for him. Your chest ached, and you wanted to cry.

“If...if this means that you don’t want to be with me anymore, then I understand, but… I’m not having this baby.”

He let you go, crossing his arms over his chest, and you stood there, waiting for the verdict. His tongue poked at the inside of his cheek, jaw moving as he grinded his teeth.

“We’re not breaking up.”

He continued before you could feel an ounce of relief.

“...and you’re not getting rid of my child.”

You rolled your eyes, swallowing another sigh as you rubbed your forehead.

“Steve-.”

“Do you hear me? You are not getting rid of my child,” he spat.

He stepped closer, and you found yourself narrowing your eyes at him.

“I went through a great deal of trouble to make sure you got pregnant in the first place, and you think I’m just going to let you get rid of it? Let all of it be in vain?”

His words sucked the air out of you, and your eyes widened as the gravity of them fully hit you. Your mouth parted, but no words came out because what could you say? You couldn’t even describe the shock and horror and disgust that tore through you in that moment, and you slowly took a step back from him.

You raised your hands in front of you as your mind whirled, eyes focused on the floor as you blinked. His confession finally put things into perspective. His words put the pieces together, and your breathing grew shallow as you processed the truth.

“I knew it.”

Your words were barely a whisper, but Steve heard you nonetheless, and you took another step back when he walked towards you.

“I knew it. I knew it. I knew it,” you quietly chanted to yourself.

That was the only thing running through your mind. Had your love for Steve allowed you to ignore what was right in front of you? You were diligent with your contraceptive, so so many pregnancies in such a short time had never made sense. You kept blaming yourself despite what was so obvious. Sure, Steve was family obsessed, but you had never considered the possibility. Or did you simply never want to?

You looked up at him like he was a stranger, vision blurry from your tears, and you shook your head.

“I knew it,” you cried. “I fucking knew it.”

Steve’s eyes were narrowed, and his head was cocked to the side, something in his eyes that scared you.

“I kept wondering and wondering how it kept happening. How did I keep getting pregnant? It made no sense,” you said, more to yourself than him. “...and everytime...I felt bad. I felt like such a horrible girlfriend, and the whole time…”

You yelped when Steve’s hand made its way to your neck, pushing your back into the wall. His blue eyes were dark and venomous, a thunderous look on his beautiful face.

“You killed them?”

You didn’t respond, opting instead for fighting against him, but he wouldn’t move.

“I knew you should’ve been pregnant a long time ago. I made sure of it! And here I was thinking I did something wrong, that I messed up-.”

“Get off of me!”

You didn’t want to hear anything else about his fucked up plan, about how long he’d been doing this. You wanted him off of you and away from you. He pulled you away from the wall before slamming you back against it, making you gasp. You reached up to his chest and neck, desperately trying to get him off, but he only pressed himself more firmly against you.

“Steve,” you begged.

“You don’t know how badly I want to hurt you right now for what you did,” he sneered.

Your heart sank, and you thought to yourself that his lack of self awareness was astounding. How long had Steve been this way? Had he always been like this? How was it possible that you didn’t know your boyfriend at all?

“...but I’m sure that I can look past your betrayal when you are swollen and glowing with my child. That will make it all worth it.”

He kissed you, hard, and you screamed into his mouth. His hands pushed at the t-shirt you were wearing, his shirt, and your hands pushed at him. He lifted you until your thighs were on either side of his hips, and the sound of your hands hitting his skin filled the room. The food was barely thought about as he pressed your back to the table, pinning you down.

You were more terrified than you were five minutes ago, knowing what was about to happen no matter how much you wished you were wrong. Steve Rogers, Captain America himself, your boyfriend, was about to rape you and force you to keep his baby. It was a sentence you had the hardest time accepting, and all of your overwhelming emotions spilled over, turning you into a sobbing mess.

Did you really miss this, or was he just so good at hiding who he truly was?

Your hits were doing nothing as he reached between you, struggling to release himself with all of your movement. His free hand grabbed both of yours, holding them to your stomach just as he pushed into you. You threw your head back and cried, wondering how you got here. To think, you had thought that you were so lucky. You had thought that you were a terrible girlfriend for what you had been doing. Life was funny that way.

Your body had grown to crave Steve’s. He’d learned how to condition you so well that your core immediately started to clench around him with every thrust. You hated it, and you turned your head away, not wanting to witness him taint something that had never been anything but loving for you. His lips were on your jaw, searching for yours, and you tried to push against his hand.

With his other hand now free, he used them both to pin yours down beside you, lips finally finding yours despite your evident protest. You kept turning your head away, and he kept following. He tasted the inside of your mouth, hips pressing into yours over and over. The table beneath you shook from the force, and your stomach clenched with the pleasure that he was forcing onto you.

How did he do it? Clearly he’d poked a hole in every condom, but you knew it required more than that. Had he replaced your birth control with placebos? Had he acted alone? Tony had just about everything known to man at his disposal. Had he been in on it too?

“You’re going to look so beautiful,” he whispered into your mouth.

Another sob hit you, and you shook.

“You’re going to be absolutely radiant, and you’ll be just as beautiful when you walk down the aisle.”

You gasped at this, increasing your struggle, but he simply pulled your wrists away from the table before slamming them down. You winced in pain, and he hummed.

“...and I’ll fill you up again and again and again.”

You kicked your legs around him, body trembling as hysterical sobs left you, shuddering with every thrust into your dripping core. A particularly hard thrust pushed you over the edge, and the way you fluttered around him triggered his own climax. He came inside of you with a groan, wrapping his arms around you, preventing you from fighting back at all as he pinned your arms to your side.

His cock was still hard and still inside of you, his lips pressing kisses to your face. You felt like you were in a bad dream, and you wanted to wake up so badly. His lips traveled to your ear, brushing along the skin, and a shudder passed through you.

“Everyone will know that I tamed you, that I broke you until you were mine in every way.”

tags: @darkficreposter @xoxabs88xox @harryspet @readermia @opheliadawnwalker3 @nickyl316h @captainchrisstan @sebabestianstan101 @villanellevi @lokislastlove @notyourtypicalrose @coconutqueen21 @hurricanerin @trinittyy @hyoyeoniie @kellyn1604�� @sherrybaby14 @cocoamoonmalfoy @mandiiblanche @gotnofucks @oneoftheprettynerds @doozywoozy @sapphirescrolls @threeminutesoflife @searchforanotherway @mcudarklibrary @ksjksjkv

#dark steve rogers #dark steve x reader #dark!steve rogers #dark!steve x reader #Steve Rogers #steve rogers x reader #Dark Fic

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interact-if · 2 years

Text

Day 2 of the Game Jam Winners Months Featured Author Interviews, continuing with Groggydog!

Groggydog, author of Reclamation.

Corporate Space, the Year 21XX.

You awaken from a month of cryosleep to discover that a missing research vessel has suddenly surfaced in the deep. There are no signs of life. You are now tasked with investigating the nature of the ship’s disappearance and the fate of its crew.

Can you do it before time runs out?

Read more about Reclamation [here]

Reclamation Demo | Dev Blog

Tags: Sci-fi, Parser, Mystery.

[INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT UNDER THE CUT!]

Q1 . Tell us about the story you made for the Jam!

I made “RECLAMATION” – a science-fiction text adventure where you have to investigate the sudden reappearance of a missing research ship in deep space. It used the wonderful Adventuron engine (which gives a classic feel to the game) and is about 25,000 words long, or roughly 90 minutes of play time.

Q2. What was the biggest challenge in creating a game in such a short time span? How did you manage it?

I think the most unique challenge for me was just wrapping my head around the *how* of it all. I had to forcefully slow myself down and take days where I didn’t write or code anything, but just sat down and worked on the outline/structure of the thing. Those days were really beneficial to me, but I felt so much pressure to have it all make sense that it was just constantly in the back of my mind. Along with that, I had to account for difficulty in a way that more pure works of interactive fiction don’t necessarily have to. “Am I making this too hard? Too easy?” were things I asked myself constantly. By most text adventure standards, this was a very easy game. But for interactive fiction, it’s more difficult. Finding that balance in the puzzles and in the pacing was tough but I’m happy with where I landed.

Q3. What was your inspiration for your entry?

I had been thinking about Arthur Clarke’s book Rendezvous with Rama (one of my all-time favorites) a lot before the jam for some reason, and so I knew that I was probably going to set my game on a spaceship if the theme allowed for it. I had a few ideas floating around past that, but nothing concrete. Then, when the theme of “cliffhanger” was announced I mulled it over for a day before settling on the time loop mechanic. It made complete sense in my mind, and I wanted to explore the theme beyond the literal, obvious interpretation. I think I achieved that. A time loop, after all, is just a perpetual cliffhanger! Still, I really, really struggled with it for a while before settling on the implicit puzzle involved with having to do everything in 50 moves or less. It felt so daunting at the start.

Q4. Is this your first time working on a game like this? What do you like (or not like) about working in this format?

This is my first *serious* game in the text adventure format, although I had made a silly little game that doubled as my personal portfolio last fall. I think text adventures provide a unique challenge for interactive fiction, at least in part because of the reputation they have of being quite difficult. I had to be really conscious about how I was presenting information to the player, because I knew that the hardcore text adventure crowd who really like to puzzle things out weren’t going to be playing this game. I needed to find a way to make it both a good game and very approachable for people unfamiliar with the genre. In particular, I can’t just link from one passage to the next: I have to account for players getting lost or missing a key piece of information on the way from point A to point B, adding that time into my mental calculations, and coming up with failsafes. It really just requires you to think so differently, and it’s a fun challenge.

Q5. What is your favorite part about your entry? What have you enjoyed most doing during the Jam?

I love a good tutorial. I don’t know why. I was really gratified when a couple of people pointed out how much they liked mine. As I said earlier, I was really trying to be intentional with the difficulty level of this project, and including a tutorial was a given for me. Turning it into an in-universe event that both taught you the basics of the game and also told you about the characters and spaces felt really nice. More broadly, though, I’m just so happy to be joining the interactive fiction community. This has given me a lot of confidence to continue with other projects.

Q6. What is your advice for sprint projects like this one?

Start smaller than you think you need to. Your project is almost certainly going to balloon out from where you start, and things that seem simple in theory are going to end up being really difficult. It’s way easier to add meat than try to cut it back. To wit: my game only has three “proper” logic puzzles. I knew that any more would take too long, and I was right! I barely got those three figured out in the time I wanted. Three sounds like so few on paper, but I think it ended up being a perfect amount for the game.

Q7. Do you have any other works you’d like to promote?

I’ve just started a Tumblr where you can hear about my upcoming projects and see me analyze my own work and I recently announced my entry for the 2022 Spring Thing festival, Super Mega Tournament Arc! It’ll be my first Twine game, and I’m excited to show it off.

#if: events #if: game jam 22 #if: game jam

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lokislittlesigyn · 3 years

Text

Wake Me - Loki x Reader [Oneshot]

[My masterlist, where this and my other fics can be found]

Pairing: Loki / gender neutral reader

Warnings: Angst. But fear not, for fluff awaits!

Author’s Note: I have legitimately no idea if I’ll write more Loki x Reader; I never intended to write any because I don’t know the reader so I can’t characterize the reader but then I had a headcanon.. And then I had an idea...

And then I wrote this and I thought “hmm, I should challenge myself to do a New Thing?” and then this happened. Blame Loki, maybe? He seems to be behind a lot of this.

Is there any demand for a taglist of.. Possible future Loki x Readers? I dunno? Let me know.

This fic is loosely based off a song by the same name, which is also one of my favorite songs! Enjoy. <3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You didn’t notice it at first.

Not for the first few days… Weeks? You weren’t sure how long it had been happening. How long Loki had been leaving your bed in the middle of the night.

Your apartment was a decent size - more than decent, considering the average size of a New York City apartment. Being a close friend and employee of Tony Stark and Pepper Potts (was it Stark now?) had its perks. The apartment had a bedroom, a bathroom across the short hall, a living room which doubled as your workspace, and a good-sized kitchen. Even had a washer and dryer at the end of the hall, tucked neatly into a little closet that also held a few of your coats. As an added luxury, there was a small - very small - balcony off the living room. Hardly big enough to stand on, it was nevertheless a wonderful spot to sit and watch the sun set over the city. You loved living there, in that cozy space you’d made your own, and eventually welcomed Loki into.

Loki. Not exactly someone you’d intended to end up with. Then again, who intends to fall in love with a god?

Who intends to fall in love at all?

You’d met through friends of friends, and that was about the only mundane thing about your relationship. Said friends of friends were the Avengers for crying out loud, and the moment you saw Thor in person you nearly froze from shock. The moment you saw his brother, however, your heart practically leapt out of your chest and into the hand Loki reluctantly extended, per his brother’s direction.

You took his hand in your own, trying not to tremble as you shook it. You gave your name. He gave his. You parted ways. A mundane interaction, right?

But again, few things about your relationship were mundane.

You would’ve written it off as a simple, regular greeting if Loki hadn’t found you later as you skulked along the edges of Tony’s huge party. You knew the hosts, of course, and some of the other guests - but everything was so big and frightening and new you hardly knew what to do with yourself.

How were you, a regular human, supposed to deal with all… That? Heroic wasn’t a word you’d really use to describe yourself. Let alone super-heroic - that title was reserved for the incredible individuals around you, whose personalities and achievements eclipsed your own. You mulled over the thought, drink still clutched firmly in hand, but untouched.

And that was when Loki commented on the fact you looked “nearly as miserable as he felt.” You couldn’t help but blush a little and laugh at the comment. You quipped something back - something about misery loving company, and Loki’s eyebrows raised. His expression gave little else away, though. It hardly ever did.

It wasn’t until many months after the party, after you and Loki had gotten to know each other better and started dating, that he whispered the truth to you: the idea that anyone would be gladder with him around than with him gone, was astonishing to him. He could hardly believe it.

But when it came to you? He believed you.

You had no reason to lie to him. No need to impress him, or earn his favor, or act cordially for fear of an Asgardian royal. You were safe at that party, and you were safe when you visited him at the Avengers compound - you had no reasonable ulterior motives. Nothing to hide.

And, likewise, he had no reason to actively hide things from you, now that you lived together and you knew about his past, about his parentage.

Or, you thought he had no reason to hide things from you…

So why was he leaving you at night?

The first night you truly noticed it was on a dark, cool night of spring.

You’d left the bedroom window open while you fell asleep, and upon waking up thought to yourself, still under a veil of sleepiness, that you should probably get up and close it. But as your eyes opened and adjusted to the dark, you noticed two things.

First, the window was closed, the curtains completely drawn.

Second, the place next to you, where Loki usually lie, was empty. Completely empty, the bed covers pushed toward you to help keep you warm. Still half-asleep, your hand smoothed over the sheets to his spot - cold. He’d been gone a while.

You squinted to see through the crack in your bedroom door, but couldn’t make out if the bathroom light was on. Maybe he’s in there.. You shrugged to yourself, flipping back over and nuzzling into your pillow. You’d meant to stay awake until he returned, just to be sure he was okay, but sleep quickly washed over you again.

When you woke up the next morning, you realized you definitely should’ve been able to see if the bathroom light was on, had it been on, so Loki couldn’t have been in there. He was never one for midnight snacking, as far as you could tell, so he probably wasn’t in the kitchen.

The more you thought about it, the more it bothered you. You tried to brush it aside - after all, Loki was a very private person, slow to trust or to show much emotion. He was vulnerable with few people... Maybe only one person - you. The trust between you had been hard-won, and you loved every new piece of himself he showed you.

He also enjoyed quiet time, often spent with books. Reading, writing notes, sometimes even napping in the safety of your apartment, his forgotten book on his chest as he lie draped across the couch, his lanky limbs hanging off the edges. You really needed a bigger couch.

Yes, you assured yourself. Loki just needed time alone every now and then. Everyone did, right?

You tried to ignore it, you truly did.

But later, it happened again.

