#in all ways but physical I am chewing glass oh my fucking god
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Sean is really the Candela character of all time because of how fundamentally entangled he is within not only the world but the literal mechanics of the game. He is entrenched in the cycle of violence and he has no capacity to see any escape.
And how could he? Why would he care in the end about monsters living among them, wearing human faces? There's nothing anymore monstrous about the shapeshifters than the men in that room—himself included. The only difference Sean sees between his doppelganger and those men is that the doppelganger is going to give him what he wants.
In fact, this is also the only difference he sees between himself and those men. He doesn't kill them because they did something monstrous. He kills them because in his estimation, with all of them as evidence of this belief, the only things you get in this world are the things you take for yourself. Their deaths won't bring back his brothers, or erase the things he himself did, or even really further his efforts to rescue his mother. He kills them because he wants to—if the world is inherently violent, and it is on a fundamental level, then he's going to take what he wants.
Because the violence of the world is baked into the fabric of reality, both narratively, through the Flare, which can never be defeated, only struggled against, and mechanically, through the significant odds of failure or complication. There is so little success in the world of not only Newfaire but Candela Obscura itself.
It has nothing to do with who is the biggest baddest monster. Sean's approach to violence and later betrayal is beyond the consideration of morality, because the struggles of Candela Obscura leave so little room to split hairs over morals. Survival is at stake. The organization of Candela Obscura is misguided and ineffectual not because of any inherent problems of the organization or corruption of its members, but because they are, in Sean's mind, always only making losing bets.
In Newfaire, the dice are loaded, the house is all-powerful, and humanity is the underdog. Was it any surprise that Sean Finnerty got tired of losing?
#candela obscura#co spoilers#cr meta#sean finnerty#in all ways but physical I am chewing glass oh my fucking god#I have like seven posts to write I'm so feral over this show
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for @taznovembercelebration prompt 3 or 100!!! join me in playing with these prompts this month!
“Mama, I told you, I have a…thing today,” Kravitz mumbles into the phone, making an apologetic face at Taako through the glass. “I can help out tomorrow, but I had plans, I- I know death stops for nothing, Mama, but you can run the funeral home without me for a few hours, can’t you?”
He closes his eyes and tries not to audibly groan as she goes on, but she isn’t evil, and eventually lets him off the phone. And when she does, Kravitz rolls down his window–old automatic crank though it is, in his prized antique hearse that chews through gas like a soon-to-be-ex-smoker fucking up a Costco-sized pack of nicotine gum. It’s a little on the nose, but subtlety is for normal people, and not hot weirdos like Kravitz and his beautiful boyfriend.
“Greetings, beautiful boyfriend,” Kravitz says, in absolute freak-like behavior, because it will make Taako laugh, and it absolutely does. “I have successfully evaded corpse patrol.”
“Oh thank god.” Taako tugs him into a kiss, and Kravitz hopes his black lipstick stays. He did the tea test, but Taako’s enthusiastic, and fond of glittery lip gloss. It’s different. “I was worried I was gonna have to enter the library solo, and they were gonna card me, and kick me out when they discovered I’m fucking illiterate.”
Kravitz laughs, and shoos him so he can open the door. He grabs his bag and his printed poem and steps out, swinging Taako around in a tight hug. Touchy-feely physical affection is so new, and it’s the meat pumpkin to his pacing tiger he’s needed for a long, long time. It feels good to want and be wanted, touch and be touched, hold and be held.
“Librarians wouldn’t do that,” Kravitz soothes. “They’d just hang you up by your toes and let the children’s section eat your soft and delicately flavored insides.”
“Delicately flavored my ass, this bitch is full of blue Takis.” Taako snorts. “Banter banished, are you ready to go in?”
“Yeah,” Kravitz says, definitely not freezing, totally not completely ice cold stuck in place. “I am so ready to read my poems that I wrote in front of either 3 or one hundred strangers, who might be better at poetry than me, and have brought judging cards, to rate me on an intense rubric from laureate to loser. I am already walking up those stairs, as you can see with your open eyes.”
“I mean,” Taako says, wrapping an arm around him, tucking in a little, so warm, so affectionate it burns. “We could just go to Burger Hut. You don’t have to.”
“I want to.” It’s still hard to get out.
“So lets, then.” Taako nudges him forward. “Maybe they’ll have that shitty coffee that comes in a box.”
And with the thawing reminder that he’s not alone, and also that it doesn’t really matter that much, and no one will eat his delicate insides (which, unlike Taako, absolutely do not contain blue Takis), Kravitz lets Taako push him forward, into the basement of the library.
There are not 3 people, and there are not one hundred people. It’s at a solid and comforting thirteen, which is several, but not as hideously overwhelming as last night’s nightmares. Half of them are incredibly old, one is a literal cowboy, and Kravitz feels very young and very gay and very goth. Taako laughs when asked if he wants to perform, and says something teasingly shmoopy about Kravitz instead, and when Kravitz is up on the list, he makes his feet go all the way to the podium, and his hands pick up the mic and his slightly sweat-ruffled paper, and he opens his mouth, and lets his soul come out.
“This one, uh,” Kravitz swallows hard. “Is called, Mortal Marathon. And, uh, maybe you can figure out…my family business.” There’s some murmuring, and Kravitz decidedly does not wet his pants and expediently retreat, if only because Taako would witness his cowardice, and he has a date at the Burger Hut after this, if his constitution allows such a thing. He gives himself one more breath, and sinks into the acting of it all, and doesn’t just read–he performs.
Death runs in the family, though
Certainly not at a full sprint.
Death does not hurry–it is a pursuit predator
And always catches its prey.
And over and over, again and again,
Death finds its mark, catches one from the rest,
The right one, the right moment, the right way–
And just like so many before me, Death chose me.
Grim Reapers may be a staple of slashers
that rot their sets with corn syrup blood
But Death, to me, is a hand to hold
on the long walk home,
Wherever that may be. I shouldn’t, couldn’t say.
Death is a companion, a support, one final loved one
cheering you on as you finish the race– it’s over now, isn’t it?
You made it, and look how far.
Death is a celebration,
The recognition Life gets for all her hard work.
Where would we be without it?
Death runs in the family, and
until another shoulders the mantle,
I’ll reach out my hand, and take yours,
And celebrate every breath you took,
Every moment you shared,
Every love, every passion, every desire,
And the line will continue on and on,
And yours and yours and yours will remember.
And even if they won’t,
I will.
And when he looks back up, they’re clapping. He scurries back to his seat, and leans against Taako for moral support.
“Did I win poetry?” he whispers, trying to will himself to be more goofy than nauseous.
“Yeah, babe, you won poetry.” Taako squeezes his thigh and grins. “Nerd.”
Kravitz’s shoulders relax. And you know what? He’ll take it.
#taz#taz b#taz balance#the adventure zone#the adventure zone balance#taakitz#taakitz fic#taznc#fan5fics
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“What is he doing here.”
“Huh?” Jimmy turns to stare at him with those big brown eyes. His face splits into a grin. He’s got a little cocktail in his hands, his wings fluttering excitedly as he sees him. “Grian! It’s lovely to see you!”
“What are you doing here.” He reiterates.
Jimmy leans over the table to spear a piece of cheese onto his toothpick, pops it into his mouth, and then shrugs, still perusing the snack table as if he hasn’t a care in the world. “Uh, I dunno, man… Tango just invited me here, so now I’m here.”
“Uh-huh.” He won’t say he’s not happy to see him here, but they’ve got this thing going, and Grian would rather be thrown out a fucking window than be the one to break a bit. “And now you’re just here? All comfy with your fruity little cocktail?”
He laughs, hearty and full. Not the least bit offended. “Well, yeah, mate? Tango’s at the bar right now, so I got whatever the heck he made me-- tastes wonderful, though, I’ll tell you that! The man’s a great bartender--”
“Tim,” he cuts him off. “I don’t care.”
Another piece of cheese is deposited into his mouth. As he chews, he says, “alright, man. Jeez…”
And maybe it’s because he’s drunk, but Timmy is looking extra pathetic today. And he’s feeling extra emotional. And maybe-- just maybe-- he’s got a soft spot for the guy. So he sighs, shakes out his wings, and then slowly, so slowly, begins to wrap his arms around Jimmy. The guy drops his next piece of cheese.
“Grian?!” He shouts. “What the heck are you doing?”
“I’m. Hugging. You. Tim.” He squeezes him tight to will out any protests. It doesn’t work.
“What the heck?” He laughs, then wraps his arms around Grian in return. “You must be drunk, my friend, because you never do this. Actually, am I even alive right now? Somebody pinch me!”
He flicks him on the forehead. Jimmy flicks him right back, as if on instinct, then goes right back to hugging him.
“I’m alive, I’m awake, but I’m worried for your mental health, mate.”
“I. Can be nice. Sometimes.” It is actually physically painful. Why is he subjecting himself to this. This is hell. This is torture.
Jimmy nuzzles his face into his hair. “Awww, man! You’re sweet when you’re drunk! Might just hafta start hugging’ you everytime I see you now!”
He squeezes him so tightly he knocks the air out of him. Nails against his back, he says, “don’t ever say that again.”
“Okay-- okay!” Jimmy wheezes out, pounding at his back. “Let me go! I can’t breathe!”
He releases him, and Jimmy immediately scurries out of arm’s reach, panting. “Y-You’re a menace, you know that, right?”
“Aw, Tim, you flatter me.”
Another laugh, one which sounds like he just smoked a pack of cigarettes. He’s doubled over, hands on his knees, catching his breath. His cocktail is very slowly spilling out of his glass. Grian watches it and doesn’t care to tell him. It’s kind of funny.
“Yeah. Alright. Remind me to never get that close to you again.”
“Oh, don’t worry. It’s never happening again.”
He slaps his knee, bending down further, and the drink pours out at a faster rate. The pink concoction is making a puddle on the ground. Miraculously, Jimmy still does not notice. “Well, I guess I’m happy it happened once! Even if you tried to flippin’ kill me with it…”
“I’m a fickle man, Tim.” The glass is now empty. “Anyways, we’re doing a tequila shot later if you’re interested.”
He brightens up immediately, eyes twinkling. “Oh! Oh my goodness! And you’re inviting me?”
His face sours. “I don’t have a choice, mate. You’re here whether I like it or not.”
The smile that Tim gives him is radiant. Back to normal, then.
It’s… nice? God, nevermind, that makes him want to throw up. It’s bad and he hates it because Jimmy is annoying. That’s enough niceties for one day.
“I’d love to, Grian! I’d love to!”
And that’s about all the Jimmy he can handle right now. He turns around and slips back into the crowd. As he’s weaving his way through Hermits, he hears an ear piercing shriek from behind him.
“MY DRINK IS GONE!”
#hermitblr#trafficblr#hermitfic#hi welcome to an excerpt from this little party thing ive been writing#i love jimmy he is so..... words do not do him justice for me#the relationship jimmy and grian have? unmatched#rosie writing#anyways im going to a party tonight so im in the Mood#house parties my beloved#also reblogs much appreciated im kissing u on the mouth if u reblog#HAHA
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could we get some allura & lance friendship prompts? i LOVED your other ones btw 💖💖💖💖
HI I'm sorry this took forever I have honestly no idea why bc I adore these two and I ADORE this prompt so my brain should not have shut down the way it did. anywayz to make up for the wait i tried to make this a bit longer than my usual posts :) I hope you like it!