You woke up to an empty bed, a dark room, and the door pulled to. This time you could swear you saw a light coming from the other room, so this time you figured he was in the bathroom and once again you succumbed to sleep.

~~~~

The morning after, you woke up to your regular routine: Get up, get dressed, make coffee for two, eat some sort of breakfast, and get to work. Work didn’t exactly have a set location - that close friendship with the Starks stemmed from having worked with Pepper for years, and now since you worked for Stark Industries, you enjoyed several perks.

Sometimes Pepper brought you in on-site, other times (more often than not, considering the fact you had an ex-villain alien god to worry about… and not everyone was convinced about the ex part) you simply received work on your secure Stark-tech computer and worked remotely. From home, from a cafe, even from the Avengers compound when you visited. (You had a room there, too - as did Loki. Courtesy of Tony.)

So as you sat with your laptop in front of you on your desk, the window cracked to let some air in, you started the day. Coffee in hand, a half-eaten croissant next to you.

Loki stood next to you, sipping his own coffee.

He liked to watch you work. Liked to distract you from work too - he wasn’t the god of mischief for nothing.

“Sleep well?” He broke the silence first.

You took another bite of breakfast. “Yeah. You sleep okay?”

He shifted his weight. “Fine.”

“You sure?”

His hand touched your shoulder, as if to reassure you. “Just fine. How long are you working today?” His fingers smoothed their way from your shoulder to your clavicle and back - slowly, rhythmically.

“I literally just got started,” you muttered a soft laugh, and he chuckled in turn.

“But I like spending time with you.”

“Well I like spending time with you, too. But work is important.”

“Would it be less important if I gave Stark something better to worry about than..” Loki leaned over, scrutinizing the screen, “Interview paperwork?”

You raised your eyebrows at him. “Loki, do not attack my boss, please.”

“I said nothing about attacking him.”

“Loki.”

“Yes, love?” He smiled down at you. You huffed - he had no right to be this charming, nor this cute - but that worry was still gnawing at you. Why had he left last night?

“Are you sure you slept okay?”

He paused a moment, then smiled - but it seemed forced. “Yes. I slept just fine - do you need to talk about something..?”

“You left.. In the middle of the night, I woke up and you were gone.”

He swallowed. “I hadn’t realized you were awake - forgive me.” His hand slid down your shoulder, to your arm - and then away. “It was just a bit of restlessness, darling, you mustn’t worry.” He kissed the top of your head, then straightening up, raised his coffee mug to his lips again. “I’ll leave you to that.. Riveting work of yours… Let me know if you ever need a welcome distraction.”

“You’re always welcome,” you smirked slightly. You weren’t convinced he was only restless but.. Maybe he was. Who knew? Loki was a mystery to many. You’d try to believe him, at least.

“Am I?” He grinned. “Then I’ll be sure to distract you often.” With a small wink, he turned and left.

~~~~

The next time you noticed it, it seemed later in the night. And this time, you heard something too. Crying. Talking - like a whisper, barely audible past the soft sobs.

The door was cracked again, but had swung a bit more open than the times before. That must be the source of the sound...

Resolved to figure out what was going on, you slid out of bed. Tried to stay quiet as you walked to the door and peered out.

There was faint light coming from the living room. A silhouette on the wall showed Loki’s position - in front of the balcony, the street lights casting his shadow. You inched down the hallway, stopping just before you reached the living room.

“...Mother, you would. I just know it. (Y/N) is endlessly beautiful, and intelligent, and… and kind…” Loki was sitting in the floor, his back to you. Dressed in the same clothes he usually wore to bed - loose pants and a comfortable green shirt. His long black hair was messy, and his body shook with sobs.

The door to the balcony was open, allowing a cool night breeze to drift in. An occasional car drove by, or plane flew overhead, but Loki was focused on the stars.

“Just like you. But I, I don’t.. I don’t deserve it. Any of it-” his voice cracked, “And I miss you.”

Your heart broke. You made your way across the living room, quietly, carefully.

“I miss you every day,” Loki continued, shaky hands brushing hair back from his face, then gripping it in agony. “I-I wish we could speak, we could.. See each other.. That you could see me - see us, but... You’re not here.”

“Loki?” you muttered, and he inhaled sharply, turning around.

Now you could clearly see the tears streaming down his face. His mouth was slightly open, but he closed it, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“I- ... Darling, you shouldn’t be up at this hour,” He stood, blinking away his tears. “Go back to bed.”

You stood your ground, but tried to pick your words carefully. He looked so vulnerable, standing there in the dark, still trying to steady himself.

“No, something’s clearly wrong. Loki... How long has this been going on?”

“It doesn’t matter..”

“Yes it does.” You moved closer. He twitched - but let you approach, let you reach up to brush a tear off his cheek. More fell as he pressed his face against your palm, relishing the touch. His brows pressed together, he looked as though he could break at any time.

“Weeks,” he whispered.

“Oh, Loki..” You embraced him. He welcomed it, his arms wrapping around you, clutching you close to his shaking chest. He moved to lower himself and you followed, the both of you slowly sitting on the ground, you tucked against him, his body trembling with sobs.

Tears pricked in the corners of your eyes. What had this long life done to him?

How many nights had he cried alone?

It was several minutes before either of you spoke again. Loki calmed, his nose finding a comfortable place nestled against your hair, and his breath eventually steadied. His grip loosened. The crying slowed.

“I-I’m sorry.. I’m sorry I left you,” He gulped. “This is the only way I can talk to her anymore.”

You pulled away to see his face. Tilted your head. “Her..?”

Loki’s eyes met yours. “Frigga. My mother. She..” He couldn’t bring himself to say the next word.

“I remember.” You nodded slowly.

He’d told you a while ago that his mother had died, after Thor had brought up their parents. But he never said how.

Loki clenched his jaw. “It… It was my fault, it was all my fault-” He settled into another bout of crying.

“Loki, love - that can’t be true. I-I don’t know everything about your life,” You cupped his face, bringing him to look at you. He sniffed, swallowing again. “I don’t. I wasn’t there for all of it. But I know you. And I know you would never, ever harm your mother.”

“But I did, I did- that monster, I told it how to escape - I told it how to reach her. And it did, and she-” He stopped himself, biting the inside of his cheek. His breath grew shaky again as he forced himself to speak. “There was a funeral. I wasn’t allowed to attend - Odin would never allow that. He barely wanted me alive in the first place,” he hissed, his face contorted with rage for a moment, before relaxing again. “I found out after. By then her body had returned to the stars..” Loki turned to the outside again.

Moonlight graced his skin, highlighting the tears still glistening on his cheeks. His eyes searched the heavens, as though begging for a sign - something real, something palpable, something to tell him she was out there.

“Loki, I’m.. I’m so sorry. But it’s not your fault. It’s not.” You spoke as gently yet firmly as you could. Giving a monster - whatever it was - directions (you figured it was to spite the Asgardians who imprisoned him) didn’t equate to murder. He hadn’t intended it to play out that way, after all. But you could understand the guilt behind it.. And you hated the fact he’d carried that burden alone.

He stayed quiet. Pulled you closer, his chin on your shoulder, his eyes still trained on the sky.

“I wish she could meet you.” he confessed, his head leaning against your own. His arms still firm around you, his hands finding yours - your fingers intertwined. “She’d love you.”

“I’d like to meet her, too. But maybe she can see us now.” You moved closer to him, your thumb stroking his hand. You felt Loki smile next to you - it was small, and fragile, but it was there.

“Perhaps she can,” he murmured.

“Maybe she can see how happy you are - you’re happy, aren’t you?” You glanced at him. He kissed your temple, staying cuddled up against you.

“Happier than ever. I.. Thank you, love. Thank you for finding me. I hadn’t the heart to, to ask you to join me… I’d hate to wake you.”

“Loki, you’re important to me. I love you, remember?” You turned, facing him fully, your back to the open door. “Can you promise me something?”

His brow furrowed slightly, but he seemed willing to listen, watching you intently.

“Promise me, if you’re lonely, wake me.”

Tears glistened in his eyes again. He nodded, slowly, and managed a soft smile.

“Yes, my love,” he murmured. “I promise.”

#loki x reader #loki fanfic #[screams into the void]#loki x reader angst #loki x reader fluff

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yoonpobs · 3 years

Text

we don't talk together | myg

pairing: min yoongi x oc

genre: angst, hurt/comfort, growth! exes that remain exes

words: 2, 842

summary: it's hard to say it's over

What they don't tell you about goodbyes is that it isn't the end.

It's far from the closing of a book. Goodbyes are the itch that urges you to pick up an old book from the shelf just to feel what you first felt when you re-read certain parts of a book; the same remorse you felt when a character you grew attached to didn't get the ending they deserved. Or, maybe it was the villain that was misunderstood—your own heart wishing to reach out to the sad soul that couldn't even be recognised when all they do is speak.

But some books will end up dusty, forgotten, tucked away in the corner of your shelf; or in the most drastic of cases: lost.

"The park looks ... different," Yoongi speaks up for a lack of a better conversation starter.

You hum. What would you say? That it wasn't the same from when we used to spend our Spring's blended into Summer's until it got too hot for us to lay in each other's embrace?

It was still too fresh even though it's been nearly a year.

"There are more dogs," You point out the moment a tan pomeranian runs past the two of you, the owner an old couple laughing away under the cherry blossoms.

He nods, fingers stuffed in his trench coat. You note that it's the same one he wore on your anniversary, plans abandoned when there was a mix-up with the reservations until the two of you stumbled across a hidden gem that soon became your go-to date place.

You will yourself to look away so no more memories can resurface. It seems like every part of your life has somehow seamlessly intertwined itself with traces of Yoongi that it was impossible for you to exist as just yourself.

"How are things at the firm?" He asks after the two of you walked side-by-side in complete silence as more and more chatter fill your ears.

"It's ... going," You chuckle dryly.

Yoongi raises an eyebrow at you, shooting you a brief glance over until the two of you reach a bench. You dare say it's muscle memory that dragged your heavy feet into the direction of the only bench that you've known in the park. The compressed reminder of the initials of your names that you carved as teenagers likely still staining the years old wood. It was meant to be an emblem for wisdom, the ring of growth that meant to be the endgame for the two of you.

You almost laugh in bitterness and how literal the metaphor was.

"Everything okay?"

Yoongi takes the first step to sit on the bench because he always did. Ever the gentlemen when he opened doors for you, let you into the car first, waited until you stepped ahead of him to trail behind like a shield.

The first date, first kiss, first confession.

The first one to decide that it was over.

"My boss is just being sexist, as usual. I thought I'd get used to it after spending two years there but ... there are some things that you just stay unfamiliar, you know?"

It was very like you to speak in double-entendres without intending to. But it was also like Yoongi to pick up on it, especially after years of learning all the best and worst parts of you; he was and probably will be one of the few people in your lives that will always foresee your next move.

The two of you sit a fair distance apart on the bench even if it was a battle for space anyway. You didn't have the liberty to lean into his embrace anymore and he wasn't in the position to say that it was okay for you to breathe, to relax.

"You shouldn't get used to those remarks. There are times where you learn to grow used to constructive criticism but if what he's saying makes you question your worth because of very arbitrary reasons like your gender then that isn't criticism, nor is it constructive. It's bigoted and chauvinistic."

You look down to your thumbs as you fiddle with it, his words comforting you. It was woeful that you still chased validation from him even after learning to be that person to yourself.

"Yeah, I guess."

Then how did you get used to things?

If time didn't make things familiar then what did? Was it not the five years with Yoongi that led you to see him build an empire for himself all the while destroying the relationship that you had? Or was it because he was the person that you thought of doing the most minuscule things?

"By the way," He clears his throat, eyes still set forward, "Namjoon says hi."

You raise an eyebrow, surprised to hear the name of a mutual friend—or more appropriately, friend by association and acquaintance when that link was broken.

"He knows that you're with me?"

Yoongi nods his head.

"I needed to let someone at the studio know and ... well, he's the only one that knew of our situation."

You chuckle bitterly.

Of course. The suggestion of his work only made your heart drop because as much as you wanted to be supportive of him, even after the break-up, the name of his studio or songs only reminded you of the battle that you helplessly lost.

"You can tell him that I'm still a text or phone call away. No need to play messenger," You return.

The atmosphere is more reflective than awkward. You know that the two of you had your pieces to say, your own narrative to tell but neither brave enough to break the calm that you were settled in. It was a nice difference from the way that things ended, and you supposed that you were similar enough to believe in a mirage than the inevitable truth.

But you didn't call him out after six months to sit in silence to walk away with your heart feeling heavier, nor did you invite him out just to remember what it feels like to have him next to you—even in complete silence.

"Would you have really quit?"

This time, you gather all the bravery that you've built over the past few months to ask the question that has been mulling in your mind since the night you decided that it was officially over.

It was a painful break-up. Even if you expected it when Yoongi came home earlier one night with bags under his eyes and his keys that he usually left at the studio because he knew you'd always be home to open the door for him.

"I'm sorry?" He seems taken aback.

You don't blame him. You've always been more passive in dealing with confrontation due to your conflict-averse nature—but that didn't mean you didn't get angry or annoyed—or hurt. But if you learned anything, it was to stop asking yourself questions that you'll never have the answer to.

"Would you really have left the company to save our relationship?"

You chose your words carefully. Instead of saying to be with you, knowing that he lost the love, he had for you somewhere along the way—you point out the one hole that he held on to for the sake of stability. The one thing that was constant in his life with how unpredictable the music industry was.

"Yes."

Somehow, the answer doesn't make you feel better because even with time apart you knew he was lying to save your face.

"You don't owe me anything to lie to my face, Yoongi." You frown.

Yoongi sighs, rubbing his hands across his face as he leaves your statement hanging in the air to mull over his answer.

You prefer the silence that way. It showed that he was at least listening, or cared enough to decide his next set of words. Nothing like how much it pained you to acknowledge the responses you got from him when you were crying were just out of obligation than sincerity.

"No, I wouldn't have."

You nod your head, expectant of the answer but you needed to hear him say it himself rather than drowning yourself in ruminating thoughts of how there was still a semblance of hope that he would've given it up for you, for your relationship—or the life that you were meant to build.

"I wouldn't have asked you to, anyway." You confess.

Yoongi turns his head to look at you and for the first time since you've met at the park, he notices the absence of a necklace around your neck. The necklace that you never took off. He wants to comment on it, ask where it went or if you've pawned it off out of pettiness but he held no remorse towards you. You were tolerant with the break-up even as you sucked in your tears when he knew that it killed you on the inside. Yoongi didn't have the heart in him to ask you.

"Oh."

"You were the one that said you'd quit so we could stay together," You say softly.

Yoongi doesn't respond as he looks back to the night where the two of you sat down to talk about the standing of your relationship. It was a rollercoaster of emotions that started off with an amicable discussion that eventually led to the two of you yelling until you surrendered to your tears and just left the battle completely.

He said a lot of things that night. From things that he's been bottling up for months, to things that he's always wanted to tell you and things that he didn't remotely mean, and things that he's regretted the moment it left his lips.

"I guess I did."

You sigh, leaning back into the bench as you observe a couple walking in front of you, passing your bench as they share an ice cream on a cone; bickering on who'd get the first lick. To anyone, you and Yoongi would've looked just like a couple that has reached a comfortable point in your relationship where intimacy was just sitting next to one another.

But you admit, there was something oddly intimate and heart-breaking about sitting next to someone you've loved with your whole heart and feel nothing but ... weightlessness. Like the burden of your concerns was lifted ever so slightly just being here.

"I wouldn't have made you choose between your relationship or your dream, Yoongi. I would never have done that to you."

Yoongi knew you would never have made him do something as abhorrent as that. You were far too understanding. But you had wanted from him too, that he wasn't willing to provide just yet. He didn't know if it was because of the expiration date to your relationship or because of the stress he was under at work—but he convinced himself that it was you that was asking for too much instead of him compromising too little.

"I ... I know," He whispers, "I'm sorry."

You purse your lips. You try not to let your emotions appear on your sleeve. You were tired of allowing your face to speak before you did. You needed to use the voice you had.

"I loved you so much, Yoongi," You murmur, "I loved you so much that I would have taken anything I could've gotten with you just so I could be with you."

Yoongi stays silent at this.

"I didn't mind if you spent more time at work than at our home. I just wanted to know if I was ever in the picture when you were talking about the future. I know how much you love music and I supported you through every audition and failure ... and to know that I was just—" You swallow, the words still painful to say. But you needed to make your peace with it, "—that I was just someone that would wait for you instead of your partner. That's when I knew that you didn't love me the way I loved you."

Yoongi chokes to speak up but you shake your head.

"No, Yoongi. You loved me, you did. But somewhere along the way you stopped and you just pretended that we were okay even when I was trying my best to fix the seams. I wasn't your girlfriend anymore, I was just someone familiar to you and I didn't deserve to feel that way." You tell him sternly.

Yoongi surrenders to his silence as you take a deep breath to continue.

"Maybe I loved you too much in a way that you couldn't understand."

"_______, don't say that—" His eyes widen when he tries to reach a hand to yours to comfort you, but your body language remains stoic as you keep your hands in your lap.

"—and that's okay Yoongi. I loved you but not in the way you needed. I'm not here to make you feel bad about what I chose to do on my own because it wasn't my fault that I couldn't be what you need." You say sadly, but a small smile on your face as you finally say the words that have been eating at you for months.

"... okay," Yoongi accepts.

"We all have different ways to love and be loved. I loved you and that was enough for you at one point but love isn't all a relationship needs. You loved me too, in your own way and I accepted that but just because it was enough for me doesn't mean it was enough for us." You glance over at him to see him staring at you intently.

"I'm sorry that things turned out this way," Yoongi says softly, eyes gentle.

You wave him off.

"I don't think I'll ever love someone as much as I loved you, though," He confesses, eyes returning to the scene in front of him filled with different colours of life that seemed to look vibrant under the Spring sunset.

You shake your head and chuckle softly.

"You say that now but you'll meet someone one day and you'll remember all the reasons why you love in the first place. And it'll be enough for you, and them."

He shrugs, a small smile itching on his face.

"I really did love you," He says, "But I'm sorry for not being honest with you. I owe you that much of an apology."

"We're not here to forgive or forget, Yoongi," You look at him kindly, "We're here to move on."

He purses his lips and hums, nodding his head.

"I hope you get that promotion at work you were talking about months ago, ______." Yoongi offers, a gentle grin marring his face.

"I did," You shrug.

It feels liberating to have achieved something and only feeling content by acknowledging it yourself. Months ago, you would've hurt at the fact that Yoongi didn't know. But the change you welcomed after the end only showed you that there was a new path for you to walk on.

His eyes widen, but eventually, he chuckles and shakes his head, muttering something under his breath that sounded a lot like knew it.

You push yourself off the bench, dusting your hands on your pants as you offer him one last smile before you say goodbye for the second time.

"I hope you find someone who you'll love more than you ever did with me." You tease.

He rolls his eyes.

"Impossible," The grin on his face is easy, and your heart still clenches at the nonchalance, but you don't expect the feeling to go away so easily—nor do you mind. It just shows that you needed to wait and that you were willing to do it.

"Of course you will. You're a musician, Yoongi. You need a muse," You smirk at him as you turn around, a small wave on your hand to say goodbye.

As you walk away and his body gets smaller and smaller from your vision, you turn around to say:

"We don't talk together is a beautiful song."

Yoongi's smile is genuine, and so is his goodbye. A gentle acknowledgment of his hand as he stands up himself, walking to the other direction of where you were headed.

You still had a love for Yoongi, and you suppose you always will. Just like how you would feel pleasant when rediscovering a childhood hobby that triggers a fond memory, or how you love different things in your life in different ways. Whether or not you love someone more than you've ever loved Yoongi isn't your concern, because when love comes in one form, it goes in another.

When you still take the same route you'd usually take with Yoongi after your walks back home, you pass the cafe you used to frequent to see that it's replaced with a new bar. You smile fondly to yourself, shaking your head.

You loved that place.

But eventually, you'll find another cafe with a beautiful interior and a latte to match, and you'll love it too.

#bts fic #bts imagine #bts fics #bts imagines #bts yoongi #bts fluff #bts angst #yoongi x reader #yoongi fluff #yoongi angst #yoongi exes #yoongi imagine #yoongi fic #yoongi breakup #angst #fluff #yoongi #min yoongi x reader

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kaistarus · 3 years

Text

The Only Exception

Pairing: NishinoyaXReader

Words: 2.2K

Summary: Nishinoya was genuinely happy with his life. He’d gotten used to being by himself and had accepted the fact that that was how it was supposed to be. Until you came along and threw everything he thought made sense out the window.

A/N: I really like this fic. It’s one of my favorites Nishinoya ones so far just because it’s his pov and timeskip and the amount of love feels makes me happy. i got a lot of serotonin while writing it :D

Masterlist

Nishinoya had never been someone’s first choice.

He knew that sounded dramatic, but it was just a fact of life. The sky was blue, Tanaka could chug three-fourths gallon of milk before vomiting, and Nishinoya was never anyone’s preferred option--which never bothered him so keep the pity to yourself.

He learned to accept this when he never got scouted for the All-Japan Youth Camp and after the only person Nishinoya ever even kind of loved ended up loving his best friend. It taught him to keep his expectations low and to focus on things he could control, which was what led him to solo-traveling Japan and then the world. He realized things might be better on his own, and with the constant itch that he was missing out on something bigger traveling alone just made sense.

But then you came and ruined everything.

Hold on. That came off way more aggressive than Nishinoya wanted. He meant there was a perfect vision for how his life would go-pyramids in Egypt, Hollywood sign in Los Angeles, deep sea fishing in Italy-until he toppled over you in the streets of Italy. He’d been sprinting toward the docks when you stepped out of a marketplace and he collided into you, knocking you flat on your butt and sending your groceries all over the sidewalk. Nishinoya fumbled through his best apology in broken Italian while shoving produce into your paper bag, but froze in surprise when you snorted rather than began an enraged lecture.

He swore his heart actually stopped when your eyes met. You were clearly amused by his flustered behavior and when his heart started back up it was abnormally fast. Not once had he understood what Tanaka meant when he explained the first time he’d seen Kiyoko, but the first time Nishinoya saw you everything Tanaka said clicked. If Nishinoya had been fifteen he probably would’ve proposed to you on the spot.

But he wasn’t, so instead he shakily handed you your groceries with furiously red cheeks.

“Come ti chiami?” You asked with a raised brow.

Nishinoya blinked several times. He racked his brain for what he’d been taught on his last fishing trip, but it was mostly curses and inappropriate sayings he should probably avoid using. He was pretty sure Duolingo mentioned ‘chiamo’ as name though.

“Nishinoya?” He answered like a question and felt relief wash over him when you nodded.

“What are you doing this weekend, Nishinoya?”

He stared blankly before pointing at you with wide eyes, “I understood that.”

“Well you obviously don’t know Italian,” you rolled your eyes and he pouted at the incredibly accurate jab, “so, are you free?”

He looked around the empty street before pointing to himself. “Are you still talking to me?”

“Is there another Nishinoya around here?”

“I mean, there could be.” He looked up thoughtfully. “The odds would be crazy though.”

You laughed lightly which made a warmth creep up his neck. “I’m talking to you. I’m trying to ask you on a date.”

He looked at you like you’d grown a second head. “Why?”

“You’re attractive and you seem nice,” you cocked your head to the side. “Is that not a good reason?”

He stared at the ground intensely. “I guess… It is?” Then his original reason for being there struck him and his eyes widened. “Oh shit. I have to go,” he started leaving before quickly coming back. “Wait, I, uh, yes. Yes to the date thing.”

You chuckled, pulling a cellphone from your pocket to let him hurriedly create his contact before continuing his sprint to the docks-with a teasing recommendation not to knock anyone else over. That literal run in was the moment his entire world view became out of whack.

It wasn’t that he thought he was immune to liking someone-high school Nishinoya fell for any breathing human that gave him attention-he just lost the ability to imagine someone liking him. Maybe he’d been by himself too long or maybe that was just another fact he’d grown used to. He didn’t know anymore.

He did know that when he showed up at the restaurant thirty minutes early-there’s only so much pacing someone can do before they go insane-he hadn’t expected to see you. Just sitting on a bench beside the main entrance, looking too perfect while bouncing a knee and nibbling on your thumb nail as if you were nervous to be there.

Except it was only him, so that wouldn’t make sense.

“Hey,” you said when you spotted him standing in the middle of the sidewalk like an idiot.

“You’re here,” he raised a brow. You took it as the time, but he meant it in a general sense. He truly hadn’t expected you to show up.

“Oh,” you chuckled awkwardly, twisting the material of your clothes. “Yeah, I was kind of nervous.”

He mulled that over for admittedly too long, but it just seemed like such a stupid thing to say. It wasn’t that you looked stupid, but that’s what made it so confusing.

“You’re also early.” You pointed out when the silence became awkwardly long.

“I was nervous.” He said like it should have been obvious.

“At least we’re starting on equal ground,” you said with a shaky breath.

Equal ground? He wasn’t sure his brain was cut out for this type of critical thinking. He’d even spent the past few days planning for every scenario-even you sneaking out the bathroom like in the movies-but he never pictured you being nervous.

“Uh, yeah,” he tapped against his leg while glancing through the window at the half-filled dining area, “we can probably go inside.”

“That’s probably a good idea,” you gave him a quick finger gun before whipping around with shoulders to your ears.

Nishinoya blinked several times before looking back down the street. A part of him thought about running, saving you both from the shitty date to come filled with awful conversation starters he’d pulled from an online article for high schoolers. However his fate was sealed the moment you sent a gentle smile over your shoulder and his feet began following you through the door without his permission.

Ever since that day he’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop. Ever since you giggled behind your hand instead of wincing at the terrible jokes he regretted the moment they left his mouth; ever since you weren’t burdened by the need to translate for him the whole night; and ever since you were amused rather than annoyed at his nervous rambling and awkward icebreakers.

It was just too good to be true.

Like the first time you came over and teased him for the cheesy dialogue in his favorite action movies. How his chest ached when your head rested in his lap and you gazed at him with overwhelming amounts of affection. He’d never dreamed he’d have this-couldn’t have if he tried. Sharing his favorite things with someone while they traced designs against his palm and occasionally sealing them with featherlight kisses. The fire it sent up his arm was too much and not enough and he hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted this.

It was a little scary how much Nishinoya didn’t want to lose it.

And that thought started keeping him up at night. Nishinoya was never really scared of anything-it was kind of what he was known for everywhere he traveled. If anyone needed something done they asked the foreigner with a death wish. So, the idea that you had that effect on him was, again, terrifying.

But what was Nishinoya supposed to do when you press your forehead against his in the middle of the night? Running your fingers through his hair and paying special attention to the blonde strands he’d always been secretly self-conscious of, whispering low how they were one of your favorite things in the world. How could he regret anything when you rubbed your nose lazily against his and kissed him softer than he ever deserved? He didn’t give a shit how scared he was if it meant he could stay like this, with you, for as long as you’d let him.

Because his heart raced a million miles a second when you mindlessly held his hand under a table or leaned against him just to be close. Because for some reason he was the first person you called when you were excited or when you needed comfort. Because when he rambled too long about spearfishing or an old friend’s volleyball game your eyes lit with genuine interest rather than annoyance. And because he was in love with you.

Which he both wasn’t prepared for and had known was inevitable. Falling for you had been like getting hit by a semi-truck he’d seen coming for miles.

It probably happened sooner than socially acceptable, but that didn’t surprise him given his all or nothing nature. This outcome was decided the moment Nishinoya knew he’d be fine with you breaking his heart a hundred times if it meant he could keep waking up next to you cascaded by the rising sun because he was still too lazy to invest in curtains. Just you cuddling closer to him for warmth in your sleep would make every ounce of pain worth it.

Once Nishinoya’d acknowledged his feelings it was nearly impossible keeping them down. With every breathtaking smile, or brush of your hand against his, or bubble of laughter that rang throughout his apartment it nearly spilled from his lips like a breath. It took all self-restraint he had to hold it back. And it wasn’t that he didn’t want you to know because you deserved this piece of him-every piece of him.

He just wasn’t sure you’d want it.

His resolve lasted nearly a month-a month longer than he thought he was capable-before the feeling was too intense for him to keep down. And it wasn’t anything drastic that made him break. No, it was something so absurdly casual that he was almost pissed at himself when the words flowed from his mouth.

It had been a completely average morning, nothing crazy, the weather was actually gross with rain pounding against the windows and the sky a depressing shade of grey. But then you stepped out of his bathroom while rubbing the sleep from your eyes, giving him a lopsided smile before slurring a soft request for breakfast. It was like time froze and he was in a stupid romcom except you were there so it was actually an oscar nominated masterpiece.

Your head lolled to the side, half-lidded eyes filling with concern at his silence. “We can cook together. I didn’t mean it like-”

“I love you.”

That seemed to wake you up. Your body straightened while your mouth hung open in stunned silence. Nishinoya had expected this kind of reaction, so he clenched his fists tight in preparation for the worst.

“Are you sure?” You asked, barely above a whisper. “That’s a pretty serious word, Noya.”

He knew that. Nishinoya had spent too many nights losing sleep over that.

“You scare me,” he confessed, deciding if he was going to dig his grave he might as well make it deep. “I’ve never really been the one someone chooses. More like deal or settle with.” He grimaced when his heart squeezed painfully in his chest, “but I love you more than I thought I could ever love anyone and that scares me. You make me feel wanted and I don’t know what to do with that.”

��Because I do want you.” You whispered and his stare locked on yours so quickly, meeting your loving gaze while his heart started racing. “And everyone you know must be really stupid because I feel lucky I got to choose you. I get to love you.”

He stared at you wide-eyed while his chest swelled with so much emotion he was surprised he hadn’t passed out.

“Sorry, that sounded really lame.” You placed a hand against your forehead and Nishinoya shook his head vigorously.

“I think that was the greatest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

You stepped closer and cradled his face, gently brushing your thumbs along his cheeks. If he wasn’t so manly and awesome he may have teared up, but he definitely didn’t. Which was why you obviously weren’t wiping any water off his cheeks before pulling his lips against yours.

Nishinoya set a languid pace that turned desperate when you tangled your fingers in his hair. He pulled you as close as he could, which was never enough, snaking an arm around your middle and sliding one to cradle the back of your head.

When it got heated enough that he decided he’d very much like to move it to his bedroom Nishinoya’s stomach growled and you snorted against his lips. Nishinoya pouted, whining when you pulled away with a playful smirk.

“Later,” you said, pinching his cheeks and waving his head around. “Food first. We’re both hungry.”

He did love food.

He disrespectfully watched you leave him in favor of searching the fridge for food that could be thrown together for breakfast. A dopey smile covered his lips because he loved you. He was lucky enough to get to love you. And for some ridiculous fucking reason you were dumb enough to love him.

He would do whatever he could to keep it this way. For now, that was helping you cook breakfast. Tomorrow, who knows? But whatever it was you would be there, so it would be pretty god damn amazing.

#nishinoya yuu #nishinoya yu #nishinoya x reader #nishinoya yu x reader #nishinoya x you #nishinoya yū #nishinoya imagine #nishinoya fluff #haikyuu #haikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader #haikyu!!

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spencersawkward · 3 years

Note

I love your ff first of all, I'm obsessed and second of all I would ask you a suggestion, idk if maybe is that too much and you're totally free to not do that but you ever thought to do something in the line of the knive kink? I think it will be awesome

i'm so sorry this took so long! big thanks to my guardian angel @voidsfilm for giving me inspiration bc i literally struggled with this one more than i should have. never written a knife kink but i’m glad i tried lol.

summary: reader finds an antique knife that Matthew's kept in a drawer.

content warnings: unprotected penetrative sex, fingering, oral (male receiving), knife play (no blood drawn), Soft!Dom MGG, degradation and praise.

word count: 3.6k

masterlist

if there is one thing I absolutely despise, it's working out. getting sweaty, running until my legs hurt and my lungs are burning for air... not really my thing.

but when Matthew brought up the idea a couple months into our relationship, I couldn't say no to him: he had a goofy smile on his face and the kind of look in his eyes that made me relent and ask what kind of stuff he wanted to do.

I think that I've found the one thing that Matthew can't make fun.

"I'm gonna pass out." I bend over and set my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath. Matthew slows to a stop a few feet ahead, turning around and making a strained expression.

"oh, come on." but his voice is pretty breathless, too. he gently guides me off the path so that we don't get in the way of the other people out enjoying the day. a couple walks by us with their dog, strolling calmly, and I feel a rush of envy. if our workout routine had consisted of a few pleasant ambles around the city, I would have been totally willing.

"Matthew, I wanna go home." I whine impatiently. the only nice thing about this is that he's got one of those stupid sweatbands on his head to keep his hair out of his face, and it makes him look like a 1980's housewife.

"we can go home in fifteen minutes." he smiles, puts his hands on his hips, stretching in an exaggerated way.

"do you promise?" I brush a piece of hair out of my face.

"promise," he's lucky he looks so cute in his workout outfit. "we can even get one of those fancy juices for you on the way back."