(also, as usual, everything here I came up with myself, and if there's any similarity to someone elses post I apologise and promise it wasn't intentional)
now without further ado,
Lance and Allura!
similar to lance and pidge, the two are decidedly Not close in the beginning
i had an entire thing about how i imagine they became friends at first written out, but it was a tad too long and i didn't want to clog up the post with too much exposition. so instead, let's just skip forward and get into their dynamic after they become buddies :) (however, if anyone wants to see the backstory I would not be opposed)
although he no longer has a crush on her, lance makes it a point to hype her up as much as he possibly can
at first allura was confused, because she thought it was him trying to flirt with her still, but once she understood what was going on she was more than willing to join in
lance when allura completely destroys the training droid: WOWZA ladies and gentlemen of the jury may I present to you the icon the legend the moment herself her royal highness princess allura of altea!!!!! if you thought that was impressive just WAIT till she gets warmed up because this is just the beginning!!! she can even do it in heels-
shiro: lance, please focus, this is really important that we-
allura: no no, shiro, please. let him finish.
they both show their friendship in slightly different ways. lance's way is that he is physically incapable of not humouring the princess
allura when lance shows her his cartwheel: incredible!!!!!!! i have never been more impressed in my life!!! do you think you could do it in heels??
lance: uhhh. y'know princess I'm really loving the faith, but-
allura: :)?
lance:.... what if you don't have my size?
lance fractured his ankle. allura has yet to stop apologising.
allura's way is definitely safer, but it's also a lot more... cluttered. to say the least.
allura, returning from a recon mission with a tiny bag filled with what looks like tiny, glittery dinosaur figurines made of glass: lance! look at what i bought for you!
lance, taking one look at the contents of the bag: wow, 'lurra, this is… so nice of you
allura: lance, are you. are you crying?
lance (definitely crying): what? NO! of course not!! I'm just. allergic, to. uh. oxygen.
allura: what.
allura never had any siblings back on altea, but she always wanted them
this, paired with how much lance misses his own family, means that the two of them kind of gravitate towards each other in terms of siblinghood.
as a child allura would imagine what it would be like to have siblings, but especially a twin. she would fall asleep to dreams of secret handshakes, finishing each other's sentences, and swapping places to trick people
she doesn't realise the brother she has found in lance until a long time after they've become close (how would she recognise a dynamic she has never been privy to?)
this realisation happens on just a random day in the castleship lounge. she is talking to hunk, when suddenly lance, who she didn't even realise was listening to their conversation, butts in and finishes her sentence.
she's annoyed at being interrupted at first, but then what happened sinks in, and suddenly she's fighting off tears. lance doesn't know why she's crying, but he hugs her anyway.
the two of them match accessories a lot
with allura's love of pretty things (and the abundance of stuff in her closet) paired with lance's natural dramatics, nobody else on the team is entirely sure of whether this is intentional or not.
it started off as intentional. it is now second nature.
one decision, however, was completely planned and thought out for exactly twenty minutes, and then deeply regretted by both parties for the next 48 hours
allura pierced lance's ears
now before you get judgemental, you try making a smart decision at two am space-time while very giddy and slightly buzzing on some weird old alien candy that not even your resident alien is sure the ingredients of. then talk to me.
pidge: okay so you're gonna need a needle, ice, and… yeah I'm pretty sure that's it
lance: don't we need a potato too
pidge: … why the fuck would you need a potato
lance: I dunno!!! my sister pierced her friend's ears one time and she mentioned a potato!!! I'm just trying to make sure everything goes well, pidge!
allura: I love these earth customs you two are showing me!! when I got my ears pierced it was done with some kind of laser, but your way sounds much more fun :).
allura: also, what is a "potato" and where can we find one?
it goes about as well as you would expect
the excited buzz on lance lasts about three ticks into the process, and then the screaming starts
pidge (the genius who came up with the idea) gives him some altean taffy to chew on to stop him from making too much noise, and allura, the angel, is babbling right along with him
allura, with tears in her eyes: how was I supposed to know it was going to hurt mine didn't hurt well it was 10,000 years ago and I was very young altean children don't have very strong pain receptors you know, maybe that's why my parents had it done at that age, or maybe your people are just completely barbaric, who thought this would be a good idea?? pidge why did you suggest this poor lonce is in tears lonce I'm so sorry but if it's any consolation at all at least now your ears won't be nearly as hideous as before and you can borrow as many of my earrings as you want except for the sparkly green ones that dangle those are my favourite well they're actually my second favourite I'm wearing my favourite - you can't borrow those either, by the way, but you can have any of the others I promise
lance, also crying and still chewing the altean taffy: hhb, llura yub domf hoff do bologuys, ss long'ss yub sanstsd thu niddle frst
allura (who did not remember to sanitize the needle), now crying freely: I don't understand what you're saying
(pidge records the entire thing)
the next day lance wakes up with ears that are very sore and slightly green, and allura faints
they spend the entire morning avoiding shiro in case they get in trouble and trying to figure out how to get the healing pods to work
lance: what do you mean you don't know allura you literally lived in one of these
allura: I was asleep the whole time!!! don't put this on me!!
lance: don't put- you are the one that pierced my ears, allura, of course it's on you!
coran, who has been watching this entire interaction in silence: oh, I thought i noticed something different about you, number three!
lance and allura: [screaming]
coran helps them set up the healing pod
unfortunately lance has to take the earrings out, so the holes close back up, but fortunately coran just so happens to know how to pierce ears the correct way that they did on altea
lance, after half a day in the healing pod, watching coran advance upon him with a literal handheld flamethrower that shoots lasers: is it too late to go back to the ear infection
coran is surprisingly very adept at the skill of altean beautification (an activity that has a surprisingly long and rich backstory, which lance and allura get an in-depth lesson on for the hour that it takes to do lance's ears properly)
they're exhausted afterwards, but lance looks great, so they're in good moods regardless
they like to teach each other about things from their respective planets - both for fun, and because it helps them feel less homesick
whenever allura is particularly down about the loss of altea, lance will visit her in her room, and the two of them will just lie together on her bed.
they don't say much, most of the time, just link their pinkies together and stare at the ceiling
when they do talk, it's quiet, and always allura who starts it - she might share something she remembers about altea, and lance listens quietly and then responds with something he misses about cuba
it isn't always sad tho - sometimes they just talk about things they remember that pop into their heads, or explain things to each other that they wouldn't otherwise know
at the space mall, they make a game out of pointing things out to each other and trying to guess what it is (allura can only guess when they're in the earth shop, but it's okay because she more than makes up for it in enthusiasm)
lance, holding a my little pony collectible: okay princess. what is this.
allura, completely serious: a weapon
lance: ... close
allura, holding up a set of magnetic heart necklaces to the light: what does… "biffs" mean?
lance: it's "bffs," princess, it means "best friends forever"
allura: oh! you mean like me and you?
lance:
lance: 'lurra what did we say about making me cry in public, we've talked about this-
(they buy the necklaces. obviously.)
they mess with each other's hair a lot
once allura learns that lance's hair is naturally curly, and that he just straightens it all of the time, she makes it her god-given mission to convince him to wear it naturally more often
this mission includes plans such as stealing his hair straightener, "donating" a bunch of curly hair products to him because she "doesn't have the space", and getting keith to say he thinks curly hair is cool one day in the rec room
she still thinks it's the funniest thing ever that that actually worked
other than week-long sabotage plots, they both think it's fun to have lance braid allura's hair
he used to braid his sister's and niece's hairs all of the time, so he has a knack for it that allura did not expect at all but is obsessed with anyway
allura, coming to lance's room a few hours before another diplomatic party: hey..... how yall doin.....
lance, already prepared with a million different brushes and bands: oh my god just get in already
lance and allura have a lot in common
one of these things, they learn very early into their relationship, is that they are both disasters when it comes to pretty girls (and boys, but that's a lance-exclusive situation)
so they become each other's wingmen
they both tend to get… a little too into it
the team: [at a diplomatic ball]
lance, seeing a pretty alien girl looking allura's way and "politely" speedwalking over to her: alluralluraalluraalluraalluralluraalluraalluraalluralluraalluraallura pretty girl look over there eleven o'clock LOOK she's gonna walk away looklooklook
allura: lance darling thank you so much for your help but I am in the middle of talking to the president
and alternatively:
allura tries to set lance and keith up all the time. at first she was worried she would be overstepping boundaries, but after one particular sleepover where lance spent an entire hour lamenting his "bad luck" she decided to take things into her own hands
this includes, but is not limited to; sending them on supply missions alone together (often), mentioning particular things lance has done to his appearance to keith every time she can, and talking about specific paladin bonds more than she maybe should
lance hates it
keith, walking into the lounge: h-
allura, immediately: hello keith!! help settle an argument, will you :)?
keith: um… okay
allura: lovely! now, tell me, do you think lance looks cuter today than he did yesterday? we can't seem to agree on whether or by he's stunning or simply handsome. what do you think?
keith: uh-
allura: oh, and while I have you, have you noticed that his ears are pierced?
lance, beet red: allu-
allura: what :(?? can't i be proud of my handiwork??
lance, to keith: I am not associated with her
after a week of this keith literally sets up a system where if allura is in a room he walks into he just does a complete 180 and walks back out
one time, at a diplomatic meeting, an alien politician mistook them for a couple and they both choked on their drinks at the same time, and then got offended that the other one agreed that the concept was insane
allura: what happened to being the princess of your dreams, lance?? I thought I MEANT something to you. obviously! i was wrong!
lance: oh yeah?? then why did you GIGGLE, allura. what's so funny, huh?? my good looks??? my charming charisma?? how far out of your league I am???
allura:
lance: okay maybe that last one was a bit of a stretch
another thing lance and allura do is pronounce each other's names wrong
they call each other lonce and allora
it started as lance kind of making fun of allura's accent, but turned into just one of their Things
allura honestly didn't know it was a bit until the habit had been long constructed
#pippa.post#pippa.canon#vld lance#vld keith#vld allura#klance#vld pidge#pippa.ask#vld shiro#i added klance bc i know you like it gia i hope this was up to your standard <3#vld coran#vld team
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Lie to Love (dropped)
It is a known fact that I have no impulse control, so here we all are 🙄 This is most likely going to be a hate watch, so if that bothers you (or if you are a fan of Cheng Xiao), please block the tag “l2l spoilers” because I’m probably going to be mean. Odds are that I will be fast-forwarding through this one because there is literally nothing in this premise that appeals to me, so I don’t know how much fun a liveblog is going to be anyway, unless it’s to share screencaps of Luo Yunxi. Cheng Xiao looks so fucking stupid even in the stills and I’ve heard only the worst when it comes to her acting skills, so RIP Luo Yunxi’s spectacular charisma, it’s going to be sorely tested here. As far as I’m concerned, there is one reason and one reason only to watch this trainwreck: Luo Yunxi and his impeccable styling for this role.
Again, please make sure to block all the appropriate tags!
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No love for the opening song whatsoever. Will be ff-ing through that, I see.
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SHANGHAI!!! 😍😍
One gigantic plus for this drama already! Not even Cheng Xiao can beat that!
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God, look at him 😭😭
MY GOOD SIR, YOU ARE SO PRETTY, I WILL WATCH ALL NONSENSE THAT COMES MY WAY FOR YOU!!
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Introducing an asshole that needs killing, but we’re all so grateful for the LYX whump he gifted us with! 😋
All that alcohol he drinks and the games he plays have clearly done nothing to harm his pretty face, so the uncle can shut up.
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She looks like a tacky Barbie I would buy used on Ebay to rebody a more worthwhile doll and give the head to my baby cousins to chew on, after pulling out the the hair so that they don’t choke.
She looks cheap af and I also want to know who she’s fucking for the privilege of ruining drama after drama after drama. Whoever he is, I hope she makes it worth the money he’s wasting.