"seriously?" I light up. this might actually be worth it; they have this amazing mango and lime combination that I can't ever manage to recreate with our own blender.

"if you beat me to the rock, then sure." he references the enormous boulder in Central Park that we both gawked at on our first date-- ever since then, it's been the end point for our runs. my lips curl into a grin.

"you're on." I take off, making sure to push him out of the way in order to gain a head start. he lets out something of a protestation but is quick to follow. I can feel his feet pounding behind me, trying to catch up.

I may not be good at running long distances, but I'm sure as hell faster than he is.

...

it's quiet when I step out of the bedroom, drying my hair with the towel and wandering into the living room. Matthew is sitting at the table with his sketchbook, drawing god knows what while he waits for me to finish up.

"what are you up to?" I ask softly as I plop down across from him. my head is slightly tilted while the towel rubs my scalp.

"I'm not really sure." he shrugs, frowning and holding up the notebook from a distance as if that'll help him figure out what to do.

"can I see when you're done?"

"of course," he sets it on the table again, then runs a fingertip across his chin. "actually, can you do me a favor?"

"sure."

"I have a set of colored pencils in the desk over there," he points to an old piece of furniture under the window. "would you mind getting them for me?"

"yep," I reply, getting up and leaving the towel on the table. "least I can do after kicking your ass."

on the walk past him, Matthew grabs my waist and pulls me into him, attacks me with tickles. I squeal and hit his shoulder.

"stop!" I laugh.

"you barely beat me!" he gives a dazzling smile and finally lets me go. I lightly smack him upside the head and head over to the desk, rifling through the drawers for the colored pencils he wanted.

as I push around various art supplies, glue sticks and random paintbrushes that look to be on the brink of falling apart, my fingers pass something cool and metallic. I grab the thing and pull it out.

it's a knife; like, a fancy one with an intricately decorated handle and what seems to be a pretty dulled edge. before he can notice what I've found, I start to move the thing between my hands curiously. there's a nice weight to it, but it's definitely old.

"hey, Matthew?" I ask warily.

"yeah?" so unassuming and sweet.

"why do you have a knife?"

there's a scratching as he gets up from the table to walk over to me. I lean against the desk. Matthew doesn't seem too bothered by what I'm saying at all, only gently taking the weapon out of my hands and examining it himself.

"oh, yeah!" he lets out something like a laugh. I raise an eyebrow and wait for him to continue. "do you remember when we went antiquing in Cape Cod, like, a month ago?"

"yeah." I nod at the memory. he'd been lucky enough to get some vacation days and we'd spent them sitting by the water with glasses of wine and nothing but time to talk. it really was a great trip, now that I think about it.

"I found it there." he still hasn't looked up and I realize that there's something he's not telling me. I don't know what I'm missing, but I start to get nervous.

"...why?"

"I was gonna ask then, but I guess I just forgot." his tongue darts out across his bottom lip as he lifts his face to meet my gaze. my heart thuds when he opens his mouth again. "I kinda wanted to try something."

"like?"

"I've been thinking about maybe using knives... in a sexual way."

"what?" I frown, confused by his wording. Matthew seems to realize that he's phrased it awkwardly and shifts his stance. he keeps glancing between the object and my face like he's worried about scaring me away.

"I don't mean I'm gonna stab you or anything," he laughs. "I just mean I think it sounds fun."

my hand finds his, brushing my palm over the steel to touch it myself again. there's a curiosity that burns through me now, something I'm a little unsure about but not enough so to deny the possibility of trying it.

"what do you wanna do with it?" I peek up at him. he bites his lip. we're speaking in gentle tones and I notice that our bodies have gotten closer within the last few moments. a warmth, a tension.

"like, pressing the blade flat against your skin while I fuck you." he takes the thing and demonstrates. the cool silver rests on my neck, too dull to really threaten a serious cut if he were to move too quickly. a shiver runs down my spine at the sensation of the metal.

I gulp, feel the curve of my throat push against it when I swallow. it's nice.

"oh." is all I say. Matthew is watching me intently, but he doesn't make any motion away from it. like he's entranced by the sight of me with a knife to my throat.

"are you interested?" he asks.

I mull it over. on the one hand, weapon play is something I've never considered in my sex life before. Matthew and I aren't vanilla, but this hasn't crossed my mind. that said, now that I can really feel it, there is a desire forming in my stomach. it would be a strange, new sensation.

"yes." the confirmation makes him smile a little. he lowers the thing and instead wraps me in his arms, kisses me passionately until our tongues are dancing over each other. I love how he holds me, our torsos against each other while my body leans slightly back to accept the weight of his touch.

he goes to my head like alcohol. and it's even more surreal when I feel the blade move under the hem of my shirt to rest against my back. I smile into his mouth. he doesn't do anything with it, just leaves it to remind me.

he starts to rut his hips against my lower stomach, getting aroused at the proximity of our bodies and the heated nature of our kiss. there's an urgency to all of it, like he's holding back. I don't want him to hold back; I want him to give me everything he has, everything beneath the surface.

my fingers twine in his hair and tug on the ends, causing him to groan into our embrace. there's no way we're going to make it all the way to the bedroom with the way he's grabbing at my body, so I stumble backwards towards the couch until the backs of my thighs hit the arm of it.

"you're horny." I giggle slightly when he pushes the hem of my shirt up my body, his nails dragging over my ribcage and trailing the object along with it. I feel the excitement growing.

"I'm just glad you're willing to try this." he murmurs the words, holds our foreheads together before his lips eagerly seek mine out, again. somehow, even with a weapon leveled against me, I can sense the love in every single action. I wouldn't have said yes if I didn't trust him to treat me with the utmost care.

I work at the buttons of his shirt, pushing it over his lovely shoulders and arms as he unclasps my bra. we're fervent, greedy in our movements, trying to kiss despite the attention needed to remove our clothes. mostly we just tangle up in each other until there's nothing left but my shorts for him to shove down my legs. he keeps his pants on.

"c'mon, beautiful." he mutters, pushing my legs open so that I'm sitting on the arm of the couch. he tilts my head and leans closer to suck on my bottom lip, and then starts to massage my tits. I can feel the handle of the weapon against my nipple.

when he reaches to slide his finger between my folds, I hiss out a breath at the cold sensation of his skin.

"is this because of me or the knife, baby?" he asks, corners of his mouth twitching up while I moan into his mouth. he starts to rub my clit with the collected wetness, teasing me too much. I want to fall back, but I can't. I won't let myself.

"both." I find myself turned on by the way the blade sits against my ribs again. the edge is just sharp enough to elicit a reaction from my body.

"feel that?" he angles the thing the slightest bit. I exhale and nod.

that isn't the response he's looking for, however, because he moves it so that it's under my chin. goosebumps on my skin while I pant uselessly against the weapon. I can feel it press harder with every breath out of my lungs, and I love it. I love the risk it brings out of me.

while Matthew dips his index inside my pussy, I writhe against it and tilt my head even more so he has better access.

"look at you," he lets out a dark chuckle, thrusts into me to the last digit. "you want more of this, don't you?"

"yes, sir." I breathe. my neck is actively moving against the metal. I glance down at his body and see his erection straining against his pants, craving release but finding none as he plunges his fingers in and out of me. I can hardly breathe from sheer focus on the sensations he's giving me right now.

"what are you looking at, sweetheart?" he quickens the pace of his movements and uses the object to make me focus on his face.

"you're hard." the words nearly die on my lips. he stares darkly at me, lifting his brows just enough to make me question whether I should have spoken at all. I bite my lip in anticipation.

"and what are you gonna do about it?" his voice is raspy as he stands back, removes his fingers from my pussy, and lets me drop to my knees. I'm weak both from the stimulation and from the loss of it, but I make quick work of undoing his belt, pulling the pants down his legs until I'm face-to-face with his cock. it sits against his stomach, throbbing impatiently while he watches. he uses the metallic point under my jaw to angle my face up to his.

"are you gonna suck me off, baby?" he smirks. I nod rigorously with wide eyes and an open mouth, dragging my tongue along the underside. Matthew's nose scrunches up for a moment at the shock of contact when I tease the head. all his concentration is on watching me wrap my hand around the shaft and pumping him gently. "spit on it."

I obey and spit right onto the tip before rubbing my thumb over the top to gather the precum. as I start to swirl my tongue and move my lips onto him, he throws his head back, lets out a wanton noise. it urges me on. I take every moment with a deliberate attention to the veins and sensitive spot he has.

"that's it, that's it." he rasps while knotting his hand in my hair. the other keeps the knife pressed to my throat. he lets me move on my own for a bit, gauging my desires from the way my eyes attempt to memorize the sight of his face above me, that jaw dropped in licentious craving. I can tell that he wants to fuck my face, but I go slow just to draw it out a little. it makes the soreness of my jaw worth it when he gets all impatient and flustered.

I hollow my cheeks and bob on his dick, bat my lashes, pull myself off him for a second just to kiss the tip.

"can I use your mouth?" he asks through a restrained groan. I open it and nod, sighing at the feeling of his fingers twining through my hair again before he pushes back into the opening. now that he's got full control, he starts to develop his own movements, sometimes meeting his thrusts by pressing my face against him.

he gets deep in it, never losing his grip on the knife, until my nose is pressed to his stomach. my throat closes instinctively around him even more tightly, and he lets out a guttural moan.

"such a cute mouth when I'm using it." he thrusts until I gag and then he's smiling. "get up."

he removes himself so fast, my eyes water at the sudden lack of blockage in my throat. I gulp air while he hooks his hands under my arms and hoists me up. I'm about to turn around so I can lift my leg and give him better access, but he sits me on the arm of the couch and parts my thighs.

"I wanna see your pretty face." he leans down and pecks my cheek. I smile at the surprising tenderness-- although it doesn't last long. steel sits against the space between my neck and collarbone. it's only a moment before he positions himself between my legs and slides his cock into me.

my back arches and I look him in the eyes, gasping.

"fuck, baby." he drags out the first word as he inches inside. I mewl helplessly at the way he stretches me out, my pussy clenching every few seconds. he keeps one hand on my lower back to support me and bring me closer to his pelvis, and then we're staring into each other's eyes as he finally settles in it.

his hips start to thrust into me, hopeful for any kind of contact while I accustom myself to the shape of him. it happens every time, despite the amount of times we've done this. and I'm bad at patience, but he's worse. his body stutters against mine.

"is it good enough, sir?" I ask quietly. he tightens his grip on my back and on the blade, the edge threatening my skin the perfect amount. I suck in a breath at the way it stings a little.

"you're doing perfectly." he recognizes what I want to hear as he finds my sweet spot and begins to hit it repeatedly, smoothly works my body. I swear there are planets in my eyes when I stare at the expressions on his face, both of us so wrapped up in each other that every other thought becomes obsolete.

he moves the knife to under my chin to rest on my throat.

"feel that?"

I nod so the edge bites more. he smirks.

"just to show you who you belong to."

my hips push up to meet his thrusts, needing more stimulation, more friction. what I want is for him to be relentless, to slam into my body with the kind of hunger I know he has. there are sounds, movements, that he's made before that make me want him to use them. but he's withholding, probably hesitant about the dangerous object on my pulse point.

"I belong to you, sir." I egg him on. he likes the sound of that, grunting and starting to pound into me.

"yeah? you're my dirty little whore." he speaks through gritted teeth. I shiver.

"mhmm."

"I use you how I want, when I want." his fingertips dig into my skin and he yanks me closer so that he can hit a new angle. I let out a surprised noise when he brushes my g-spot. it's otherworldly and I expose more of my neck to him.

"my little slut likes pain, huh?" he nudges the weapon harder into my skin. it doesn't draw blood, but I can sense the mark it'll leave. I love it.

"yes, sir." we're both getting needy, but we can't hold each other the way that we want to in our given positions. my palms are occupied on the arm of the couch to hold myself up and one of his hands is too busy holding the object for us to fuck as deeply as we need.

"are you gonna take it like a good girl when I cum in it?" he mutters. he runs his tongue over my jawline and the weapon nicks my skin. I moan at the mingling of sensations that's building all across my body.

"yes, sir." I plead. it's nearly unbearable, how much I want him. we're chasing our orgasms and I know what will finish me off. he knows, too.

Matthew drops the knife. it clatters to the ground, but there's no time for me to register it with the way he grabs my hips and lifts me into the air, my legs wrapping around his waist while he keeps fucking into me. he maneuvers us with shocking ease, laying me on the couch and positioning himself at the right moment so that I can drag my nails over his back and keep my thighs locked around him.

"mmm... baby, I'm gonna cum." he drives into me recklessly, both of us finally able to cling to each other. the angle is just enough to stimulate my clit and I nod, using the leverage of my legs to pull myself to him and roll my hips for friction.

Matthew slams my body into the couch, grunting in my ear as he finds his climax inside me. it's so deep, I have to work to keep the yell inside, but he's not done. he rides it out and plows into me while I reach the edge.

"tell me how it feels." he orders in my ear. I sigh.

"so-- so good, sir." my voice is thin. "I'm close."

"show me." he leaves bruises on my hips with his hands. I feel the knot finally snap, every muscle in my stomach spasming chaotically. I finish with a loud moan, begging him to drag it out further. my vision nearly goes black at the tide that threatens to overtake my body.

"Matthew--" I gasp. he moans quietly at the way I say his name, still rocking his body into mine while I come down from the shocks of orgasm. it's nearly overwhelming, the pleasure running through my body.

slowly, we come to a stillness and he drops his head into my shoulder, panting. he doesn't let go at first, but then he withdraws from my pussy and lets me take a rest. I lay there on the couch while he kneels between my legs, pressing gentle kisses to my neck.

"I love you." he repeats it over and over.

"I love you, too," I hope he can feel the meaning, despite the sheer exhaustion in my tone. he runs his fingertips across the red marks where the thing went a little too deeply, but I'm not worried about it. "we should try that again, sometime."

"you liked it?" he smiles brightly. I love the lines by his eyes.

"definitely."

he lets out a cheerful noise and buries his face back into my throat because he knows how much it tickles. I screech and giggle, my legs kicking wildly around me. more contented than ever before.

#mgg #matthew gray gubler #mgg oneshot #mgg smut #mgg x reader #knife kink #knifeplay

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chloelucia13 · 3 years

Text

It’s Nice to Have a Friend

Pairing: Steve Harrington x platonic!Henderson!reader, Jonathan Byers x reader (mentioned)

Prompt: After Jonathan had abandoned you so he could go god-knows-where with Nancy, you found comfort in the boy who had also been ditched and a beautiful friendship began to bloom.

Warnings: this is some nice comforting fluff, maybe a tiny bit of angst, some language, pretty chill

A/N: So this is a sort of deleted scene that I couldn’t fit into the Stranger Things rewrite, but I felt like it was still important to the character development with the reader and Steve, so I’m deciding to post it separately. You don’t need to read the whole rewrite in order to understand the plot (it’s based in season 2, so if you haven’t watched it then there will be some spoilers), but I would appreciate it a lot if you did read my rewrite! As always, requests and tag lists and my inbox are all open!

“Y/N, hey!” a voice shouted to your right, prompting you to turn your head and look at who was speaking.

Steve rushed over to you, his backpack hanging on one shoulder and a couple of crinkled papers held in his hand.

You furrowed your brows slightly in confusion, stopping at the side of the hallway and waiting for him to catch up. “Hey, Steve,” you drawled out, slightly confused by his presence.

Steve had sat at the bleachers with you that day after both of you had been ditched. Steve was ditched by Nancy and you by Jonathan, both of whom were now attached at the hip.

It was nice to talk to Steve about everything that was going on and, frankly, it was nice just to have someone there. You two seemed to have more in common than you once thought, and though some of that common ground was the fact that you both were abandoned by the person you loved, it was still something.

However, you thought that lunch was it. It was surprising that Steve Harrington, the former King of Hawkins himself, wanted to spend time with you.

"What’s your next class?” he asked, nervously shifting from one foot to the next.

“It’s, uh, English. Why?” You tugged on the strap of your backpack.

“I was wondering if you maybe wanted to help me with something?”

A look of hesitation washed across your face for a moment. “I don’t know, Steve. I really can’t miss class-”

“Please? I just need help on this essay for my college applications and I have no one else woh can help me. I just... Please?”

You let out a sigh, glancing around as you mulled it over in your mind. “I... I guess. Should we just go to the library and rent out a study room?”

He let out a sigh of relief, all of the tension leaving his shoulders. “Thank you so much. And I already did.”

“Oh, so you were planning on me saying yes?” You squinted at him and tilted your head.

Panic crossed over his features. “No-no, I didn’t mean it like that-”

“Steve, I’m kidding. Chill out.”

He let out a chuckle, nodding as the two of you began to walk to the library. His actions were clearly fueled by anxiety, with his shifting gaze and his hands constantly going in and out of his pockets.

“Why are you so nervous around me?” you asked, glancing up at him as the two of you stepped through the entryway to the library.

“What do you mean?” he scoffed. “I’m not nervous.”

You arched an eyebrow at his response, falling behind his step so he could lead you to the study room he reserved. “You’re fidgeting and you won’t look me in the eye. You weren’t acting like this earlier at lunch.”

He pushed the door open and waited for you to step inside before he also entered the room, closing the door behind him. A small sigh left his lips as he set the papers down on the table. “I don’t know, maybe... I guess I’m just not used to spending time with anyone other than Nancy. Especially when other people see me.”

You gave him a sympathetic look and nodded, sitting down at one of the chairs and taking the papers in your hand. “Well, there’s no need to be nervous around me. You know that. I’m not exactly some cool person that you have to act perfect around.”

Once again, he scoffed. “You are a cool person.”

You let out a laugh, shaking your head as you searched in your bag for a pen. “Come on, Steve. I’m already helping you with your essay, you don’t need to butter me up.”

He sat in the chair next to you. “But you are cool. You don’t give a fuck what people think about you, and I think that’s pretty damn cool.”

You sighed, beginning to scribble a few notes on the paper. “If only you knew, Steve.”

“What do you mean?”

“God, I care so much about what people think about me all the time. It’s exhausting.”

He was silent for a moment, watching you mark the paper as he thought. “Do you care about what other people think about you, or do you care what Jonathan thinks about you?”

You were about to argue with him, but once you realized that he was right, your mouth shut. Instead, you lifted your pen from the paper. “Did someone else edit this already? There’s pen all over it.”

He stiffened awkwardly in his chair, his lips pursing into a fine line. “Nancy was, uh... She was helping me out with it. Until, ya know, everything happened.”

You nodded slowly, slipping the cap on the pen before setting it down on the table. “But why are you having me check the draft that Nancy already checked?”

He let out a sigh, a hand combing through his hair as he stared at all of the markings on the paper. “I think Nancy wasn’t being honest with me about it. I thought that you would be more blunt about what you think about it.”

You searched his expression, leaning back in your chair and taking the papers in your hands. “You want me to be honest about it?”

He gave you a nod. “Please.”

A heavy breath fell past your lips. “Steve, it’s awful.”

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Geez, at least sugarcoat it a little!”

“You told me you wanted me to be honest!”

His mouth opened so he could retaliate, but no words came out. Instead, he huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. “What-What’s wrong with it?”

“It... It just seems very disingenuous. Shallow.”

“What’s shallow about it?”

“You wrote about a basketball game for one of your biggest struggles that you’ve overcome.”

“And then I said it was like how my Grandpa fought in the war! That’s genuine and powerful!”

You stared at him for a moment, completely at a loss for words. “At least you’re pretty, Steve.”

“Okay, fine. What should I have done instead?”

“Steve, we’ve fought literal monsters. There has to be more to talk about than a basketball game.”

“But I can’t write about that. Can you imagine how crazy they’ll think I am?”

“That’s just an example. We’ve gone through a lot this past year. There has to be something from that time that you can write about.”

He nodded, silently thinking over what had happened in the past 12 months. “Do you think that leaving your bad friends and becoming a better person is a good example of overcoming a struggle?”

You gave him a kind smile. “Absolutely.” You crumpled up the papers you had in your hands and tossed them in the trash can before pulling out a few clean pieces of looseleaf paper and sliding them over to him. “Let’s get an outline going. What made you realize that you should change?”

He thought for a moment, a sad look settling on his features. “Last year. I uh... I did something really mean to Nancy.”

Your head tilted in confusion. “What do you mean? What happened?”

He leaned back in his chair, his eyes flashing from left to right as if he was reading from a script, when in reality he was trying to find the right words to say. “After Nancy had ditched me for Jonathan, Tommy and Carol thought that it would be funny if I spray painted ‘Nancy the slut Wheeler’ on the marquee sign at the theater. So I did it.” He risked a glance over at you, noticing the look of disappointment on your face that you failed to disguise. “Nancy and Jonathan saw it, and it escalated.”

His words slowly sank in, and your eyes widened in realization after a few moments of silence. “That’s why you were all beat up? Because Jonathan fought you?”

Steve nodded, his lips pursing closed as he didn’t know what else to say.

“Well, I can’t say you didn’t deserve it.” Again, he nodded. You reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. “But I can say that you’ve gotten a lot better. And ditching Tommy and Carol definitely helped a lot.”

“So should I write about that?”

It was your turn to nod, a kind smile on your face. “Absolutely. Should we get started?”

He mirrored your smile, leaning forward and pulling a pencil from his backpack. “Let’s do it.”

#Steve harrington #Steve x reader #Jonathan byers #Jonathan x reader #Nancy wheeler #oneshot #drabble #imagine #stranger things #st imagine #st fanfiction #st fanfic #Steve x platonic!reader #Steve x henderson!reader #Steve x you #Steve x y/n

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wevegottogetaway · 3 years

Text

El Patrón

I’m so excited to finally be posting this piece. I’ve been working on it for the past few days and it’s been consuming my mind. If you like angst, smut, art student Harry, and great plot twists, this story is for you, so buckle up, cause you’ve got 13700 and then some waiting for you! And on that note, I don’t thing I have many words left in my brain... so, hope you enjoy xx

TW: smut, fool language

After her first day back to classes, Y/n is not surprised to see Harry Styles’ lanky frame standing behind the bar of Bottom’s Up. She hoped that he would bugger off to work some place else but alas, all her summer prayers were unanswered. For yet another semester, she would have to endure bartending by his sides, trying with all her might not to jab a corkscrew at his throat every time he opened his gob. Granted, she could have switched jobs herself, but the pay is too good to turn down and the bar sits literally right around the corner from her place; a match made in heaven if you ask her. Besides, she’s been mastering the art of tuning out the insufferable green-eyed prick for two years now, so what’s one more? Of course, knowing it is likely to be the last - having just kicked off the final year of her psychology major - makes the news easier to stomach. And with any luck, the fool did some sort of soul-searching over the break and came back a changed man.

"Well, well, well. Look who decided to grace us with her delightful presence again. Knew you couldn’t stand to live without me, y/l/n." Harry greets her with a smirk as he looks up from his phone.

Well, some much for change, but luck has never been on y/n’s side anyway; she knew it was wishful thinking to entertain the idea of a pleasant or even tolerable Harry. "Shut it, Styles. I’m not in the mood for your bullshit," she quips back and goes straight to the employee’s locker room to dispose of her stuff and swap her top for one bearing the bar’s logo. Once done, she takes a brief look in the tattered mirror still hanging by the door to readjust her ponytail, before joining her co-worker behind the counter. The bar is rather quiet for now, clock having not chimes 6pm yet, but y/n expects the place to be soon crawling with students drinking the classes’ return off their mind.

The next few minutes are spent in unexpected peaceful silence, y/n prepping for the upcoming rush while Harry idly sits by, not lifting a single finger to help her out. Admittedly, he’s completed all his pre-shift duties during the last hour, but y/n doesn’t think it warrants the smug look painted on his face as he watches her battle a jar of olives with an old opener and a concentrated frown. So peaceful silence was a bit of a stretch, maybe.

Then to make matters worse he decides to taunt her, "I see you’ve grown zero muscle strength over the break. Too busy vegetating on the beach?"

The surge of anger triggered by the provocation is enough impetus for her to crack the can open, but it doesn’t stop her from turning to face him, "I see you’ve grown zero neuron in that thick head of yours. Too busy making people miserable instead?" she counters with flaring nostrils and a look of disdain hardening her features.

"Ah, still got a feisty mouth on you. ‘Was worried you might turn soft on us." Harry sasses back, but y/n doesn’t bother telling him off this time. No matter how strong her comeback, he’ll just brush it off with that smile of his that irritates her to no end. That’s the thing with Harry, the bastard has the thickest skin of all, he’s downright unattainable. And believe it or not, bad-mouthing doesn’t come naturally to y/n, he just seems to draw it out of her, perhaps as the trigger of some kind of survival instinct. Time and time again she’s tried to come up with a quip that would leave him speechless, tail between his legs, but he always has a wittier reply to throw back at her. For so long they’ve been playing this debilitating game of ping pong and she has yet to claim a point to his countless wins.

It’d been the case since their first meeting on that dreadful Friday two years ago. Y/n was about to embark on her second year at uni and decided to get a job so she could afford her own place instead of the dreary dorms she’d gotten used to. Bottom’s Up had seemed to be the perfect choice, a 2 minutes walk from the sweet little apartment she’d just visited a few days prior. She’d been excited for her first shift that night, air still warm from the Indian summer sun drawing a plethora of eager students to come enjoy their last day of freedom. Her happy jitters had quickly dissolved once she’d made her way in the staff-only area located behind the bar though. There, she’d walked in on a very frustrated Harry vociferating at a lost-looking colleague, "how many times do you have to fuck up before doing your bloody job, Steve? Stop sitting on your lazy ass, or I swear I’ll-"

She’d come to this Steve guy’s defense then, furious at the tall curly hair jerk for bullying his way around, "stop it, you asshole. You can’t talk to people like trash, who do you think you are?" Granted, she didn’t know it at the time, but the lost look on Steve's face was in fact pretty standard for the amount of weed in his system; nor did she know that the lad could actually win the Olympics of lazy asses hands down, should such a discipline be appended. It was too late to call off the hostilities though. War had been declared, and aside maybe from that one time he had graciously accepted to cover for her when she’d had a trip to Brighton planned for one of her classes, no truce had ever been reached. Besides, she’s sure it was more so because he was low on cash rather than to fulfill the hidden desire to help her out for once in his life.

Now, as she finishes wiping her work surface with a wet cloth, y/n wishes more than ever to be teleported in a parallel universe where she doesn’t have to work with the bane of her existence, much less see his annoyingly handsome face four times a week. (Also, exams would only be optional in this alternate reality of hers, but that’s another fantasy for another day.) Mainly, she’s just glad she doesn’t see him around campus ever, the art building standing all the way across from the psychology department. At least she’s Harry-free the moment she steps out of the bar; she’d probably have a nervous breakdown if she had to put up with his antics outside of work.

***

A month in the new semester, the novelty of it all has finally worn off to make way for routines to settle in. Y/n’s weeks now consist in a well-practiced cycle of sleep, study, eat, work and occasionally go out with her best friend Mia. Her shifts at Bottom’s Up still prove to be challenging because of the company she’s forced to keep but things seem to have calmed down at the bar too. Students are now less inclined to party the week away, mainly indulging during the second half of the week, but more importantly, Harry appears to be less of a smug bastard and more of a sulky sod. For some reason, the lad has been stuck in a sullen mood, constant frown wrinkling his forehead. He has reverted to distant one-word answers as though he is saving a dictionary worth of words for whatever conundrum is going on in his brain. Y/n doesn’t mind though, and almost welcomes the transition if it means less digs taken at her expense.

Now y/n finds herself on her way to the campus library for a much needed paper-writing cramming session (the assignment is due the following day and she barely has two thirds of the work completed). After a quick stop by the coffee shop down the block, she finally strides in the lobby of the library, ready to dive nose first into the riveting matters of cognitive psychology. She’s already so focused mulling over concepts’ definition in her mind, that it takes her a minute to realize something is going on.

It’s nothing major really, no big fire rushing around the premises or fist-fight breaking the crowd into a frenzy. No, just everyone seemingly hushing and gasping, bewildered expressions etched upon their faces as they keep pointing towards the nearby study room. Truthfully, y/n might have been completely oblivious to it, it she weren’t a psychology major; but reading people’s feelings and interactions is kind of her thing, so she does notice the bubbly energy infiltrating the usually quiet space. What could possibly have them so intrigued, she wonders as more students come out of the room with the same looks of wonder.

Her confusion is finally quelled when she steps into the study room in question and her eyes fall on what has everyone so engaged. On the wall to her right, between two sets of shelves brimming with decades-old books, hangs a life size canvas of audacious shapes and bold colors. Not one seems to have been left out, the painting seemingly transporting the viewer in a psychedelic albeit appealing trance. It’s full of contrasts, an embodiment of serenity and boldness at the same time, and y/n can’t stop ogling the masterpiece for the life of her. The amount of passion is so obviously overwhelming, yet she can feel all of the artist’s emotions underneath each of the brushstrokes.

After another minute of wondrous observation, her thoughts are interrupted by a foreign voice. "El Patrón? I wonder who that could be," the stranger wonders aloud, and her eyes immediately drift off to the bottom right of the painting to catch the small but unmistakable signature: black cursive letter spelling the two words withholding the real artist’s identity. The mystery only adds up to the appeal of the work and y/n already feels a bubbling feeling in the pit of her stomach at the idea of ever finding out what beautiful soul is responsible for such mind-bending work. She hopes this won’t be last she sees of it.

***

It’s Friday night and unfortunately for y/n, she’s stuck at work with her least favorite person in the world. It’s all the more unfortunate that Harry seems to be back to his usual annoying self, his thoughts finally free from whatever trouble had plagued them, and eager to fall back into nuisance mode. Less unfortunate for y/n and much to Harry’s discontent, Mia decided to stop by and keep her company. Though she feels slightly sorry for her having the act as her buffer for the night, y/n figures she’s more than making up for it with every free cocktail she keeps sliding towards her friend. Their conversation is scattered at best since patrons keep interrupting them for a fresh pint of ale, but as the night slowly dies down they manage to talk longer than 20 seconds.

The manager of the bar has long clocked off and gone home, as per usual on Friday nights, leaving both her and Harry the pleasure to indulge in a few drinks of their own. They don’t do it every week and always keep it low-key of course; Mia’s tonight presence mostly accounting for y/n’s partaking while Harry just likes a nice glass of tequila when the week-end comes around and there’s nobody to tell him off about it. One thing they never do though, is drink together, like two friends celebrating yet another week they survived at uni. Come to think of it, the only thing they do share is a job position and their never-ending bickering. Cheers to that, y/n takes another sip of her gin martini in sarcasm.

She’s brought back to reality by Mia as the tipsy brunette lets out a loud gasp before she inquires in a slightly high-pitched voice, "y/n! totally forgot to tell you, went by the library today and you’ll never guess what was there!"

"Oh my god, you saw the painting too, didn’t you" y/n answers, excited at the idea of discussing the whole thing with her best friend. Truth be told, the majestic work of art hasn’t left her mind since she’d first seen it a few days before.

"Yes" Mia squeals in confirmation, "I mean, it’s kinda impossible to miss. I wonder how they got it there without anyone seeing."

Y/n has wondered the same thing and she came to one conclusion, "they probably sneaked in last Sunday after the library closed, it’s the only time the building is empty," Mia humming in agreement. The campus library is opened 24/7 all days except on Sundays, so realistically speaking it is the only window of time that would allow for such an experiment. Whether said experiment required an actual break-in or was conducted in full legality remains a mystery but that is just bygones in y/n’s eyes. She’s much to mesmerized by the work to give a damn about how it got there in the first place.

"Oi y/l/n! What are you two fawning over this time" Harry chirps in the conversation, uninvited as always, and y/n hates how condescending he just sounded.

"Not that you could ever understand something with substance, if your lack thereof is any indication, but it’s none of your damn business," y/n spats out dismissively but Mia’s Margarita-induced brain seems to have forgotten all about their concerted hatred for piss-taking bartenders.

"Harry, you’re an art major aren’t you? D’you know who’s behind that beautiful painting at the library?"

Y/n tilts her head back in a sigh at her friend’s behavior before turning to watch the puzzled look on Harry’s face. He seems to silently gauge the both of them; for what, y/n doesn’t know, and then his whole expression switched to a blasé look. He shrugs in disinterest, "who cares? ’s just one more Banksy wannabe who’s trying at it too hard ‘f you ask me."

Y/n takes it as a personal offense, her admiration for the painting outweighing any instinct she has of avoiding the brazen man taking a sip of his tequila on rocks across from her, "of course you’d say something like that. You’re just jealous you’ll never compete with his talent."