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Here she is after a change of clothes, looking like Pornhub’s version of a serious business lady, doing serious business, and wearing glasses to signal to the viewers how serious she is.
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Yes, please suffer 😋😋
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Look how pretty!!
They should beat him up in every episode!
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Oh? 👀
Actual violence? In my c-drama?? It’s more likely than you think!
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I’m going to use these posts to share so many screenshots of his pretty face!
He really looks impeccable in this role!
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I feel like if anything gets me through this drama without ff-ing too much, it’s going to be his relationship with the evil uncle and whatever is going on there. As for the romance, he and Cheng Xiao don’t mesh well at all, so that’s dead in the water. Also, I couldn’t give a fuck about her dead father and her little diary. The less of it there is, the better.
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A cutie 💛
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YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME 🤣🤣
WHAT ARE YOU DOING, THIS IS NOT EVEN PHYSICALLY POSSIBLE 🤣🤣
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LOOK AT THIS!! GUYS, PLEASE COME AND LOOK AT THIS!!
NEITHER ONE OF THEM IS BEING SUPPORTED BY ANYTHING HERE AND YET THEY ARE SOMEHOW HANGING IN MIDAIR, GOING, “DON’T LET GOOOO!”
I am dead and buried at this nonsense, what the fuck 🤣🤣🤣
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When a hedgehog is a better AND cuter actor than you 😤
People weren’t lying, she’s absolutely terrible.
Bai Lu, where are you? 😭😭
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They are putting a bandaid on the tiniest prick in recorded history 😑😑
This drama is going to be so stupid, I will have zero brain cells left by the time I’m done.
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Ugh, cute, cute, cuteeeeee!! 😭😭
This drama would be much improved if they simply edited out the female lead and just kept Luo Yunxi and the hedgehog. The evil uncle can stay too.
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I would bet good money that the prosthetic limb, the alcoholism and the chronic pain are the main reasons LYX thought it would be a good idea to take this role 🙄
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I love how she thinks she’s so clever but he’s already onto her stupid ass.
She may be a schemer, but he’s an even bigger one.
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You think?? 🤣🤣
He’s already got a plan in motion to end all of you.
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LMAO, he’s not even going to bother pretending he doesn’t know 🤣
Anyway, I really love him and really hate her, which doesn’t bode well for this drama.
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Okay, I am dropping this. Life is too short to subject myself to the likes of Cheng Xiao. She literally makes this unwatchable.
Luo Yunxi, baby, I love you and I’m so sorry you had to be subjected to this talentless imbecile who more than likely slept her way into a role opposite you 😢 I will be seeing you in your next project, hopefully with some more worthwhile partners.
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Kiss prompt 24. a kiss on the inside of the wrist.
This continues on from here:
Shore Leave part two
Kaidan set the griddle to heat and mixed batter while Aedan grabbed the plates. He watched her wander back to the window and wondered for a moment if they were going to re-enact the first minutes of their morning all over again.
But instead she just stretched out the shoulder she’d broken, turning her face up to the warmth streaming in through the glass as she flexed her arms, behind her back and then over her head. The light caught in the fine golden hair that sprinkled her skin and she was softly haloed as she worked out the stiffness, every movement lithe and smooth.
A spat from the griddle called him back from his admiration.
As the first batch of pancakes started to cook, he went to go clean up the dried out remains of his first attempt at breakfast.
“Don’t throw those away, they’re perfectly good.” She’d snuck up on him on cat light feet.
“They’re congealed. It’ll take me ten minutes to make pancakes, you don’t have to eat cold eggs.”
"They’re fine." Aedan snagged the pan from him and deftly dumped the cold eggs into a carton of noodles they’d left on the counter the night before. He tried to snatch the carton away from her but she danced away grinning and stuffed a bite in her mouth.
"Who raised you, wolves?" He wanted to take it back as soon as he said it but she chortled around her mouthful.
"Worse. Nuns.” Her voice went crisp, and she looked down her snubbed nose, raising one slanty eyebrow. “Waste is a sin, Kaidan Elek Alenko.”
“I probably shouldn’t find that sexy, should I?”
“Ooh, no,” she wrinkled her nose. “Anything but a nun-kink.”
Playful Aedan Shepard was a hundred kinds of delightful and Kaidan suddenly had the urge to see how many faces he could get her to make. “Until a second ago, it wasn’t a problem.” He watched her out of the corner of his eye as he poured batter into a hot pan, “Now...priest-kink…?”
“Uhhhgh.” He was rewarded in full as she pushed aside the hideous noodle combo and scrunched her whole face up, “Noo, why?”
“My, uh...my mom used to watch this vid series when I was a kid. There was one guy in the collar...” He grinned as her eyebrows lifted.
“Oh….*actor* priest-kink is very different. Totally acceptable.”
“Good to know.” He knocked the container into the trash with a tiny push.
“You think I won’t go after that?”
“There is actual maple syrup in that cabinet, please go find it and torment me after we eat?” he resorted to pleading.
“Only because you’ve broken out the big sad eyes.” She relented and found the canned syrup. “Hey, you spent a lot of money getting this place stocked on top of everything. You’re gonna let me split the bill, right?”
“I, uh. Yeah. If you want. You could just let me treat you.” Kaidan kept his eyes on the griddle as he flipped the cakes onto plates and poured out more batter. He should probably eat one while the rest cooked; he could feel his energy sapping as he stood over the stove. The abuse he’d given his amp on the Citadel kept catching up with him.
“I could but I’m not gonna. Beach was my idea and you could have just found us some hole in the wall motel.”
“Doesn’t seem right for you to have to pay for my sensibilities.”
“Oh, well, if we’re just here because you’re delicate…” There was a definite tease in her voice and he nodded solemnly.
“Very.”
“Hmm.” She slid her arms around his waist and laid her head between his shoulders. “I really like it. And those smell really good.”
He pressed his spatula free hand against hers. “Couple more minutes.” He chuckled at her light whine. “Fruit juice in the cooler if you don’t want coffee.”
“Beer in the cooler, too.”
“Not with pancakes,” he admonished as he spread a layer of butter on the first couple layers.
“No fun at all.” He eyed her curvy backside as she dug around the bottles.
“I am so much fun.” He added the last of the batter before he spun around to catch her and twisted the energy around him to boost her onto the island behind him and bury his face in her neck as she giggled, her hands full with the bottle and glasses.
He was tracing a line up to her ear when the room swung around on him.
He dropped his grip on her to brace his hands against the stone counter.
“Hey.” The bottle and glasses clattered before she put her hands on his chin and lifted his eyes to meet hers. “Oof, nope. Go sit down.”
“I’m okay.” He protested as she pushed him towards the barstool.
“Uhhunh. Pull the other one and I’ll break 5’7” next physical. Go sit. I can flip those before they burn.” She slid down, filching the spatula from his loose grip and flipped the cakes over, just a hair browner than he normally let them get.
He poured and sipped at the juice she’d set out. “So much for fun.” he finally muttered as she finished drizzling syrup across the two plates.
“I’m the one who didn’t let you eat this morning. Open up.”
Scowling, he pulled his face away from the offering, “I can feed…”
“Sure you can, but this way? We’re still having a little fun.” She straddled his knees and sat down, the loaded fork held carefully over the plate to catch drips.
“I guess.”
“Hey, they don’t call me tactically brilliant for nothin’.” she smirked as he rolled his eyes and took the bite.
Kaidan chewed while Aedan took one for herself and had to smile at the way she closed her eyes in bliss. He was pretty sure he’d heard her make that noise a few hours before, but it hadn’t been quite that loud.
“Worth the wait?”
“You have no idea, holy fuck.”
The juice was already catching him up as he took another offered bite, he chewed for a minute before sighing. “I know better.” As the next bite came, he tilted his head to press his lips, still a little sticky from the last, against the blue veins in her wrist.
She nuzzled against his cheek, her own mouth still a little slick with butter as she set the plate aside. “God forbid you don’t have every vulnerable point on lockdown every single second, hmm? I got your back, sweetheart.” She paused a second, adding softly, “Just like you had mine when I should have let you eat.”
He wrapped one arm around her, taking the fork away to set it on the counter with the plate. “This...this is real, isn’t it?”
“This?”
“Aedan.” He’d overstretched more than his endurance this morning.
“Yeah.” She sat back up and met his gaze. “Yeah, I think it is.” She cradled his face with her thumbs brushing his cheekbones as he cupped the back of her head, looking up at her. “Not gonna lie, I kind of thought you’d get tired of me by now but...we’re...I…” Her face scrunched again, this time in frustration and dropped her forehead against his. “I want more time.”
Three days, three months, or three years, he couldn’t imagine ever getting tired of this. Kaidan spread his other hand out over the old scar on her thigh. “Not getting rid of me that easy.”
They’d have to drag him away.
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wings & the way down - part 2
Derek Morgan x Spencer Reid
Word Count: ~1580 this chapter
Warnings: Mild angst. Allusions to ~mysterious~ backstory. Strangers with cookies.
A/N: Thank you all for your lovely comments on the last part! Catch up here if you missed it. Tag list for this is open.
Friday, January 3: Derek
Derek is playing it cool.
Or... he would be, if he could stop freaking the hell out. Whatever.
He wants to be there early, just in case, and he hesitates. He should grab his basketball — tryouts next week, he should be practicing as much as possible — but then he’d have to carry it around while they walk. He grabs his dog-eared copy of Slaughterhouse-Five instead.
Spencer seems like a reader. Maybe he’ll be impressed. Derek doesn’t have much experience trying to impress adorably geeky college guys, but that seems like a good start.
He looks at himself in the mirror one more time and thinks, I can’t do this.
Then he shakes it off, like he’d shake off the nerves before a big game, and he gives his reflection a smile. What’s the worst that can happen, right? He embarrasses himself in front of a pretty boy, he avoids the park, he never sees the guy again. After the year he’s had, some good old-fashioned rejection would be a cake walk.
Playing it cool. He can do this.
He walks downstairs, locking up behind himself and leaving the spare key in its spot — its “hidden” spot, which is a totally obvious fake rock, but apparently here in the suburbs you can just do that sort of thing.
He walks, enjoying the sun, because January here feels like Chicago’s April. He’s not going to get used to this any time soon.
Yeah. This was the right choice.
You deserve to do it on your own terms, his mom said, when she hugged him goodbye in the airport. You can be whoever you want.
It didn’t feel like he was trying to be someone else yesterday, though. It felt like he was being himself.
He didn’t realize it could be easy like that, flirting with a guy, teasing and laughing and making Spencer smile. The stupid line came out like it was nothing. The fear only kicked in afterward.
Derek knows he’s charming as fuck; he’s been making girls smile like that since he was fourteen. And it’s not a skeevy thing — not even necessarily a sex thing — he just likes making people smile. He likes the way they stand a little straighter when you compliment their shirt, or the way they bring a hand to the back of their neck when you admire their hair, and the way one nice comment can startle someone right out of a bad day.
Speaking of.
He’s walking into the park, now, and there’s a girl walking toward him, blonde with pink streaks in her high pigtails, wearing thick neon pink glasses and several violently colorful patterns. She looks like Miss Frizzle’s ditzier sister. He kinda loves it.
“I like your glasses,” he tells her cheerfully, as they come face-to-face on the path.
Most people look startled, at first, when a stranger compliments them; they’re caught off-guard. Spencer looked like a deer in headlights, yesterday, when Derek caught his attention.
Not this girl, though. Without missing a beat, she tosses back, “I like your face, sugar.” As their paths cross, she gives him a cheesy over-the-top wink.
He retorts over his shoulder, “I ain’t that sweet, babygirl.”