Harry raises a brow at her accusation, "and how would you know since you’ve never seen any of my work?"

It’s a valid point, but not enough to rebut her. "Doesn’t take a genius to know a shallow mind like yours could never create something as deep and transcending. That would require actual emotions from you Harry and we both know the only emotion you’re capable of spreading is irritation."

For once she’s confident she’s gonna have the last word, but in true Harry fashion he just gives her a bored look as if to say ‘is that all?’ towel thrown over his shoulder, "right, and here I thought talking to people like trash was a bad thing. You should really take a page out of your own book, y/n, wouldn’t want anyone to think you’re as big of a jerk as I am." Then he turns back to face the room full of customers, and tends to one disheveled looking guy slurring out an order.

Y/n barely registers the friendly "alright Joe, but ’s the last one," Harry rasps out to the guy, her ears are still ringing from the last words he’d said to her. More specifically, the little truth they held despite how much he deserved the backlash, and y/n absolutely loathes the way her throat seems to be closing in on itself. She’s afraid she’s turning like him, bitter words at the ready and always trying to outdo his own taunting spiels. Before anxiety can settle in her bones though, she swallows back the knot tightening in her airways and goes back to serving customers and conversing with her friend.

***

The next time it happens, she expects it even less. A couple weeks have passed since her gruesome interaction with Harry at the bar, and along with her doubts, all thoughts about art have seemed to vanish from her busy mind. She’s had a few tests occupying all her free time and now that they’ve been done and over with, all she can think about is calling Mia up to plan their next night out; she needs a few drinks that she didn’t make for once.

She’s about to take her phone out of her pocket to send her best friend a text, when she enters the lecture hall of her Monday experimental method and research design class. The déjà-vu feeling that creeps up her spine stops her from completing the action, and y/n frowns at how her fellow students seem to be all entranced in deep conversation, exchanging baffled looks with one another. Even the sleeping kid that sits at the back seems to be more alert than during their last fire evacuation procedure test.

It’s then y/n turns around to see what is hanging at the front of the room, covering the large board. This time, the colors were carefully handpicked by the artists, flashes of pink and yellow dancing along to a frenzied rhythm of salsa as their union creates powerful jets of oranges across the canvas. It vaguely reminds her of the pendant she wears on a daily basis, rose gold laurels wrapped around a delicate sunflower, an orange topaz incrusted in its center. The painting is of abstract nature much like the last one, but the movements of the brush still bring her mind back to the jewel presently nestled between her collarbones. How odd.

The piece is slightly smaller than the last but no less impressive, catching the attention of even the least artistic eye. The sensibility of the artist is so distinct, intentions clearer and more in touch than most people with their own. For a second, y/n thinks she’s glad the pieces have only been ones of unadulterated happiness and colorful bliss so far, because god knows how heart-wrenching the outcome would be if all this uncorrupted honesty was used to fill canvas with pain.

As the professor enters the room, everybody settles back on their seat, and wait for the chap’s reaction. "Well, that sure is something. It seems we have a bit of a mystery painter on our hands, don’t we; and a talented one at that," y/n’s professor smiles at the class as he pulls a computer out of his satchel and places it at top of the front desk. His words make her look back at the artwork, this time settling on the small signature reading El Patrón on its corner. And it’s all it takes for Y/n’s obsession with the anonymous artist to be back in full force.

***

That night she can’t stop raving about the painting as she starts closing the bar after a long and tiresome shift. She’s got a shoulder pressing her phone to her ear, Mia on the line, while she absentmindedly sweeps the floor. Normally the exertion of the job would have her stifling yawns and her bones aching but tonight her voice is perky as ever as she recollects the pinnacle of her day, "you shoulda been there Mia, it was gorgeous. And same as last time, like you’d be minding your business, doing your thing and then boom, it’s there. Damn, this guy is a genius."

As she comes back around the counter, Harry makes sure she notices the roll of his eyes. He’s been wiping and tidying the bar space after making sure everything is stocked up for the next day, all the while listening to her drone about El Patrón and his stroke of genius, praise after praise falling from her lips. She completely brushes off the patronizing gesture and that’s perhaps what irritates him the most. She’s barely acknowledging him or his stunts with all her attention placed on the mystery painter and well, Harry quite likes riling her up. Doesn’t do it out of spite, but merely because he likes the way it ignites a fire in her that he’s seldom seen in people. But now, all her fire is directed elsewhere and he doesn’t know what to think of it.

***

Over the next month, the rumors around El Patrón spread like wildfire as more and more of his works are found scattered around campus. Much to y/n’s delight, she always seems to fall upon them as though they’ve been placed specifically on her path. It didn’t start as obvious though; the first following pieces hung in common areas around campus such as the lunch hall or the student center but as time went by they tended to follow her whereabouts somehow. Y/n knows she’s probably fabulating but when she’d stumble across two absolutely stunning pieces in the lobby of her gym and at the entrance of the psychology building, she couldn’t help but feel deeply attached to them. And the possibility that this mystery artist might have the same attachment to her, only fuels her obsession further, sending her reeling with all but one nerve-wracking question: who is this guy?

And it’s not like she’s the only one pondering over their identity either. Hell, the genius has literally everyone on campus under their spell, trying to uncover the enigma of the year. Everyone seems to be determined to find clues, easter eggs hidden within the paintings that could lead them closer to the truth. El Patrón has effectively turned the whole uni into a large-scale game of Cluedo, people speculating left and right and swapping theories about who it can or cannot be, what year they are probably in, or whether they have an accomplice. Nobody has ever executed such a tour de force in the history of campus, and it has everyone one edge, y/n included, desperate to be in the loop.

The fact that each painting is more beautiful than the last and always seems to connect with her in personal ways doesn’t help her daydreaming either. Take the one she found at the gym for example, for a few second she’d sworn she was looking at a familiar piece of the English South Coast, dark hues of blue fighting dots of white, reminiscent of the way foam always seems to top even the most raging waves as they crash along shores. She’d only had to close her eyes to feel the wind blowing her hair in a thousand directions and the sand engulfing her feet, making its way between her toes and every crevice of her skin. She was still in the middle of her gym when she reopened them though, her sport bag straddling her shoulder as she kept gaping at the painting in adoration.

Her suspicious keeps nagging at her head, the desire to unveil the identity of her beloved artist getting stronger by the day. The feeling is almost unbearable when she spots yet another work of his across from Bottom’s Up. The coincidences keep piling up and the more she mulls it over, the more she’s convinced this mystery guy is talking to her. Damn, is it possible to have a crush on someone because of their work? After months of this cryptic scavenger hunt, she’d dying to know if all her theories are right and the fact that she has no way to find out, is positively killer her.

That’s why when she stumbles across a flyer for a midterm exhibition gala hosted by the art department as she waits in line at her favorite coffee shop, she doesn’t think twice before jotting down all the info. In a week time, most of the uni’s art students would be gathered up in one place to present their term’s work. The chances are too high for y/n to pass up the opportunity, her guts telling her he’ll be there. It makes sense doesn’t it? Surely, this El Patrón ought to be an art student if not a teacher. How else would they have access to all the campus amenities most of the paintings were found in?

As she goes to pick up her coffee from the counter, y/n walks with a newfound spring in her steps; she really can’t wait for this gala to happen.

***

Y/n stands at the entrance of the art building, a black floor-length long-sleeves open-back dress hugging her curves in all the right places. Her heart speeds up at the nervous jitters crawling underneath her skin, and the million question swarming her frantic mind. What if he actually doesn’t know her and doesn’t give a damn about her thoughts on his work? What if it’s actually a woman and she’s been hiding a man’s pen-name to consolidate her deceit? Is she about to make the biggest fool out of herself by coming to this exhibition? She doesn’t know anyone here, nor has she ever been to this kind of event before but she’s decided this guessing game has run its course. Maybe this all thing has nothing to do with her and that’s okay. All she really wants is to have a chance to tell this exquisite mind how remarkable their work is; the rest be damned.

Y/n slowly makes her way inside, and after a quick stop at the coat room to dispose of the unnecessary garment, she is finally greeted by a room full of dressed-up people roaming and chatting around, champagne flutes in hands. How cliche, she thinks with humor, before picking up a glass of the bubbly beverage. It’ll help sooth the nerves, she reasons as she starts walking around the place to observe each of the displays. Despite not having had a glimpse of her number-one painter yet, she finds herself having a good time. Most of the work offered to her is engaging in one way or another; some pieces quite provocative is their depiction, others straight out pushing the limits of 2D, with structures coming out of the canvas as though they were about to grip at the viewer.

Turning at a corner, she comes across his art before she sees him, having almost forgotten art was supposedly his thing too, and she realizes she actually knew someone here apart from the mysterious painter. She takes a brief look at his tall frame, the baby blue suit over his crisp white shirt fitting him perfectly. A black tie is completing the look, and it makes y/n waver for a second. She’s never seen him dressed in anything other than jeans and the bar’s t-shirt every employee is supposed to wear on call. Granted, even that he can make work better than anyone else she can think of, but that suit is something else altogether.

Her eyes shifts back to his work, not wanting to waste too much time on his appearance; she is here on a mission after all. She can’t deny his painting is good as much as she wants too. It’s made of a perfectly executed optic illusion that has her pause for longer than she intended to. The colors are picked wisely only adding to the entrancing design, tempting the viewer to reach out to the painting to convince themselves that this is fact a pretty subterfuge and no reality; the frontier between both worlds much too hard to distinguish. Just like for the rest of the exhibition, a single plaque hangs underneath the canvas, introducing the title of the piece above the name of its artist: Fine Line by Harry Styles. Damn, the bastard had to be talented…

"Is it as depthless as you thought it would be?" A hoarse voice interrupts her inner thoughts. She knows it’s his at the first word and already she regrets ever thinking positive things about him.

"Funny, I would have shared a compliment but you just had to go and open your stupid mouth," she bites back as she fully turns around to face him. She can feel is eyes shamelessly scanning her body, sending her nerves on overdrive. She wants this exchange to be as curt as possible, she’s got important matters to tend to.

"Here for you mysterious bloke, I presume?" he inquires in a taunting voice.

"What’s it to you, anyway?" y/n dodges the question with another, hoping it’ll steer the conversation toward its end.

She’s answered by rosy pouting lips, a hand on his heart in faux vexation, "ouch, was just hopin’ you’d come to see me, and now you’ve just crushed my dreams, love."

The pet-name is not lost on her and Y/n has had enough. In own gulp she downs the rest of her champagne and forces the glass to his chest for him to hold as she makes her way past him, "just leave me alone and go be a pain in someone else’s ass, Harry." She doesn’t wait to see if he’s following her as she marches across the room in long and purposeful strides.

Something in the corner of her eyes catches her attention right then. Halting abruptly, almost making someone walk right into her, she turns her head to the side and that’s when she finally sees it. A whole part of the wall has been dedicated to his work, a shrine of his most outstanding pieces randomly hung against the white surface. Y/n recognizes each and every one of them, but then her eyes take in the extra work added for the exhibition: next to each of the pieces are displayed a bunch of photos capturing the students’ expressions as they first discovered the paintings. Dozens of faces lighting up in amazement, widening eyes and finger pointing at the unexpected intrusions; some show confusion and puzzlement while others simply behold laughter and animated conversation.

In the center of the wall, a video is projected. It’s a compilation of those same moments but this time captured on tape. The sound was removed, but as y/n takes in the faces of her fellow students she can almost hear the sound of their laughters; she’d been there for most of it after all. She thinks the idea is amazing, El Patrón has managed to make the viewer a permanent part of the art. The paintings are marvelous of course, full of emotions and passion, but the mysterious artist has gone one step further by also displaying how those emotions had reflected back on the audience. It is an ode to art, to the power of sharing, and proves art is limitless; not owned by museums, not bound between walls and certainly not restricted for trained-eyes only. Because art isn’t all about beauty, it speaks for the need for sharing that human have but often forget, and this is a perfect reminder of it.

The next tape playing has her eyes doubling over the video, a small gasp escaping her lips as she takes in her own figure. It was taken the day she found the painting at the gym and unlike all the other videos she’s alone. No group of students by her side elbowing her in disbelief, or sharing a puzzle look with her. Just her doe eyes gleaming at the painting, lips slightly parted in pure wonder, as she studies every inch of the canvas. And the feeling that this might mean just as much to him as it does to her comes back crashing on her. She’s not paranoid; this artist his using her as some kind of inspiration, she’s sure of it. Random cannot be this accurate, it would defy any laws of statistics.

After the slideshow finally moves on to the next video, y/n looks around in the hopes of finding the man that has wormed his way into her heart. She’s imagined it a thousand times over during the past week. A young man would be discretely standing on the side, watching the evening pan out and waiting for her to find his work. Then they would make eye contact and he’d make his way over to greet her and share more of his beautiful mind with her. That’s the happily ever after she’s hoped for since that first painting in the library, but alas everyone around her seems to be engrossed in conversation about this and that.

"I thought he would be there too," the unexpected voice makes her jump. She recognizes the student from that first day, she’d also be intrigued by the mysterious man.

"I know, all of his work is here, he has to somewhere around," y/n tries to convince herself. She hasn’t given up yet, she won’t let herself unless she goes home tonight empty-handed. Only after that will she stop searching, she promises herself. If he doesn’t show up tonight, then that’s because he doesn’t want to be found.

The girl next to her has the same disappointed tone when she explains, "you’d think so, but I’ve been asking everyone around and nobody has a clue still."

Before y/n can come up with her own rationalizations, someone starts speaking in a microphone, asking for everyone’s attention. It’s a man in his early fifties making a speech about the whole reason behind the exhibition so y/n pegs him as the head of the art department. "Thank you all for coming tonight, it is always a pleasure to see so many of you supporting our young talents. As you may know, tonight’s exhibition signs off our students’ final work for the semester, and will also see one of them receive a one-time collaboration with a renown art gallery in the city. Now, before the judges finish deliberating, let me tell you a bit about the topic of this exhibition which, by the way, serves as the main criteria for this contest. Our artists were asked to work around audience engagement and crowd reaction. The task was to produce art that would prompt an active response from the viewer and go beyond a passive experience. I hope this info helps this event take all its sense, I’ll let you all meander for a couple more minutes before we announce the winner. Thank you for your presence."

Since she has a couple more of minutes, y/n decides to take advantage of the fresh insight she was just given about the artwork and goes around the exhibition one more time. The whole thing does take on a new meaning, now that she knows what was going one in the students’ mind as they first got their assignment. But what has her in awe really, is El Patrón’s coup de maître in all of this, because unlike any other applicant here tonight, he’s had the strongest reactions from the public for months now and had even documented it. So really, in a way he’s already won, no bias to blame. The amount of work and planning behind such a tour de force surely has exceeded everyone’s expectations and secured the number-one position for the still-to-be-revealed artist. In the pocket, as they say.

"Alright everyone, without further ado we are going to announce the lucky talent selected by the judges tonight," the head of department speaks up again. "On behalf of the whole department, I would like to salute each and every one of the students that presented their work tonight. Skills are certainly not scarce among you all, and as always it gives me great pleasure to see you all grow into yourselves alongside your craft. As you know, there can only be one of you coming up to this stage tonight and I must say, this semester has proved to be full of surprises. Never in my 26 years working here have I ever seen something of the sort, so ladies, gentleman, I have no idea who is about to join me now, but please give a warm round of applause for El Patrón!"

The room explodes in loud cheers as people clap their hands in honor of the mysterious artist. Y/n probably the loudest amongst them all, is still craning her neck in every possible directions trying to catch sight of anyone moving towards the stage. The standing ovation quickly fades into silence as everyone realizes nobody is coming to claim their prize. The usual hushing following any of El Patrón’s stunts is once again spreading across the room to match people’s incredulity at the situation. It was one thing to keep their identity a secret, as it was clearly a crucial condition for the plan to work, but now that it is all over and done, prize ready for the taking, it doesn’t make much sense.

"Mister El Patrón? I think you more than deserve to drop your mask and receive your prize," the host reiterates in hopes that the much awaited artist comes out of his lair, but he’s met with the same result. Perhaps he’s not here after all, or perhaps y/n was right to think he might not want to be found, but regardless a strong feeling of disappointment takes over a body. He won’t be coming, she knows. No matter how many times the host calls for him, he won’t be coming.

She lets out a long sign in frustration then, she really thought tonight was the tonight. But now that the evening is coming to its end, tears pearl at the corner of her eyes and she just wants to go home and forget all about El Patrón. Aren’t artists supposed to be dark and twisted anyway? Maybe she just dodges a bullet, she tries to make herself feel better, but no amount of sarcasm can save her from the painful pinch at her heart. As she comes to term with the fact she won’t get any more answers by staying (and possible ever), she decides it’s her cue to go.

On her way to the exit, her eyes fall upon Harry’s slightly hunched figure. He seems deep in his thoughts, eyes fixed towards the floor though he’s not looking at anything in particular. For some unknown reason, y/n is not irked by his presence like she usually is. He’s just lost a great career opportunity so his preoccupied disposition is understandable. Feeling as though she needs to end the night on a different note - whether positive is yet to be determined - she approaches him slowly as not to startle him. "Your painting is really good. I’m sorry you didn’t win, but you should still be proud," she softly tells him to cheer him up. At least, one of them might get to go home in higher spirits.

He looks up at her then, curls bouncing on top of his head, as he aligns his two glistening emeralds to her own gems. He seems quite surprised to hear her voice, probably rightfully so since he can count on one hand (scratch that, one finger) the number of times she’s actively sought him out for conversation. She can tell he’s debating whether to say something or not, as they keep their eyes locked. It’s probably the longest and only civil exchange they’ve ever had, and somehow it manages to soothe some of her sorrows.

Y/n likes this reflective side of him, she realizes. Not that she wishes him any torments (at least not tonight) but his quietness makes him look vulnerable in that beautifully human way for once. That’s twice he’s proven her wrong about the assumptions she had on him, tonight: first his talent, now his character; she doesn’t know what to make of it. Silently, she accepts the timid smile and light nod he offers her in gratitude, before making her way to out at last.

***

Two days after the night of the exhibition, y/n still has a hard time to let her grievance go. Her mood has yet to upgrade from crappy at best, and the fact that all the artwork has been removed from their previous spots is not helping much. Of course she knew they had been put down for the big night, but her heart still missed a beat when she went to the gym only to find the walls of the lobby bare of any craft that would liven up their otherwise dull and colorless structure. Just like her state of mind, she’d joked. And y/n is not one to throw pity parties, especially to herself; but then again, she’d never fallen under the charms of a faceless virtuoso because his art brought to life parts of her that she’d believed otherwise dormant, only to be metaphorically stood up at the end of the process. So really, what does she know anymore?

Now that she’s back at work, she revels in the constant effort she has to provide. The ever-growing list of task to complete gives her mind reprieve and focus, but she still hasn’t budged from her unusually distant and withdrawn self. Even harry’s own standoffishness hasn’t caught her attention; a week ago, his awkward demeanor would have flashed red flags all over her radar. An unfiltered narcissistic prick he could be, but y/n has never known him to be anything even resembling reserve; apart maybe from that one fate-less night not even 72 hours ago when she found him on the outskirts of the attention even though she knew full well that he is more of center kind of guy.

As they’re about to start closing, the awkwardness becomes more palpable by the second. They’ve skirted around it during the whole shift, the steady solicitation of customers enough to ignore the growing tension; but as the last of the patrons finally make their way out of the bar, an eery silence settles in their wake, making them both want to crawl out of their skin. Even the heavy-served drinks they’ve indulged in, despite the absence of their respective motives, hasn’t help assuage the strain between them. Instead, they start their usual routine in overrated silence, y/n in charge of the floor while he tends to the bar. Then before long, Harry bursts the uncomfortable bubble they’ve locked themselves in, voice void of its usual teasing tone, "so, what’s got you so grumpy?" he inquires.

"Please don’t start, Harry. I really can’t be bothered tonight," y/n sighs in response, failing to recognize the note of concern in his question and thinking she wouldn’t survive another bickering session. It hasn’t been the lad’s intention though, so her false accusation has his thick skin itching against his will. To be honest, Harry’s never taken much offense from any of their past squabbles no matter how hard she’d come at him, but this one he can’t brush off. Not when for once, he’s trying to be decent, dropping the attitude he knows rubs her the wrong way and she responds by telling him to get lost.

"Fuck sake, I wasn’t tryin’ to start anythin’" he berates her for lashing out unjustifiably, "you need to take a chill pill." The hostile reaction as her pausing mid-swipe in the middle of the room. He was always so unbothered by everything she said, she hasn’t expected him to be so hard on the defensive (or even know what a defensive is in the first place).

Still, she doesn’t appreciate the same chastising tactic he’s used on her countless times, especially because given his serious temper, she knows he means it for real now. "Oh I’m sorry Harry, I didn’t know what sympathy actually sounds like coming from your mouth," she quips back in sarcasm.

The response makes him livid, "you tell me I’m a jerk every chance you got, but you sure know how to be a bitch, y/n" he spats before finishing wiping the counter. As his hand reaches the end of the surface, he finds his half-empty glass of tequila, most of the ice completely melted through the amber liquor by now. He takes one long sip in a vain attempt to calm his nerves but the alcohol merely tingles the back of his palate and warms its way down his stomach. His mind is still burden with frustrations he doesn’t know how to alleviate; the end of term, the exhibition, his career’s future, and y/n’s stubborn nature all wreaking havoc in his tired brain.

"Shut the fuck up, Harry. I didn’t ask for your attention," y/n retorts, trying not to expose how bruised her heart is. While he’d mocked her plenty during the past two years, he’d never resorted to calling her names, unlike her; so the insult does more damage than she’s willing to admit, even coming from Harry. And to think she’d thought of him as a half decent being not three days ago…

"Right, I forgot only anonymous bastards are worthy enough of your attention," he replies before checking the shelves behind the bar to make sure they’re stocked enough for the next shift. "And even when they turn out to be cowards, you still choose them over the people that are actually around you. You need to open your eyes and wake up, it’s pathetic."

Y/n has almost finished cleaning her area but at this point, she’s ready to call it quits and run as fast as she can, away from him. "Go fuck yourself, you don’t know anything you’re talking about," she manages to croak past her swelling throat and quivering lips. The man in front of her is breaking her heart even though he’s never had it in his calloused hands, and y/n doesn’t know why.

"Fuck this, ’m done," he quite literally throws in the towel, leaving it in a bowl on the counter before making his way back to his drink. In a swift movement, he grabs the bottle of tequila to pour himself a new one. "You keep blindly mopin’ about your precious painter, I don’t care, you’re probably right anyway," he says before chugging the bitter spirit in one go and slamming the bottle of tequila down on the counter in a loud bang that has y/n jump in fear. "I don’t anything about bloody anything," is all Harry says as he locks eyes with hers, before making his out of the bar, not bothering to put the bottle back to its rightful place.

Y/n is still trembling from the exchange, and it takes her a hot minute before she can finish what she was doing. As she resumes wiping the floor with shaky hands, she tries to even her breath out. Why had he been so hurtful? What could have possibly impelled him to utter such malicious words? The questions are still reeling in her mind as she twists water out of the mop for the last time. Once the floor is spotless and all the tables are no longer sticky with spilled alcohol, chairs stacked up onto them upside-down, she makes her way back behind the bar, checking that Harry didn’t leave any of his duties unattended before his theatrical exit. She spots the bottle of tequila sitting lonely on the counter but just as she goes to reach for it, she freezes.

It’s a cold shower pouring over her body all at once then, dots finally connected as her eyes read over the label of the fat bottle she’s seen him take out of the stack countless times before. Everything that happened for the last few months falls into place and suddenly there is no mystery left to be solved. ‘You’re probably right, I don’t know anything about bloody anything’ Harry’s final words keep playing on a maddening loop in her head.

Y/n takes in the small bee design printed under what is unmistakably the last piece of the puzzle she’s been craving to complete: one word that has her stomach churning in a myriad of emotions she can’t possibly untangle. Anger, relief, surprise, fear, curiosity, warmth and more, are all rushing through her in one colossal wave, because printed on that bottle in black capital letters is the brand of Harry’s favorite drink: Patrón.

***

The next day, y/n navigates through her classes purely on autopilot mode. She doesn’t quite remember picking the floral blouse nor the light-shade pair of jeans she’s wearing, and barely recalls the brief conversation she had with an old lady during her bus commute to campus. One thing she sure as hell hasn’t paid one iota of attention to, is the behavioral psychology class she’s just got out of. Two hours she spent pacing up and down every twist and turn of her mind only to come out more lost than she’d started. Add to that the fact she’s running on 4 hours of sleep, she’s quite simply a recipe for disaster. Fortunately for y/n, she isn’t due at work tonight, having called sick this morning, because sleep-deprivation aside, she still has no idea how she’s supposed to face Harry.

The revelation of the night prior is still something she has trouble wrapping her mind around, as it goes against every constructed opinion she’s made about her life. Harry is Patrón, she’s pretty sure. Harry, the allegedly conceited asshole she’s been bickering with since their first minute spent together, is the mind-blowing painter that had taken residence in y/n’s heart since the first time she set eyes on his art. The two characters have yet to fully merge into one in her mind, despite the fact it makes perfect sense to her.

The Brighton painting, the one inspiring her necklace, it was all true. And with that revelation comes two intimidating truths y/n is kind of scared to delve into: one, all this time she’s been right to think she is the muse behind this all scheme; two, if Harry is the mystery painter, that makes her Harry’s muse more specifically. And that’s the part of the equation she struggles the most with, because up until last night she was pretty positive that the twat despised her (the night in itself being prime evidence of that) but now she doesn’t know what to think.

It’s like there are two versions of Harry battling in her brain, splitting her heart in halves; the one that made her miserable at work for years and made her cry last night, and the one she’d gotten a glimpse of at the night of the exhibition. The one that hid a fully blossomed bouquet of emotions behind teasing banter to protect a diamond-rough talent that had the power to touch just about anyone’s sensibility. The one that had her wrapped around his finger in awe with that beautiful mind of his. The question is, can she or will she see this Harry the next time she’s facing him or will all their bad-blood history come crashing down on her instead? Y/n doesn’t think she’s ever fit more the definition of having mixed feelings about something.

On her way home, she makes sure she doesn’t fall asleep against the bus window, despite yawning every thirty-seconds. It feels like the trip is taking forever, she almost lets out a cry of relief when the automated voice finally announces her upcoming stop. Once she’s thanked the driver and stepped out of the bus, she’s met with a gust of brisk air, instantly blowing her hair all over her face. She draws the lapels of her coat tighter around her shivering body and starts making her way towards her apartment building.

It doesn’t take her long to complete the walking distance to her place and tread her way up the stairs, but the sight greeting her in the hallway of her floor almost sends her down on her ass. Because right across from her door, is Harry hanging yet another one of his chefs-d’oeuvre. He’s dressed casually in his usual jeans and t-shirt ensemble, with a thick grey hoodie covering his broad upper-half in a feeble attempt to combat to cold weather raging outside. As he reaches in the back pocket of his jeans to retrieve a sharpie - no doubt to apply his trademark signature - the movements of her feet on the laminated floor catch his attention. Spinning around in a jolt of surprise, he realizes too late that he’s been caught red-handed. There was no going back this time, but he doesn’t necessarily see it as a bad thing.

There is a short moment where they are both just standing in front of each other a few feet apart, as their eyes bounce back in silent conversation, before y/n softly breaths out, "so it is you." The weight of her words has him swallow in nervousness, "of course it’s me," he replies in a gentle tone. A smile pulls at his lips when he realizes she’s not running for the hills or bursting out in a furious rant.

"I just…how? why? I mean, you gotta help me understand Harry, cause I’m pretty fucking lost over here," she blurts out with wide doe-eyes begging him for answers. Her obvious jitters earn her a soft chuckle., and for a hot minute all he can bring himself to do is study her snuggled figure and the way she keeps fiddling with her keys. It’s so endearing to him, if they were at his place, he would have offered to make some tea. The thought has him hesitantly looking at the door across from them, "can we maybe talk inside?" he inquires, beckoning his head towards her place. "I know I haven’t given you much reasons to let me in, but I promise I’ll explain everythin’," he feels the need to convince her, " after that, you can kick me out if you still want."

The last bit has her smile timidly, "yeah, let’s go inside. I wanna hear what you have to say," y/n admits as she steps to the door and unlocks it. She’s intrigued by how gentle and well-mannered the man following her to the living room seems to be, light years away from the rowdy lad she’s come to know.

For a second, y/n is worries about the state she’s left the apartment before she rushed to classes this morning, but her apprehensions quickly go away once she takes in the sight of her rather tidied living space. A velvety throw blanket is covering the couch in a makeshift comforter from the way she spent the night on the couch, and apart from a few class notes scattered across the coffee table, everything seems to be where it’s supposed to be.

They both discard their top layers on the armchair adjacent to the couch, Harry slipping his hoodie off above his head in one swift gesture, while y/n simply lets the sleeves of her coat slide down her arms. He brushes his hair back into submission with one swoop of his hand, before sitting down on the couch and directing his attention back at her. She decides to leave some distance between them, taking the other end of the sofa and the move desperately makes him wonder what thoughts are running through her head. The only way to uncover them however, is if he starts talking first; and so he does.

"So uhm," he starts clumsily, clearing his throat, "remember the first day we met, you walked in on me telling some stoner guy off," he watches closely as y/n nods. "It was our first ever conversation and we fought through the whole thing. I was pretty pissed when it happened, not gonna lie, but once I got home and slept it off, I thought it was really cool how you’d stand up for that random guy." The admission has her eyebrows raising but he keeps going, "and okay maybe, just maybe, I found it a lil hot, the way you tried to put me back in my place."

He stops to make sure he hasn’t offended her, "tried to?" she challenges instead, Harry laughing at her objection.

"Right, maybe you did. My poin’ is, no-one really calls me out on my bullshit, so it was kinda refreshing that you did. But then the next day, you were still mad at me, an’ we bickered that time too. It felt like you’d already made up your mind about me. So in a way, all I had left was doin’ this thing where I push your buttons and rile you up. Know it doesn’t make sense, but it was the only way you’d interact with me so I kept doin’ it, because being jerk-Harry was better than having nothin’."

He pauses for a minute and waits as y/n swallows all the information. All this time he’s been teasing her just to have some sort of connection, no matter how perverse, while she thought he just hated her guts. When she shares this thought with him, he shakes his head with a smile, "never hated you. If I ‘ad, I wouldn’t have bothered talking t’you."

Suddenly, her chest feels lighter, as though all this months of anguish had evaporated from her mind, now that she knew their rocky relationship was the result of miscommunication, "sound logic, Styles," she replies in good humor. Then she remembers the El Patrón’s fiasco so she urges him to go on.

"My final. Right. Well as you know, we were given the assignment at the beginning of the semester, and I came up with the idea of creating this alter ego that would plant his work around campus. I thought by taking people’s by surprise I was guaranteed strong genuine reactions. People are always more opened when they don’t expect it. Like if I had just brought my paintings on the night of the exhibition, the same people wouldn’t have reacted that way, probably because they’d know they’d be observed so they would have adjusted their behavior accordingly." They both know he’s getting slightly off trail, but watching y/n so enthralled with his words makes it hard for him to stop. Fact is, for month she’s dreamed of meeting and picking at the brain of this mysterious painter, and now that he’s sitting on her couch, walking her through his thought process, she finally feels like she is.

"Anyway," he resumes the storytelling, "I started with that painting in the library and it worked so perfectly, I knew if I followed the plan I would have somethin’ really good. But then you just had to go on an’ rave about the paintings without knowing they were mine, and it was killin’ me inside. Because I knew if there was a real chance I could change your mind about me, I’d do anythin’. But no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t tell you. Couldn’t jeopardize my final… so I tried to tell you through the art. I started painting stuff that made me think of you and placed the pieces in locations I knew you’d pass through. It was the only way I could tell you."

Harry’s confession had Y/n’s heart beating so hard in her chest, she can almost feel it thumping through her ears. Her next question is on the edge of her lips, but she takes her time tracing each of Harry’s graceful features until his eyes catch hers, "tell me what, Harry?" she asks barely above a whisper.

His response comes in three bashful steps: first his lips curve into a shy grin that has him look down with rosy cheeks; then his hand inches its way along the soft fabric of the couch to gently hold her fingers, thumb grazing over her knuckles; and as he looks up from their joined hands to connect their gaze once more, he finally spells it, loud and clear, "tell you that I like you, y/n."