“I don’t believe you,” she sing-songs, and he’s laughing as they both continue on their way.
Derek makes his way over to the same spot as yesterday, a round table between two curved benches. He pulls out his book and settles down to wait. Spencer isn’t there yet (which makes sense, considering that “same time” meant “two-ish” and it’s more like one-ish right now) but there are two older men playing chess at one of the tables nearby. Otherwise, it’s quiet: two women jogging, a few families on the playground, a guy throwing a ball for his dog.
For a while, it’s actually a pretty awesome way to spend an afternoon. He doesn’t really notice how much time has passed until he shifts, stretching some cramped muscles. Then he checks his watch.
They didn’t really set a definite time, though. It was vague. It’s not a big deal.
Twenty minutes is a normal amount of time to be late. Derek has pulled that move on more than one first date — which begs the question: is this a date? — but he didn’t expect Spencer to be the type, somehow.
He starts to get anxious around half past. He can think of a dozen excuses Spencer might use, but they’re all excuses he’s used himself, and they all boil down to I don’t actually care.
He turns back to his book and tries to forget about the time.
At three, after re-reading the same page for the fourth time, he accepts that it’s a lost cause. He sets the book down on the bench and rests his face in his palms for a moment, taking a deep breath.
Fuck. He is so not playing it cool.
There was something about Spencer that Derek can’t stop thinking about, and it’s not his bone structure or his eyes or the way his fingers looked as he fiddled with his chess piece. It was the way he blushed and stuttered, completely flustered and unable to hide it, and the way he brushed it off with, “I’m not used to being flirted with.” It was a genuine reaction. He was being honest. He wasn’t trying to pose or posture or do any of the things Derek would’ve done to protect himself.
It was the little crease between his eyebrows as he studied Derek intently — too intent to be polite — like Spencer was figuring him out, looking under the surface, seeing him in a way that people usually don’t, because most people don’t care enough to look. Most people miss what’s right in front of them.
It was the way he sat, legs crossed, unpretentious and almost childlike.
It was different. He wasn’t hiding anything. Derek’s been hiding a lot, these last few years. It was nice to be around someone who wasn’t, and who made it look easy.
And yeah, it was also his cheekbones and eyes and fingers and smile, because Derek is only fucking human.
At quarter past, he starts to wonder what he did wrong.
Yeah, I’m flirting with you.
It was like a free-fall, the pause after the words, that frozen moment of can’t take it back now and this is going to change everything. It’s the same hot-cold-terrifying-exhilarating shock he felt in the pause after he came out to his mom — same as the moment right before the jury gave their verdict — same as the moment he walked into school the next day.
But it was different, because Spencer smiled, all slow and shy. No betrayal, no creeping disgust, no pointed questions or even more pointed silence.
That easy acceptance took Derek’s breath away. It felt like freedom. It felt like the moment the plane’s wheels lifted off the tarmac, the sickening lurch in his stomach, the blaze of something like defiance as he watched Chicago recede into the distance.
Spencer smiled, and Derek felt like he could’ve ignored the laws of physics and flown away. If that was what “being out” usually feels like, he could see why people might want to do it. The moment of free-fall — this is going to change everything — was worth it, for that.
This, though? There’s something cold and leaden sitting in his chest, dragging him rudely back down to earth. He should just go. This is an embarrassing amount of time to wait around for some random guy.
“Tell me who I need to punch,” somebody calls. “A face like yours should never be frowning, sweetness.”
It’s the colorful girl from earlier, and Derek can’t help but smile at the way she stomps over and sits down across from him, matter-of-fact and brazen like they’ve known each other for years.
“I was just waiting for you, babygirl,” he tells her, turning the charm up to eleven, and she rolls her eyes.
“Penelope. The pleasure is all yours.” She holds her hand out for him to shake — her nails have tiny daisies painted all over them — and Derek kisses it instead.
“Derek Morgan. Charmed, I’m sure.”
“So who’s the girl that’s got you all tragic-looking?” she asks, and rummages in her massive bag for a minute before pulling out a tupperware of cookies. “Want one? They’re still warm. I was at my friend’s house, she needed some cheering up, we baked. I promise I’m not some creepy creep who’s going to lure you into their white van, oh my god, I just realized that I’m a complete stranger, and this is totally weird! But — cookies?”
“I’d follow you anywhere, babygirl. And I will totally take a cookie.” He takes a bite of melty chocolate chips and moans. “Marry me?”
“Alas, your heart belongs to another,” she says solemnly. “I know that face. Spill.”
“Got stood up, but...” Derek chews as slowly as he can manage. “Wasn’t a girl.”
He’s starting to get used to that free-fall sensation. It’s not so bad this time around.
“Oh my god, I shouldn’t have assumed, I’m sorry! Men, right?” She heaves a dramatic sigh, and Derek tries to hide his own quiet sigh of relief. “The worst, I swear.”
“No biggie. Other fish in the sea, right?”
“Have another cookie.”
“Woman, you are a goddess. I am so glad I met you.”
“I’m glad you met me too, Derek Morgan.”
.
.
part three here!
.
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Serotonin
PAIRING: Harry x Reader
RATING: M for mature
WORD COUNT: 23.7k
REQUESTED: nope!
hi everyone 🥺🥺🥺 she’s here 🥺🥺🥺 please be kind to her 🥺🥺🥺 i poured my heart out into this fic. it’s the longest (and probably the best) standalone piece that i’ve ever written. if you want to let me know your thoughts, reblogging and sending feedback to my askbox would mean the absolute world.
p.s. since this fic is extremely long, it may cause the tumblr mobile app to glitch. if that happens to you, i suggest opening it up in google chrome or safari instead. enjoy 💕
~*~
September 4th, 2019
You always sit in the middle.
The front makes you feel far too exposed. It’s more likely that you’ll be called upon by chance, and your professors are liable to notice your absence if they’ve grown accustomed to seeing you sat squarely before them during every class.
The back is riddled with too many distractions. You know that you’ll end up watching the shows playing on the laptop screens of the students in front of you. You might not even be able to hear the lecture all that well. Despite your aversion to sitting at the front, you still want to pass with a decent grade.
The middle of the lecture hall serves as a happy medium.
Margaret and Mateo agree. That’s why the three of you push through the door and make a beeline for the trio of free seats located directly in the middle of the room. They seem to be calling your names. You nudge past a pair of girls who are absorbed in a hushed conversation, taking the time to apologise for the inconvenience. A moment later, you plop down into your chair; Margaret takes the seat on your left, while Mateo slumps against the one on your right.
“You’d think that with the thousands of dollars we pay each year, they’d be able to afford more comfortable chairs,” Mateo mutters, resting his chin on a closed fist. You snort in response.
Margaret flips her silky hair over her shoulder. “It’s because they’re too busy offering ridiculously-high salaries to profs who can’t even teach.”
You shoot her a look, cocking one eyebrow teasingly. “We all know that you want to namedrop Allende. It’s okay—you can say it.”
“She’s horrible,” Margaret groans, burying her face into her hands. “She speaks the language perfectly, but she can’t fucking relay the knowledge in an effective way. Isn’t that the entire point of teaching?”
“That’s what you get for minoring in Spanish,” Mateo mutters.
You laugh and nudge him with your shoulder. “Oh, like your minor is any better? How do you say ‘dumbass’ in Latin?”
“It’s the root of most European languages!” he protests.
“It’s a dead language!” You and Margaret say at the same time. You turn to face each other with wide eyes; an incredulous giggle slips past your lips. Mateo opens his mouth to form a rebuttal, but then the door to the lecture hall slams shut, and every head in the room snaps in the direction of the sound.
“Glad to see that trick still works.” Dr. Renault claps his hands before rubbing them together excitedly. Subconsciously, you sit up a bit straighter in your seat.
Dr. Renault is a short, balding man, with a face framed by thin gold spectacles and a belly that bulges slightly over the waistband of his suit bottoms. He fiddles with his red tie as he makes his way over to the podium at the front of the room. You’ve heard good things about him; almost everyone who has taken his class has left shining reviews and gushed about his skills. The buildup has set your expectations high. You don’t think that you’ll be disappointed.
Your eyes drift away from your professor, drawn, now, to the person walking a few paces behind him. The man has wavy brown hair that curls just behind his ears. He’s wearing a patterned green sweater and black trousers; a pair of dark brown loafers adorn his feet. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up slightly, and you can’t help but to notice the smattering of dark ink that decorates his left forearm. Big, bulky rings cover nearly all of his fingers. Tortoise-shell glasses keep his dark hair pinned back—you think that the strands would flop over his forehead if left untamed.
“Welcome, everyone,” Dr. Renault starts, and you turn your attention back to him. He’s standing behind the podium now; there’s a small stack of papers in front of him. “First things first: can you all hear me properly? Or will I need to use a microphone for the duration of this course? I don’t mind.”
A low rumble of responses travel across the room. You shake your head; Margaret and Mateo do the same. You can all hear him just fine.
“Alright,” your professor clears his throat. “My name is Gabriel Renault, but you can call me ‘My Lord’.” He smiles, and the class laughs weakly. Dr. Renault holds out his arm, gesturing to the tattooed man that you’d been studying before. “This is my assistant, Harry. He’ll be grading most of your work this semester, so if you’re looking for someone’s ass to kiss, it should be his.”
Everyone laughs a bit louder this time, including you. Harry steps forward and offers a small smile but doesn’t say anything.
Margaret leans into you. “He’s kind of cute,” she mumbles, shrugging. “In an old-man sort of way.”
“Oh my God.” You cover your mouth and shake your head at her words, but you have to admit that she does have a point. Realistically, Harry can’t be more than four or five years older than you, but the clothes he’s wearing don’t exactly fit the dress code for someone his age. In fact, his outfit looks like something that you could probably have pulled from your grandfather’s closet.
Margaret giggles quietly and recoils, sitting up properly again. When you look back up, your eyes lock immediately with Harry’s. Even from thirty feet away, you can see the mossy green of his irises and feel the intensity of his gaze. A lump forms in your throat, but nonetheless, you shoot him a faint, barely-there smile. He looks away.
Your brows knit together in confusion, but you force yourself to shrug it off. “Bit of a prick,” you breathe to no one in particular.
Mateo looks over at you inquisitively. “What?”
“No, nothing,” you whisper, waving his question away. You turn to face the front again, watching conscientiously as Dr. Renault takes hold of the stack of papers in front of him and splits it into two. He gives one half to Harry before addressing the class.
“Harry and I will be handing out the syllabus for this semester,” he announces. “There will be a short quiz at the end of each class. Don’t worry,” he smiles wryly when quiet murmurs begin surfacing amongst the seats, “They’re only composed of five multiple choice questions. They’ll each count for two percent of your grade; I know it doesn’t seem like a lot, but I find that sometimes students will need that two percent to stay afloat in the course.”
“Me,” Mateo mutters quietly. You and Margaret snicker.
“There will be a quiz at the end of today’s lecture,” Dr. Renault continues. “I’ll be going through the syllabus with you for the first half of the class, and then we’ll do a quick review of the content that you should already know.” He and Harry begin distributing copies of the syllabus to each student, coaxing your classmates to pass the papers down their rows.
“So today’s quiz should be relatively straightforward. An easy two percent,” Dr. Renault says, before casting a glance at his assistant. “Wouldn’t you agree, Harry?”
Harry nods. “Yes, sir.”
You balk at the huskiness of his tone. The words are impossibly deep and throaty. Margaret stares at you with wide eyes and leans in closer.
“If I could fuck a voice…,” she hisses.
“Shut the hell up,” you retort, trying not to laugh at her candour.
Something nudges your arm; you turn and find Mateo holding out a few copies of the syllabus for you to take. You slip one out from the pile and pass it on, but not before glancing up and spotting Harry standing a few feet away at the end of your row. He’s chewing on the inside of his cheek. The two of you make eye contact again, but this time, it’s you who turns away first.
“There will be a short paper due next week.” Dr. Renault is speaking again. “Don’t fret—it only has to be seven-hundred-and-fifty words. One thousand is the maximum, though I doubt anyone will want to be writing that much after only the first week of class.” He chuckles to himself. “I’ll go into more detail as we read through the outline of the course. Grades for any tests and assignments will be posted online, but we’ll always give the physical copy back to you so that you can use it to study for the exams.”
A girl in your row raises her hand. When your professor nods at her, she asks, “What exactly did you mean when you talked about a review? Like, what kind of information? Just the basics?”
“Yes,” he replies, his cheeks rounding out as he smiles. “Only the content you learned in the introductory course. I believe they taught a chapter on neuroscience, am I correct?”
Everyone releases a quiet murmur of affirmation. Dr. Renault pushes his glasses higher up on the bridge of his nose. “Excellent,” he says. “So that would be the basics of this course—the three main components of an axon, the chemistry behind an action potential, the parts of the brain and their general functions, etcetera. All of that serves as a foundation for neuropsychology.”
“Okay, thank you,” the girl says. You recognize her—you’ve had a few classes with her, but her name escapes you.
“You’re very welcome.” Dr. Renault beams, and you fight to suppress a smile. He seems so nice—you find yourself predicting that this will quickly become one of your favourite classes.
“Is anyone missing a copy?” Harry pipes up, holding the remaining papers aloft. Your spine stiffens at the guttural rasp of his voice, and you take note of the slow drawl that crawls past his lips.
He has an accent. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Margaret fanning herself in small motions, and you roll your eyes with a soft snort.
When nobody raises their hand, Harry lowers his arm and turns to make his way back to the front of the lecture hall. You train your eyes on him, studying the way his shoulder blades protrude with every slight swing of his arms. His back is broad, tapering off into a narrow waist and long legs.
He’s probably six feet.
You cross your thighs over each other.
“Alright.” Dr. Renault resumes his initial position at the podium. “If you all look at the first page of the syllabus, you’ll find my email, as well as Harry’s. I’ve also taken the liberty of including our office locations and the hours during which we’ll be available. Please don’t hesitate to come in for extra help; it’s what we’re here for.”
“Maybe I’ll head on down to Harry’s office for some extra help,” Margaret murmurs. You don’t miss the suggestiveness lacing her words. You scoff and bump her gently with your elbow. Mateo peers over at the two of you, but you just shake your head.
“She’s being gross again,” is all you say.
He puckers his lips and nods knowingly. “Of course.”
“Are you guys down for a latte at Grounded later?” Margaret pokes her head into the conversation, her voice a bit louder than it should be. You and Mateo shush her; she pouts.
“To answer your question, though,” Mateo says, “Yes.”
“I’ve missed their coffee,” you say wistfully, staring off into nothing. The three of you fall silent, instead deciding to tune in and listen to what Dr. Renault has to say about the layout of the course. Despite your sharp concentration, your ears tingle with the feeling of being watched, and your eyes reflexively fall to the side.
You catch only a glimpse of green, and then it’s over just as quickly as it had begun.
September 11th, 2019
“How much are you willing to bet that Mateo wrote exactly seven-hundred-and-fifty words?”
Margaret cackles. “He probably didn’t even reach the minimum.”
“You’re so mean!” you laugh, turning the corner and zeroing in on the door of your lecture hall. “Have a little faith in him.”
“Let’s wager an iced coffee from Grounded,” she suggests, lifting an eyebrow. You nod and push open the door. The room is full of students buzzing around and chatting. A quick glance upward reveals that Mateo has already reserved three seats in one of the middle rows. You and Margaret climb the steps of the hall and squeeze past a few students sitting right next to the aisle.
“Sorry…excuse us,” you murmur.
“Hey.” Mateo smiles when the two of you finally reach him. You drop down into your chair, blowing a wayward strand of hair out of your face and yawning loudly.
Margaret doesn’t waste any time. “How many words did you end up writing for the paper?”
Mateo grimaces. “Like…seven-hundred. I’m hoping Renault doesn’t actually count them all.”
“Oh, fuck yes!” Margaret beams and points a finger at you. “You lose. I like my iced coffee with a shot of vanilla bean, bitch.”
“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” you groan, batting her hand away before turning back to Mateo. “And technically it’s Harry who’ll be grading them. Hopefully he’s lenient with that stuff.”
Mateo doesn’t seem to have registered your last two sentences; in fact, he disregards your correction completely. His gaze bounces between you and Margaret, creases weaving into his forehead. Eventually, it dawns on him, and he releases an affronted squawk.
“You guys bet on me?”
“I gave you the benefit of the doubt!” you protest, lifting your hands in the air. “Margaret’s the one who—”
“Good morning, everyone!”
Dr. Renault is at the front of the room, standing behind that same podium from last week. He’s wearing a bright red polo shirt and a pair of blue jeans, which makes you smile for absolutely no reason. The colour of his top brings out the rosiness of his cheeks, and when he offers up a bright grin for the class, his teeth appear to be even whiter than normal.
Behind him, Harry’s standing off to the side with his hands clasped at the small of his back. He’s clad in a black button-up and black trousers. The outfit would have been completely appropriate had it not been for the suspenders striping up his sides; the silver buckles on each strap glint teasingly in the light.
“Why does it look like they swapped closets?” Mateo mumbles. You giggle softly.
“The first thing we’re going to be doing this morning,” Dr. Renault says, “is giving back your quizzes from last week. They’re short, so Harry had no trouble getting around to marking all of them. He’ll be handing them back to you in just a moment.”
You wait with a bated breath as Harry pulls a stack of sheets from his messenger bag. He begins calling out names, and each person quickly scrambles up from their seat in order to retrieve their grade. Mateo’s name is one of the first to echo around the room. He grimaces offhandedly at you and mutters something about wishing him luck. You and Margaret make a show of crossing your fingers and holding them up as a proclamation of your support.
Mateo clambers down the steps, graciously accepts his quiz, and folds it up without looking at it. He makes it all the way back to his seat before thrusting the sheet into your hands and averting his gaze. “Tell me what I got,” he pleads. “I can’t look.”
You chuckle at his theatrics before opening up the paper and letting your eyes rake over the mark circled in red. “Perfect,” you say quietly, a small smile playing on your lips. Your friend’s eyes go wide, and then his cheeks split apart with the force of his grin.
“Oh, thank God,” he sighs, slouching back in his chair and rubbing his palms over his face. “That two percent is going to keep my ass from failing. I’m calling it now.”
“You’ll be fine,” you scoff, swatting at him half-heartedly with the hand clutching his quiz. Mateo thanks you as you hand the sheet back, pleating it once more and tucking it into the sleeve on the inside of his binder.
Margaret’s name is called a moment later, and yours follows immediately after. You both look at each other and shrug, standing from your chairs and stumbling through the row. Margaret ends up in front of you; you stare down at your shoes to make sure that you don’t trip down the stairs. Your face heats up at the mere thought of humiliating yourself in front of the class, in front of Dr. Renault, in front of Harry.
In a matter of seconds, you’re standing before him. Margaret moves out of the way and treks back up to where Mateo is waiting, subtly flapping her page around to indicate her mark. You stare at Harry evenly, your gaze never leaving his face—he’s looking down at your quiz, and he’s hesitating.
His apprehension makes you nervous. Had you done poorly?
Eventually, he pulls the paper out of the pile and looks up. His eyes meet yours.
The green of his irises is even more vivid up close. It knocks the wind straight from your chest. You can see the flecks of hazel dotting the area around his pupils, and the way his eyelashes brush along his browbone when he lifts his head. There’s a small mole beneath the corner of his mouth. His lips are full and pink; they look soft.
“Here you are,” Harry says, and for a moment, you’re confused. Here you are, stationed in front of him. Had he been waiting specifically for you?
Then, you realise that he’s got his hand outstretched, offering you the marked quiz clutched between his long fingers.
You’re an idiot.
“Thank you,” you say dumbly.
Your hand brushes his when you pluck the sheet out of his grasp. There’s a cross tattooed on his hand, right above the divot of his thumb. You turn around, and for a moment, you think you hear him say something from behind you—it sounds suspiciously like “good job”—but you shake your head free of the thought. He doesn’t seem like the type.
On your way back up to your seat, you allow yourself to glance at the grade scrawled across the top of the page. A perfect score. You exhale in relief. Your attention is drawn to where a small, messy smiley face has been drawn in red pen. Beneath the doodle, there’s a few words of encouragement:
Well done. Keep it up. H. x
You gnaw on your bottom lip, so focussed on the note that you nearly pass your row. Margaret hisses at you, and you stop cold in your tracks, silently berating yourself. After a few painful moments of squeezing by the other students sitting closer to the aisle, you drop back down into your chair and fold up your quiz quickly.
Had there been a note on Mateo’s quiz?
You can’t remember. Maybe there was, and you’d merely skimmed over it. You don’t want to ask him about it right now, though, because the room is silent save for Harry calling out names and your peers shuffling forward to received their tests.
You lean forward and pull a brand-new notebook from your bag, sneakily slipping your page inside the knapsack and zipping it back up. Neither Mateo nor Margaret make inquiries regarding your grade. It’s like an unspoken rule: you always do well.
The three of you settle into your seats and wait for the lecture to begin.
~*~
“Hi.” You lean forward and shoot the barista a friendly smile. “Can I get a medium iced coffee with one sugar and a shot of vanilla bean?”
“Sure. Anything else?”
“Um…” You say, biting your bottom lip. “Actually, can you make it two? That’s it, thanks.”
“That’ll be five dollars and ten cents.”
You fish your wallet out of your bag and produce the correct amount of money. Margaret grins from beside you; you both move down the counter as you wait for your drinks.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you say, rolling your eyes. “I can tell you want to brag.”
“That’s what happens when you come to expect too much from Mateo.”
You laugh. “You’re such a bitch.”
“But you’re the one who’s friends with me,” she shoots back, lifting an eyebrow teasingly. Her straight brown hair is braided today, draped over her shoulder and cinched at the bottom with a sparkly pink hair tie. You reach out and play with a loose thread on her sweater before yanking your fingers and snapping it off cleanly. She yelps, but the sound quickly dissolves into laughter.
“How’s Spanish?” you ask wryly, mostly because you’re in the mood to see her fly off the handle.
She scoffs. “Allende is…a demon. It’s only the second week and she’s already fucking killing me.”
“Just drop the class,” you suggest, shrugging your shoulders. “You can always take it next year—maybe she won’t be teaching it, then.”
“I thought about it,” Margaret says, sighing. “But Valentina would murder me. She wanted me to be able to speak the language fluently so I could learn more about our culture and shit. Even if I tell her that I’ll retake the class next year, she’s still gonna flip.”
“That sucks.” You pout and shoot her a sympathetic look. “Valentina should learn to trust her daughter’s judgment.”
A low, hollow laugh echoes in the back of your friend’s throat. “Not likely.”
You try a different approach. “Well, at least you’ve got me—since you’re stuck taking the course, I promise that I’ll listen to all your rants and complaints.”
“Oh, really?” Margaret grins. “Is there an expiration date on that offer?”
“Nope,” you reply, popping the syllable playfully. “This coupon is valid until the end of time.”
“Two medium iced coffees, one sugar and one shot of vanilla bean!”