The sentiment sends her own emotions reeling in a tornado of passion. This is it, this is what she’s been half-knowingly wishing for, and now that she knows the truth in full, she’s ready to embrace it. Her eyes twinkle in bliss, a growing smile illuminating her face as she squeezes his hand in a silent invitation to slide closer to her. Harry is much happy to oblige, and once he’s sitting directly next to her, knees grazing her own, he cups her face with one of his bear-paw hands. A few strands of hair are caught in the cuddling gesture, but none of them care. Harry just keeps smiling at her, waiting for her next move, and his beam grows two sizes wide when she mirrors his affection. "I like this side of you," she whispers fondly, as her thumb draws slow circles across the skin of his cheeks.

Harry closes his eyes at her words, "this is the real me, I promise," he reassures in an almost pleading tone, vulnerability seeping through. And y/n feels like she’s lying down on cloud nine really, because dropping his fortress of pretentiousness is all she’s ever want from him. With a hushed ‘okay’, she finally brings her mouth to taste the rose-tinted flesh of his. It starts off chaste and slow, lips dovetailed in perfect symbioses like they are made to cohabit, but quickly the kiss heats up to a full on make out session. "Show me, then", y/n mutters out when they part for a breather.

Harry slowly nods his head, before helping her straddle his lap and y/n immediately brings both her hands to his neck once she settles her hips against his. The friction already had them deeply inhale, trying not to work themselves up too fast, but Harry doesn’t think he’ll have much self-control when it comes to y/n. Already he can feel his cock fattening up inside his brief, the tingling sensation making him roll his hips up into hers. Their lips are back in a sensual duel, tongues tentatively taking their turn to lick their way inside the other’s mouth. Every now and then, he teases her bottom lip with a graze of his teeth, and the move as her tugging the root of his hair at the back of his head every single time without a fail.

He loves discovering all the quirks and tells of her body, thinks he could spend hours on hand learning every single one of her curves and memorizing each of her special spots. The smell of her fragrance infiltrates his nostrils as he dips his head to her neck to plant open-month kisses along her skin. Head angled towards the ceiling to make room for his ministrations, y/n can’t do much but let her hands scout any expanse of skin accessible to her. She starts at his shoulder, squeezing the flesh to feel out the strong muscle laying underneath, before making her way down his tone arms, then to his hands currently holding onto to her waist. She gives them an affectionate pinch at the same time she presses down onto him with a deep moan, and Harry retaliates with a buck of his own.

As he starts kissing down the exposed skin of her cleavage, y/n finally drops her head to place a tender kiss to his hairline. One of her hand is back at his neck, holding him firmly to her chest as he licks at the valley of her breasts down her sternum. The other worms its way underneath his shirt from the neckline, nails grazing down his back in soft enough pressure not to leave any marks.

Harry’s descent is obstructed by the soft material of her blouse, so he takes the garment off of her in one swoop, and places his hands back on her newly exposed body, rubbing up and own the skin. As his mouth goes back to the supple flesh of her breasts, y/n increases the pace of her hips grinding on his cock. The sensations seem to be not enough and too much at the same time for her; the heavy material still covering their most sensitive parts in the way of her pleasure, while Harry’s work has her going into overdrive under his velveteen mouth and calloused fingers. She starts kissing her way up from his shoulder to the edge of his jaw, and Harry revels in the sound of her moans tickling his ear.

Done with the excess of fabric between them two, y/n grips at the top of his shirt and pulls it upwards, leaving him shirtless. "Fuck, I didn’t know you have so many tattoos," she babbles against his lips, while her hands smooth over the ink.

"Plenty you don’t know about me, love," Harry chirps as he bask in the praise and the feeling of her skin of his.

He then circles one arm around her waist to bring them chest to chest, and the contact has y/n once again intensify the friction between their crotches. "Wanna find out," she murmurs against his neck while she grinds on his clothed member, "Harry, please take me to bed."

He jolts at the quick bite she delivers to his neck, the impish gesture her way of saying ‘now’ but before she can make her way out of his lap to bring him to her room, he presses her back down with both hands on her waist. "Nuh uh, y’not goin’ anywhere. Want you to come once, b’fore I take you to bed, pet," he says, smoothing his hands over her ass to guide her rocking motions. The term of endearment sounds so innocent yet dirty all at once, it sends a chill down her spine. Nobody had called her that before.

"Can’t," she shakes her head, "can’t feel you through the jeans."

"Alright then, stand up," he calmly asserts and she doesn’t hesitate to comply, standing in between his spread legs, in her flimsy bra and jeans. "Take ‘em off then, ’s what you want no?" he sends her a tantalizing look and bites at his lips as he watches her peel the pants off her legs. He can’t help the light squeeze he gives himself through his own jeans, as y/n stands in front of him awaiting his next instructions. "Come sit on my thigh now, think should be enough to make this pretty pussy tingle in all the right places, no?"

Y/n’s insides are already twisting in a knot as she settles back on his lap and lets the rough material of his jeans against the softness of her cotton panties spread a prickling sensation through her pelvis area. Quickly, she resumes undulating her hips, gripping back at Harry’s neck to pull him in a languid kiss, pleasure vibrating against their lips. It is not long before her pace picks up, and her eyes shut at the intensity of her bliss. "That’s it, pet. Already makin’ a mess of me. You’re doin’ so well," he coaxes her with his words.

As promised, y/n feels the lips of her sensitivity start to throb at her impending release, the sensation making her clamp her thighs tighter around his meaty limb. As her knee now presses against his bulge, Harry cries his sudden pleasure out in her mouth, and that’s all it takes for her to let her orgasm consume her. She unravels on top of him, one of her hands shooting to cup at her pussy in an attempt to quell the overwhelming throb. Harry draws soothing caresses down her back as he look at the sticky mess she’s left in her panties, damp patch matching the one tainting the material of his jeans. "All ruined, just as they should be," he smirks at the sight before giving her a sweet kiss.

Flushed skin and blown pupils, she slowly regains her breath, "take off your pants and take me to bed now?" she requests.

"You’re quite demanding for someone who’s just gotten off," he keeps taunting her. After all, winding her up has always been one of his favorite thing to do, and dare he say in the past two years, he’s gotten quite good at pushing her buttons. Now he’s got new ones to figure out and play with, the thoughts has him pulsing in his jeans.

Y/n doesn’t relent in her advances, she’s never been one to bow at his mockery, "thought you like how bossy I could be. Something about the way I put you in your place, if my memory serves right."

"Anytime, anywhere, you’re the boss of me, love. But this," he cups at her cunt, adding pressure on her clit, "this is mine to have. Understood?"

Y/n’s about to combust from all the desire firing up every one of her nerve-endings. His words might be the strongest aphrodisiac she’s ever experienced, she can’t wait to see what more tricks in has up his sleeves. "Now get up and show me the way to your room, pet," he softly commands before leaving a peck on her cheek.

They both get up from the couch, and y/n guides them both down the hallway to her room, her hand wrapped in his tightly. Once they’re standing by the bed, Harry is surprised to face a patient y/n, biting her lips and awaiting his next directive. He doesn’t think he’s ever been more turned on in his life, "undress me, love" he murmurs against her skin after kissing her forehead.

His jeans are quickly discarded but before his boxer briefs follow suit, y/n can’t help but tease him in reprisal, "looks like I’m not the only one who made a mess in their panties."

He lets out a boisterous laugh while she smears open mouth kisses along his stretching jaw, "mmm, I’d rather make a mess somewhere else," his innuendo causing her to gasp while he works the strap of her bra. Once she’s gotten rid of his last piece of clothing, his cock springs up, free of it’s confines, dollop of pre-come already pearling at his tip, and sticking to the skin of his stomach.

With a gentle grip at her hair, he has y/n’s head tilted backward, to let his mouth make its way towards her already pebbled nipples. Since she can’t look down, y/n blindly reaches out to wrap her hand around Harry’s thick shaft and starts massaging him in languid strokes. "Your hand feels so fuckin’ good around me, pet, I wanna fuck you so badly," he hisses around her nipple, before kissing his way back up to her lips.

He starts backing her towards the bed in small steps, but she brings a hand to his chest at the feeling of the edge of the mattress brushing against the back of her knee, "wait, wait, wanna taste you first," she insists and Harry doesn’t think he could ever say no to that face, no matter how much he wants to just sink home inside of her in this moment.

"Fuck, you’re killin’ me, love," he pinches at her waist and lays his forehead against hers, "you want my cock in your pretty mouth, before I drive it home in your cunt, is that it?" She nods, eyes turning into two lustful fireballs. "Okay, love, but y’ can’t keep it on your tongue fo’ too long, cause I really need to fuck you, alright?"

Y/n hastens to lower herself when he bids her "right then, on your knees and open wide fo’ me," and her brows furrow in confusion as she watches him stray from her spot. Picking up a plush cushion from her bed, he places it on the ground for her to knee upon, "there love, want you to be comfortable," he runs his fingers through her hair, and her heart grows three sizes bigger at how tender he can be in amidst his filthy ways.

Sensually, y/n brings her lips around the crown of his cock, her tongue teasing its way across the salty skin. Once she’s licked up all the previous mess, she starts working her way down his cock, hand stroking at the base. After bopping up and down a few time, she removes her month from his swelling cock, and lets a string of spit fall down onto its head and make its way to his balls. "S’right, pet. Get me wet," Harry rasps in appreciation. Now that she’s got him properly slicked, she goes back to pumping his hardening cock and takes him into her warm inviting mouth, determined to have him all the way inside. She feels her throat expands to accommodate his thickness, and the pressure makes Harry tighten his hold in her hair, "fuck, that’s it, love. Take me good."

Muscles already tensing up in preparation for his climax, when y/n’s hand finds his full and swollen balls to roll them together like dice, he is quick to calm her zeal, "Christ pet, you gotta stop before I can’t help myself," but his tone hardens when she defies his demand, "come on now, s’enough."

Once she pulls off, the sight of her flushed face and puffy lips induces an animalistic groan to come out from his chest, as he thumbs through the wetness coating her chin. Taking the hand resting on his hip to guide her up, he captures her lips in a searing kiss, the taste of his arousal blending in their mouths.

His hands come down to knead at the flash of her ass, before he scoops her up and on the bed with a quick flex of his biceps. "Harry, please," she whines in impatience, hands gripping at his sides to pull him down against her. His rock hard cock slides against her clothed pussy, pins and needles cruising along their skin and only fueling their eagerness.

"Need me in your belly, pet?" Harry keeps working her up, as he slides her soiled panties down her legs, "need me to fuck you so good, you forget I was ever a jerk?"

She’s putty in his hold, legs wrapping around his waist to feel the pressure of his member on her bare lips , "yes, yes, I wan’ it," she pleads.

Harry would love to tease her further, have her writhing and proper begging underneath him, but at this point it would be self-torture to even consider. Instead he pumps at his shaft to give himself some relief, their sex so close his knuckles graze at her clit every time his fist comes at the top. "You ready?" Harry utters softly while spreading and skimming her cleft with the head of his cock. It has y/n gripping at his hair, a series of delirious ‘yes’ tumbling form her mouth, so he doesn’t wait a second more to push his tip past her threshold and begins his descent in her warmth. "Fuck, t’feels so good. So wet, and tight, and warm," he thinks out loud once he’s stuffer her full, balls pressing against her ass.

Y/n whimpers against his lips, urging him to start moving to quell the building pressure coiling in her belly. A slow roll of his hips finally gives her reprieve causing her to moan in gratitude. She’s already so close, it baffles her how this man could have her coming apart at the seams without doing much. His thrusts starts gaining zeal then, betraying his own yearning to take the final leap. "So tight, love. Can feel you squeezin’ me, are you close already? Is my girl gonna cum fo’ me again?" he grunts in her ear while he pounds into her dripping cunt. Y/n doesn’t offer a response, too caught up in a daze of bliss, but her clenching muscles is all the answer he needs to start nudging his thumb at her clit. A several flicks across the sensitive bud later, her orgasm is pulsing through every bone and fiber of her body, walls hugging Harry’s cock so tight, it has to pause his hammering.

Waiting for her to catch her breath, he peppers delicate kisses along her cheek, "was that good, love? Think you can give me another, uhm?" he asks when she’s regained some of her senses. The pressure at his groin is growing more and more the longer his cock remains unmoving entombed within her vice, and the luscious agony must be written all over his face, "yes, Harry, wanna be good for you" y/n cups his jaw tenderly.

He nods at her approval, "good girl," delivers a sweet earnest kiss to her pouty lips as he pulls out and spins her around to lay on her stomach. His hand brushes the hair off her skin so he can sew a string of kisses at her shoulder blades and neck. Painfully red, his cock is propped between her buttcheeks, "can I take you like that?" he punctuates his inquiry by rolling his hips backward, tip lingering at her soaked entrance. Y/n clutches the sheets firmly, as she murmurs a faint ‘please’, back arching at the thrills consuming her mind.

Harry plunges in her wet core in one smooth swing, hand digging at her hip to keep her steady as the other one interlaces with hers to lay on the mattress above her head. Unforgiving lunges have y/n cinch around him, face buried in the sheets and muffling salacious wails of pleasure, and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to steer from his end for much longer. He slows his cadence to steady and firm strokes, slipping a hand around her waist to polish her swell.

A million tremors spark off the onset of Y/n’s climax as she shudders in a firework of ecstasy. Harry doesn’t relent until he’s worked her through completion and can no longer stop the coil in his loins from snapping. His release fills her in several spurts of wet warmth before he flops down next to her, positively fucked out.

They both lay unmoving in comfortable bliss for a few minutes, before y/n plops her head on his chest and an arm around his torso, her leg sneaking in between his. "Well, here goes two years of sexual tension," Harry says jokingly, fingers drawing abstracts design on the skin of her back. It might just be his favorite canvas to paint on from now, he muses before chastising himself at the onslaught of filthy thoughts tagging along. A playful slap on his abdomen takes his mind out of the gutter, "don’t ruin the moment," y/n says in fake admonition before placing a tender kiss on the spot she just abused.

"M’sorry, love. M’just really chuffed to be in your bed finally," the last word reminding her that while she’s struggled to come to term with her feelings for him, ransacking her mind for a possible change of heart, he’d only seen her in but one light. The revelation still has her floored and giddy, "can I ask you something?" she asks as there was still one question pacing back and forth the pathways of her mind. Harry hums in acquiescence, "anythin’ love, by brain is yours."

She feels his hand cradling her skull followed by a small peck to her forehead, and she smiles at the gesture, "why did you stay away that night at the exhibition when you got the prize? Why not coming forward?" It’s been bugging her brain since it happened. Although she didn’t have much insight on anything at the time, most of the pieces of the puzzle fell in place after the big reveal; but this, she still can’t make sense of.

Harry lets out a long breath, organizing his thoughts, "two reasons," he starts off tiredly. "One, I kinda like having this secret business going on, and like, as long as nobody knows, I am in control of how and when it happens, you know? And the moment I let go of that, I can’t go back." He searches her face for any hint of confusion but she’s just patiently listening. "Two, when we bumped into each other at the gala, I got convinced you’d never see me differently regardless of how good a painter I was; and that had become a big part of who El Patrón was."

It’s the first time she hears his alter ego’s name from his mouth and with how flowingly natural it sounded coming out of his lips, y/n suspects that it’d been a conscious decision on his part. She recalls their interaction that night, the way they fell in their usual ways of ping-ponging vindictive words until one of them has enough and leaves the premises (usually y/n). A lump starts forming in her throat at the recollection of all the other fights they’ve had and how they’d all been pointless wastes of time and energy, now that she knows she is meant to be in his arms. She wishes things could have been different but the warmth of his body around her overweighs her regrets. They’re here now, looking bright toward the future, and it’s all that matters.

"I’ll keep your secret if you want, be the Lilly to your Hannah Montana," she tells him lightly before they both laugh at the silly reference.

Happiness and glee has Harry tightening his hold around her shoulder, "nah, I don’t wanna play double-agents anymore. I wanna be the guy who gets the girl." He dips his head to catch her lips between his own, reveling in their newfound intimacy. Turning her face against his chest, Y/n impresses her bashful smile on his swallow-tattooed skin, before she lays a trail of pecks tickling the area underneath his armpits, "well, you got me now."

➪ Masterlist

#harry styles one shot #harry styles fic #harry styles imagine #Harry fic #enemies to lovers #angst #so much angst #smut #I didn't think I could be this filthy lol #uni au #artstudent!harry #art #harry fanfic #harry styles writing #reader insert #harry styles au

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