You and Margaret accept your drinks, sending out quick spiels of gratitude. The barista smiles and tells you to have a good day. As you walk away, your friend guides her straw into her mouth and takes a lengthy, obnoxious sip of her drink. She throws her head back and moans dramatically at the flavour.
“Mhm,” she says, smacking her lips. “It tastes so much better when it’s free.”
“Fuck off,” you laugh, shaking your head. You fix her with a begrudging smile, but something behind her catches your eye. Stupidly, you freeze right in the middle of the basement corridor, the straw of your coffee resting against your parted lips.
Inside the room, Harry’s sitting behind a desk, his tortoise-shell glasses perched on his nose as he rifles through a sizeable stack of papers. There’s a red pen nestled between his fingers, and the sleeves of his black button-up have been rolled a handful of times, leaving his forearms exposed. His tattoos are much clearer now that there’s less distance separating the two of you. You spy an anchor, a rose—
“What are you—?” Margaret scowls and spins around. “Oh.” She turns back to you. “His office is right here? That’s convenient.”
You reluctantly tear your gaze away from Harry so that you can look at her properly. “How so?”
“Well, if he wants to get coffee, he doesn’t exactly have to go very far.” She smirks before taking another sip of her drink. “Plus,” she swallows, “It’s convenient for me, too. I can grab a latte and then pay him a visit right after for some of that extra help.”
She wiggles her brows. You snort.
“You’re ridiculous,” you tell her earnestly. She just giggles, shouldering the strap of her purse and angling her chin to the left.
“Let’s go,” she says. “I really don’t wanna get stuck in traffic again. Last week, it took me, like, two hours to get home.”
“Yikes.” You grimace at the thought, but Margaret’s already pedalling away.
“Come on,” she calls over her shoulder. You follow her, but not before deciding to spare one last glance into Harry’s office.
Your breath hitches in your throat when you find a pair of grassy green eyes staring back at you intently. Harry’s gaze is unwavering; there’s a certain peculiarity about it. It’s searing, like he’s taking you apart piece by piece, unravelling every layer to study what lies beneath. Your skin crawls with the humiliation of getting caught, but something else, too. Anticipation? Exhilaration?
The exchange doesn’t even last a few seconds, but it feels like an eternity. Your lips curl up into an uneasy smile as you try to quell the nervous frothing in the pit of your stomach. For a moment—a foolish, optimistic moment—you think that he might actually return your friendly expression.
Harry merely blinks, twirls his red pen over in his fingers, and looks back down.
September 18th, 2019
“Shit,” you mutter to yourself, looking down at your phone. Your class starts in five minutes, and you’ve just made it onto campus. You’d texted Mateo already and kindly asked him to save you a seat, but your eyes are drooping and you’re absolutely exhausted. Before you can even weigh your options, your feet are carrying you down into the basement of the building to retrieve a cup of coffee from Grounded. You can’t even be upset about it—your body clearly knows what it needs, and right now, that need is manifesting itself in the form of a massive dose of caffeine.
You hop in line, pulling up Mateo’s contact and composing a quick message regarding your whereabouts. Before you send it, you ask if he or Margaret would like for you to buy them anything. A short moment later, he replies, assuring you that they both already bought their coffees and are as awake as ever.
You guys didn’t even offer to get one for me? How rude, you type back, a small smirk on your face.
Mateo’s response is instantaneous, like he had already rehearsed what he was going to say.
In our defense, we thought you were dead.
You snort softly and shake your head as the message sinks in. Your phone clicks quietly when you lock it, but as you lift your gaze, you catch sight of an intricate drawing and freeze. Your eyes nearly bulge out from their sockets when you register that the left arm of the person standing in front of you is littered with tattoos.
An anchor.
A rose.
A mermaid, whose chest is on full display in all of its naked glory.
There are countless others, but you don’t have enough time to study each one, because just then, Harry is stepping up to the counter to recite his order.
“Morning, love,” you hear him greet the barista. She blushes profusely and grins at him in return. Your shoulders tense at the gruffness of his voice, and you briefly wonder just how deep it can get.
You don’t catch the rest of the trade, trying to focus instead on anything other than how good Harry’s ass looks in the khakis adorning his legs. He cracks a low joke, and the barista laughs. Smiling slightly, he casts a casual glance over his shoulder, and you stiffen when his eyes land squarely on you. His pleased expression fades.
“Also…,” he says, keeping his gaze on you for a moment longer before turning back to the counter.
You don’t tune in to the remainder of his sentence, mostly because your ears are ringing and your heart is hammering wildly beneath your ribs. Harry pulls a crisp bill from his pocket and hands it over before moving to the side and waiting for his drink. It takes all of your willpower to look at everything except for him. The barista abandons her post at the cash register to prepare his coffee. You stand awkwardly at the beginning of the line, waiting for her to come back.
She finally does after a couple of minutes, greeting you cheerily and subconsciously leaning in so that she can hear your order properly.
“Hi,” you say. “Um, can I get a large vanilla latte with an extra shot of espresso?”
“Sure,” she replies, but as soon as you begin to pull your wallet from your bag, she stops you. “Actually,” she says, “The man who was just here paid for you. He gave me a ten and told me to keep whatever was left over.”
“I’m sorry?” You blink.
“The man in front of you,” she elaborates. “The one with the accent.”
Your lips part in surprise. Instinctively, you whip your head to the side, just in time to watch as Harry disappears around the corner.
~*~
You end up being a few minutes late. The sound of the door being pushed open is painfully loud, and you have to conceal an embarrassed cringe when your entrance is met with dozens of faces staring down at you. Dr. Renault is in the process of speaking, but when you walk in, he injects a quick, “Welcome, good morning, pull up a chair!” into the middle of his sentence. You try for a sheepish smile and hope that it comes across as sincere.
“That was humiliating,” you mutter when you finally collapse into the seat next to Mateo. He’d saved you a spot right beside the aisle; you send out a silent prayer of thanks. “This is why I’m never late.”
Your friends both shoot you knowing looks, their features soft with compassion. You sigh quietly, taking a long sip of your latte and trying to shrug off the mortification looming over your head.
“As I was saying,” your professor continues, unperturbed by your brief interruption. “The midterm is next week. It will cover chapters one through three; I trust that everyone has begun reviewing?”
Low murmurs are all that he receives as a response. Dr. Renault chuckles and pushes his glasses further up his nose. “I’ll be going into further detail regarding the exam during the last twenty minutes of today’s class. As for right now, Harry will be handing back your quizzes from last week, as well as the assignments that you all submitted. There were a few bumps, but overall, I think most of you did well.”
And just like that, all eyes fall on Harry. He steps forward, a stack of sheets balanced in the crook of his left arm. He clears his throat and licks the pad of his thumb to effectively grasp the corner of the first page.
“Morning, everyone,” he says huskily. “I’ve paired your quizzes from last week with your papers, so you’ll be getting both at the same time. If you’ve got any questions regarding your grades, please feel free to consult me at the end of today’s lecture.”
That’s the most that you’ve ever heard him speak, you realise.
Harry peers up at the class, his eyes skimming over the rows of students before landing on you. You’re not sure if it’s real, or if your mind is just playing tricks on you, but he seems to stare at you for a beat longer than anyone else. You swallow heavily, hoping that he can’t see the violent bobbing of your throat from down below. A moment later, he calls out a name. The girl in the chair in front of you jumps to her feet, and the spell is broken.
One by one, each undergraduate stands and ambles down the stairs of the lecture hall to retrieve their marks. Margaret’s name is called; Mateo’s follows a few moments later. You smile encouragingly at them and watch as they descend the steps.
You grow nervous as the stack of papers nestled in Harry’s arms begins to dwindle. It’s silly, but whenever your work happens to be located near the end of the queue, you always feel a niggling sense of paranoia biting at the back of your brain. Realistically, you know that your assignment will most likely be present in that pile, but there’s always that small what if.
Finally, though, you hear your name ring out.
You immediately decide that you love the way it sounds exiting Harry’s lips.
You stand, grateful that you don’t have to squeeze past anyone. Maybe you should aim to sit in a seat next to the aisle more often—it’s awfully convenient.
Your heart is thudding wildly in your chest, and as you make your way down to where Harry waits, you grow afraid that he’ll be able to see it pulsing through your shirt.
Don’t trip, don’t trip, don’t trip.
Fortunately, you reach the bottom stair without a single misstep. Harry’s staring down at your papers, his lips tucked into a thin line. When you clear your throat gently, he looks up at you. Twin pink spots dot his cheeks when he realises that you’ve been standing in front of him for a moment too long. He holds out your assignment and your quiz, the pages held together by a skinny silver clip.
“Thank you,” you say quietly. You hesitate for a second before adding, “And thank you for paying for my—”
“Evan Ross.” Harry cuts you off without blinking, the next name rolling off his tongue seamlessly. You blink in surprise, stiffening. Your mouth pops open as a mixture of shock and hurt washes over you.
Your chest grows tight with emotion, and your eyes burn as you whip around and hurry back up the stairs. You keep your head low as you slide back into your seat; Margaret and Mateo are too absorbed in a hushed conversation to notice the distressed expression on your face, but you don’t mind. In fact, you’re thankful for it.
Your mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. Needing a distraction, you unfold the small pile of papers in your hand and glance down at your grades. You’ve achieved a perfect score on your quiz. At the top of the sheet, scrawled in red pen, there’s a smiley face and a brief note:
Well done. Glad to see that somebody’s been paying attention. H. x
You direct your awareness to the written assignment in your other hand. A bright 95% stares back up at you, along with another few words of encouragement:
Very insightful. Great job. H. x
Your eyes narrow. You sit back in your chair; a quiet, incredulous laugh bubbles up in your throat. Luckily, it’s faint enough to avoid being detected by anyone else. You shake your head in disbelief, skimming over Harry’s comments one last time before angrily shoving the pages into your bag. They crinkle loudly—you know that they’ll be all bent out of shape by the time you’ll need to retrieve them, but you don’t care.
You straighten up and risk a glance down to where Harry is still handing assignments and quizzes back to last of your classmates. He smiles at one boy and gives him a reassuring nod before his green eyes stray upward, as though drawn by an invisible magnet. His gaze locks with yours, and the mild curl of his lips quickly flattens out. You clench your jaw and look away, huffing petulantly through your nose.
What a fucking dick.
September 25th, 2019
“I’m not ready,” you declare, slapping your binder down onto the small foldable desk attached to Mateo’s seat. Your friend jumps in surprise, his eyes growing ludicrously wide, and Margaret cackles loudly from beside him. Despite the panic coursing through your veins, you crack a small smile.
“Good morning to you, too,” Mateo grumbles, his shoulders still hunched from your sudden intrusion.
You groan and collapse into the chair next to him, massaging your temples in hopes of avoiding an oncoming headache. The sensation tends to creep up on you, and you’re sure that it’s due to the measly amount of sleep you’d acquired only a few hours prior. Margaret leans over, extending her arm and offering you a sip of her coffee. You take it and flash her a grateful (albeit pained) smile. Her latte is still a bit hot, but that doesn’t stop you from swallowing down a large gulp.
“What’s wrong?” Margaret asks as you hand the cup back over to her. “Did you not study enough?”
“Yeah,” you say, scowling deeply. “The proposal for my experimental psych class was due last night, so I spent pretty much all my time working on that.”
“Don’t worry,” Mateo says. “You always do well, even when you think you won’t—you’ve got this.”
“Thanks,” you mumble nervously, blowing him a meek kiss. You shift closer to him so that you can scan the contents of his open textbook, hoping to memorize a few final facts before the exam starts.
Dr. Renault and Harry walk in a few moments later, both carrying intimidatingly-tall stacks of paper. A hush falls over the classroom—the abrupt silence makes your professor laugh.
“Don’t worry!” he says. “It’s not that difficult, I promise.”
Somehow, you don’t believe him.
In a matter of minutes, the tests have been distributed, and all of the students in the room are sitting with one seat separating them from their neighbours. Dr. Renault announces that he and Harry will be perusing up and down the aisles, ready to answer any questions regarding the exam. Subconsciously, your toes curl in your shoes—you definitely won’t be asking Harry for further clarification, no matter how badly you need it.
“You will have one-hundred-and-twenty minutes to complete the midterm,” your professor says. His smile is supportive, but it does nothing to soothe to anxious knot in the pit of your stomach. “Good luck, everyone.”
With that, you flip to the first page of the packet. The next two hours are filled with the sounds of pencils scribbling on paper, the hushed whispers of Harry and Dr. Renault, and the occasional lone, hacking cough.
October 9th, 2019
You’re sitting in the library with Mateo when your phone buzzes with the notification. You glance down at the screen and gasp loudly when you read the words:
Harry Styles has posted to the forum.
“Mateo!” you hiss. He doesn’t reply. Looking up, you see him bopping his head along to the music playing through his white earphones. He’s twirling a pencil through his fingers absentmindedly and skimming through his neuropsychology textbook. You kick his shin underneath the table.
“Ow!” he yelps. The sound is far too loud, considering that it’s only nine in the morning and you’re both situated in an establishment that demands silence.
“Shh!” you say, frowning slightly. He pulls out one of his earbuds and stares at you with bewildered eyes. You choose to stay tacit, simply holding up your phone and letting him read the notification lighting up the glass screen.
“Okay…,” he whispers, glaring at you. “Why the fuck did that warrant such a hard kick?”
“I’m sorry.” You wince. He’s right. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s fine.” He waves off your apology before fishing his own cell phone out of his pocket and unlocking it swiftly. Together, the two of you pull up a browser tab and type the name of your school’s website into the search bar. You log into your student accounts and click on your neuropsychology class. The link takes you to the collective forum, and your eyes sweep over Harry’s name at the top—the most recent post. You tap it gently and begin to read.
Hi all,
Attached to this post is a spreadsheet containing your scores on the midterm. In the first column, you’ll find your student number. In the second, I’ve provided your mark as a percentage. As always, I will be available after class today if you have any questions regarding your grade.
See you soon.
Sincerely,
Harry
You hold your breath as you scroll down and open up the spreadsheet linked below his message. After a few prolonged, painful seconds of searching, you find your student number and zero in on the percentage located right beside it. You swear that your heart stops.
62%.
Sixty-two percent.
Your lips part in surprise. You take a long, hard look at the spreadsheet, wondering if maybe you’d landed on the wrong row, but no. Your number is there. And a few pixels away, a dark, insidious 62% stands out in black. You inhale deeply, trying to keep yourself from hyperventilating.
“I got a seventy,” Mateo breathes, looking up from his phone and closing his eyes in relief. A moment later, they pop back open. “How about you?”
“A sixty-two,” you whisper, unable to tear your gaze from your screen.
He balks. “Come again?”
“A sixty-two,” you restate, a bit louder this time. “I—”
“Don’t panic,” Mateo says immediately, holding up his hand. You finally manage to focus on him, your eyes growing damp with anxious tears.
“Hey,” he says sternly, reaching over and laying a comforting palm on your forearm. “Don’t panic. It’s only worth twenty-five percent, okay? You’re doing really well on the quizzes so far, and you did great on that first paper, too. That was, like, another five percent or something, right?”
“Yeah,” you say, nodding weakly.
Mateo chews on his lips, but his expression is determined. He mimics your nod, though his appears to be a bit more assured. “Okay,” he tells you. “So, here’s what you’re gonna do: you’re gonna go see Harry after class today and set up an appointment so that he can go over the exam with you. And then you’re gonna take in all that information, and you’re gonna ace the final at the end of the semester, yeah?”
“Yeah,” you repeat, but this time, there’s a bit more conviction behind the word. Mateo knows how bad your anxiety can get—he’s caught you in the middle of an emotional breakdown more times than you’d care to admit. But he also knows how to keep you grounded, and he’s almost always able to bring you back down when your thoughts take you elsewhere.
“Thank you,” you tell him, swallowing heavily. “That’s a good idea, I’ll do that.”
“Yes, you will,” he says, and then he sits back and flips his textbook shut. “Come on, let’s go grab a coffee before class. My treat.”
~*~
When you get your exam back, there’s another haphazard note scribbled at the top in red.
It’s okay. I know you’ll do better on the next one. H. x
~*~
As your fist lands the first perfunctory knock on Harry’s door, you find yourself wanting nothing more than to spin around and speed away as fast as you can. Harry lifts his head from where it’s buried inside a book, fixing his gaze on you and cocking his head to the side.
“Hi,” you say nervously. “Um, sorry to bother you. My name is—”
You’re shocked to hear it escape Harry’s lips before you can say it yourself. You clamp your mouth shut and nod silently, too afraid to utter anything else.
“Hi,” Harry replies. His voice is the epitome of a lazy drawl. “What can I do for you?”
“I was wondering,” you start, pausing to clear your throat. “If—um—if I could talk to you really quickly about my midterm?”
“Sure,” he says, shrugging indifferently. “You can sit.”
As you step forward to position yourself on one of the padded chairs in front of his desk, Harry shuts his book and stands. You can’t stop your eyes from following him. He tucks the hardcover back into a vacant slot on the tall shelf located in the corner of the room.
“You have a lot of books,” you note. Immediately, you want to strangle yourself for letting the observation slip out.
He simply bobs his head. “I like to read.”
“Me too.” God, why the fuck won’t you just shut up?
But when Harry turns back around, you’re shocked to find the smallest hint of a smile playing on his lips. His gaze locks with yours, and it fades just as quickly as it had come. You swallow forcefully; your mouth feels like a desert.
“Do you have your midterm with you?” Harry asks, crossing his arms over his chest. You look away immediately to keep yourself from ogling his biceps. He’s wearing a dark green crewneck and a pair of khaki pants again. His hair is tousled, like he’s been raking his fingers through it incessantly, and his glasses are tucked into the collar of his shirt. There’s a slight shadow of stubble scattered across his jaw. His lips are flushed a perfect shade of pink; they look smooth and soft.
“Yeah.” You snap out of your stupor and answer him quickly. Leaning down to unzip your bag, you say, “Sorry. It’s right—”
“Why’re you apologising?” Harry asks, creases of confusion etching themselves into his forehead. You pause and peer up at him, your hand buried in your knapsack.
“Sorry?” you ask, afraid that you hadn’t heard him properly.
The corners of his lips jump only slightly. He repeats his question with the same amount of ennui. “Why’re you apologising?”
You blink. “Er…I don’t know, sorry. I mean—!” You squeeze your eyes shut and shake your head, feeling your cheeks grow warm. Eventually, you give up on searching for the right words, instead pulling your exam out of your bag and thrusting it forward. “Here you go.”
Harry takes the packet from you, bringing it up to his face. He grabs his glasses from where they hang on his chest and slides them onto the bridge of his nose. You look away when his eyes land on the shameful grade scribbled at the top of the first sheet.
“I didn’t do too well,” you say, training your gaze on the floor. “As you can clearly see.”
Harry hums in response. He flips through your midterm quickly, spending only a few seconds on each page. “That’s odd,” he murmurs, mostly to himself.
You peek up at him through your lashes. “What’s odd?”
He shrugs. “If I’m remembering correctly,” he begins, fixing his green eyes on you, “You’ve been doing well on the weekly quizzes. So…what went wrong this time?”
You swallow heavily, bringing your hands together in your lap and fiddling with your fingers. “I was working on a research proposal that was due the night before the exam,” you explain timidly. “So, I guess…I just wasn’t able to study as much as I should’ve.”
Harry nods. Quiet ensues. Your attention stays glued to the ground.
“Well—,” he clears his throat. “I can go over it all with you now, if you’d like.”
“Oh, no,” you say, shaking your head immediately. “I’ve actually—I’ve got to be somewhere after this.”
It’s a complete lie. You don’t have anything scheduled for later on. But your heart feels like it’s about to give out any second now, and the hairs on your arms are tingling apprehensively. You feel like an idiot, tripping over your words and second-guessing every syllable that leaves your lips. Harry’s unwavering, unforgiving stare is making you want to curl up into a ball and sink into the floor. You can’t imagine any torture greater than spending another minute in this office.
“I see,” Harry says. A long moment passes as you wait for him to say something else; when he doesn’t, you jump in to fill the awkward silence.
“I just came by in hopes of scheduling an appointment,” you rush out. “Is that okay?”
“It’s what I’m here for.” There’s no humour in his tone. You nod, gnawing on your bottom lip.
“What day works best for you?” you prod gently. The air is thick; you don’t think that even the sharpest of knives could slice through the tension. Harry rubs his nose with two fingers and taps his thumb against his lips, lost in thought.
“How does ten in the morning on Monday sound?” he says at last.
“The one coming up?”
“Yes.”
“That’s fine,” you tell him. “Thank you so much—I really appreciate it.”
He doesn’t reply, choosing instead to return your exam to you and retire to his chair. You zip your bag back up and sling one strap over your shoulder, standing from your seat and subtly trying to wipe your clammy palms against your thighs.
“Send me an e-mail on Sunday,” Harry says suddenly, drumming his fingers along the smooth surface of his desk. Your eyes are drawn to the gaudy rings on his hands, the jewellery glinting alluringly in the light of his office.
“Regarding what?” you ask, your brows knitting together.
“The appointment. Just as a reminder,” he states, shrugging his shoulders placidly. “I’ll put it in my calendar too, but you can never be too prepared.”
“Right,” you say, nodding. “Okay, I will. Thank you again.”
“It’s no problem.” Harry pauses for a moment before adding, “Take care.”
A bit of the stiffness in your body trickles away at his words—is it possible that he’s beginning to warm up to you?
“Have a good rest of your week,” you say as you start to back away toward the door. Against your better judgment, you offer up a small, friendly smile.
Your feet carry you a few steps further; you attempt to restrain yourself from shooting him one last glance before you turn to face the other way (though of course, you can’t resist.) You think you see the corners of Harry’s lips twitch, but you don’t stay long enough to reflect on it.
Only once you leave his office do you decide that it was merely your eyes playing tricks on you. If majoring in psychology has taught you anything, it’s that humans are extremely unreliable creatures.
Sometimes, we only see what we want to see, you think. The words tumble through your head in the form of a dynamic mantra, echoing continuously until you stagger outside and into the comforting hold of the cool autumn air.
October 13th, 2019
No matter how many times she tries, Margaret cannot down a shot without cringing after swallowing. She always declares that this time will finally be it, that she’ll throw the alcohol back without so much as a grimace, but both you and Mateo know by now that it’s all just nonsense. Her countless attempts are the main reason for her eventual, inevitable inebriation whenever you all decide to go out for drinks.
“Fuck!” Margaret yelps, squeezing her eyes shut and wincing radically as the vodka burns its way down her throat. She reaches for the glass of water standing a few inches away and takes a desperate swig. You and Mateo laugh as she pounds her fist against the table in frustration. You’re sitting across the table from your two friends, the three of you nestled comfortably in one of the booths lining the wall of the pub.
“Told you,” Mateo says dryly, shooting Margaret a wry smirk. She shakes her head and smacks her lips together.
“No, let’s do one more,” she says, her voice taking on a pleading quality. “It’ll be this next one, I swear.”
“Slow down,” you tell her, holding your hand up. Even from a few feet away, you can see the dilation of her pupils and the rosy flush on her cheeks. She’s never been good at pacing herself, and you really don’t feel like ending the night with your hands in her hair as she retches over the toilet.
Margaret pouts; Mateo grins knowingly at you, the thin gold chain around his neck glinting against his dark skin. You’re all a bit buzzed, and though your friends want to continue, you don’t intend to get plastered tonight. There’s a nagging voice in the back of your mind, reminding you that you’ve got your appointment with Harry tomorrow morning, and you want to be as alert and attentive as possible.
You’d sent him an e-mail earlier this evening, right before the taxi had pulled up into the parking lot of your apartment complex. The correspondence had been simple, just a quick verification of the day and time, followed by a short closing remark and your name. You’d snapped your laptop shut as soon as the message had gone through, willing yourself to tuck the thought of it away into a dark, incognizable corner of your brain.
“Did—?” Mateo hiccups quietly and swallows. “Did you guys hear that Grounded is closing down?”
“What?” You and Margaret both nearly snap your necks to gape at him.
“Not permanently!” he backtracks, throwing his hands up in the air. “Just for a couple of weeks! They’re doing renovations in the basement, remember?”
“I knew that,” you say, cocking your head to the side. “But I didn’t know they were doing them there—I thought they’d just closed off the area near the biology labs.”
“I guess not.” Mateo purses his lips, and Margaret pouts.
“How am I gonna survive without their coffee?” she moans, her shoulders deflating.
You shrug and trail your finger around the rim of your water. The glass is clouded with condensation, drops trailing down the side and dampening the coaster lying underneath. “There’s always Starbucks,” you say, though the suggestion is lackadaisical, unenthusiastic. “But the closest one is halfway across campus.”
“Exactly.” Margaret sulks, placing her elbow on the table and propping her chin up on her fist. “How the fuck am I supposed to stay awake in Spanish, now?”
“Pop some modafinil,” Mateo mutters under his breath. You look at him with wide eyes and burst into laughter a second later. He grins; Margaret elbows him in the ribs, but even she can’t suppress the small smile that creeps up onto her face.
“I’m serious!” she says, her voice shaking with the ghost of a giggle. “Even for neuro, like…I don’t know how I’m gonna get through it.”
“Neuro is at ten in the morning,” you stress, lifting your eyebrows in disbelief. “Just be grateful that it’s not an eight o’clock class—if that were the case, you’d really be fucked.”
Margaret raises one shoulder lazily and rolls her eyes. You lean forward and take a sip of your water, humming appreciatively when the cool liquid runs down your throat and fans out across your chest.
“Speaking of neuro,” Mateo starts, running a hand through his dark, kinky hair, “How did you guys do on the quiz from last week? The one on cognitive processing and perception.”
“I only got one right,” Margaret snorts, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I was kind of zoning out during the lecture, to be honest.”
“Shocker,” you tease. She scoffs in mock-offense, and you flash her a smile to tell her that you’re only joking. You turn to Mateo. “I think I got, like, three out of five,” you say, squinting your eyes and puckering your lips. “Not my best work.”
“It’s still a pass,” he replies, winking playfully.
You chuckle and nod. “True. Plus—,” you tap your nails against your glass and make a vague gesture with your other hand, “—Harry’s nice little notes are always a bit of a confidence boost, you know what I mean?”
When your question is met with silence, you look up from the table with cinched brows and puzzled eyes. Both Margaret and Mateo are gawking at you, their lips parted and their expressions ripe with confusion. Subconsciously, your mouth twists down into a frown; you sit back against the padded material of the booth.
“What?”
“Harry…,” Margaret shakes her head, tucking a silky strand of hair behind her ear. “Harry doesn’t write nice little notes for us.”
“What?” you say, creases digging into your forehead. “No, I mean—the comments he leaves on the quizzes and stuff! You know, like, right at the top of the page?”
“He’s never left a comment on any of my quizzes,” Mateo tells you. He turns to Margaret. “Has he done that for you?”
“No,” she says, pursing her lips. “Not at all.”
Something inaudible passes between them, and when they both look back at you, they’re trying to hide their amused expressions. The scowl on your lips deepens, pulling at the muscles in your cheeks and making your face grow sore.
“Why the fuck are you guys looking at me like that?” you ask, fed up with their cryptic behaviour.
Margaret scoffs loudly and barks out your name. It’s enough to grab your attention, and when you glare at her, she beams wickedly and hisses, “He’s trying to fuck you!”
You can’t help it—you laugh. Margaret’s grin fades, and Mateo cocks an eyebrow at you, waiting for your glee to subside. After a long moment, your giggles dwindle, and you smile across the table at your friends. They remain frozen, still as bewildered as ever. Their silence aggravates you; in a matter of seconds, you’re glowering at them.
“You can’t be serious,” you deadpan, looking at them with blank eyes. “The only time Harry’s ever really spoken to me was when I went to schedule that stupid appointment! I swear to God, he avoids me like I’ve got the plague.”
“Maybe’s he’s avoiding you because he likes you,” Margaret suggests. Her brown irises twinkle with mischief.
A disdainful sound bubbles up in your throat and flops out of your mouth. “Not likely.”
“Why else would he write you little notes, then?” she demands, and you hate to admit it, but she has a point. You’ve got no idea why Harry’s trademark scribbles are always at the top of your tests and assignments, especially since he seems to intent on evading you whenever the two of you happen to cross paths. You chew furiously on the inside of your cheek, only able to offer up a half-hearted shrug.
“We don’t even know if I’m the only one,” you say. “He could be doing it for some other people, too—let’s not jump to conclusions.”
Margaret and Mateo snicker. You glare daggers at them. Mateo is the first to fix you with a semi-apologetic smile.
“Sorry,” he tells you, his teeth gleaming in the low lighting of the bar. “It’s just—Margaret might be onto something.”
“She’s not,” you say flatly.
Margaret releases an offended squawk, pinning you beneath her stern gaze. “Hey!” she squeaks, pouting indignantly and pointing her index finger at you. “Just because you’re in denial doesn’t mean—”
She breaks off right in the middle of her sentence, her eyes growing outrageously wide when they land on something behind you. You tilt your head to the side and scratch your cheek, afraid that maybe she’s noticed a spot or a new blemish blossoming on your face. But then she squeals, her hand shooting to the side so that she can deliver several excited slaps to Mateo’s arm.
“Holy shit! Speak of the fucking devil!”
Everything clicks into place, then, and your jaw drops. You spin around in your seat so quickly you’re surprised that your vision doesn’t go blurry. After a quick sweep of the room, you find the thing—or rather, the person—that has Margaret losing her mind.
Harry’s dressed in a simple black t-shirt and a pair of black, high-waisted, extremely baggy trousers. The pant legs are comically wide, but somehow, he makes it work. His hair is fluffy, and his sneakers are pristine, not a speck of dirt in sight. Something shiny glints near his waist and catches your attention; you find the patterned frame of his glasses peeking out of one of his pockets. Briefly, you wonder if he’s cold—it’s a bit of a chilly evening, and he doesn’t appear to be sporting a jacket.
“He looks good,” Mateo notes.
You and Margaret swivel your heads around and stare at him. He shrugs. “What? It’s just an observation!”
And despite the panic simmering in the pit of your stomach, you laugh softly. You’re about to settle back into the booth and hope for the best, but then Margaret lifts her arm in a frantic wave and shouts, “Harry!”
Your lips part in shock. She must be drunker than you thought.
“Margaret!” you whisper furiously, ducking down and gaping at her. You’re no longer facing Harry, but you get the feeling that he heard his name, because Margaret giggles, twiddles her fingers, and curls her hand in a beckoning gesture. You place your elbows on the table and bury your face into your palms, too embarrassed to look up.
“Oh my God,” Mateo mutters. “He’s coming over here.”
And sure enough, after a few long, painful moments, Harry is standing in front of the table.
“Er, hi,” he says, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly.
Mateo offers him a small smile; Margaret beams widely.
“Hi!” she says cheerily. “Sorry, this might be weird because you don’t know us. I’m Margaret, this is Mateo, and this is—”
Just as he had done in his office, Harry breathes your name before it’s uttered. Margaret stops speaking immediately and mashes her lips together to suppress a giant grin. Mateo catches your gaze from across the table; his eyes are the size of tennis balls. You want to groan—subtlety is most definitely not their forte.
“Um, yeah,” you reply. You glance up at Harry momentarily before looking away. “Hi.”
A beat of silence ensues.
“So, Harry,” Margaret jumps in. Her tone is a bit too loud, but it’s not noticeable over the mindless chatter echoing in the pub. “What brings you here?”
Harry shrugs, clasping his hands behind his back. “Just out for drinks with a few of my mates.”
“‘Mates’,” Margaret parrots, lowering her voice and putting on a horrible accent. You gawk at her as she giggles. “That sounds like fun—we’re doing the same thing! What’s your favourite type of alcohol? I like vodka.”
“Jesus Christ,” you mumble, shaking your head imperceptibly. When you look back up, you find Harry’s eyes sweeping across your face. A coy smirk dances on his lips.
You take note of the dimple that carves itself into his cheek and groan inwardly. Just when you thought that he couldn’t get any more attractive…
“I’m more of a whiskey guy, myself,” he says. His shoulders relax a bit; the tension in his body visibly melts away. Though Margaret is the one who had gotten you into this mess in the first place, you suddenly find yourself thankful for her presence. It’s easier to socialize when you’re around someone who makes it their mission to inject comedy into a conversation.
“I’m going to go grab us another round,” you announce gently, making a move to slide out of the booth. Before you stand, you look over at your friends. “What do you guys want?”
“I thought you said we had to slow down,” Margaret says, shooting you a confused frown.
“I changed my mind. What do you want?”
“Just a root beer for me,” Mateo says, trying to hold in a laugh.
“Another shot of vodka!” Margaret cheers, throwing her arms up. She sighs and leans her head on Mateo’s shoulder; he pets her hair, humouring her. She hums and speaks the words that she promises before every drink. “I’ll do it this time. I won’t even wrinkle my nose.”
“Okay,” you say with a curt nod. You stand and face Harry, hesitating only for a second before murmuring, “Well, it was nice to see—”
“Harry!” Margaret suddenly cuts in, drowning out the rest of your sentence. “Would you be a doll and go with her? I don’t think she’ll be able to carry all of our drinks back by herself.”
“I—,” Harry glances at you out of the corner of his eye. “Yeah, sure.” His throat bobs when he turns and asks you, “That alright with you?”
No!
You want to scream your refusal at him, and then leap across the table and pummel Margaret with hard, closed fists. But instead, you merely purse your lips and bob your head once. “Yup. Let’s go.”
~*~
“Hi.” You smile at the bartender and lean your forearms against the counter. “Can I get a root beer, a shot of vodka, and a vodka cranberry, please?”
She nods, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder and giving you a thumbs-up. You exhale deeply as she bustles away to prepare the drinks. Your skin is prickling with nerves, hyperaware of the fact that Harry is standing right next to you. Casting a furtive glance around the pub, you gnaw on your bottom lip. Harry’s friends are sitting on the other side of the room; they’ve claimed a booth as well. A few of them are piled atop each other as they all struggle to squeeze in. The sight makes you chuckle.
“So,” you hear from beside you. Harry’s gaze is steady as he rubs his fingers against his chin. “What did your friend mean when she said that she wouldn’t wrinkle her nose?”
The question is so arbitrary and out of the blue that it pulls an involuntary laugh from your mouth.
“Oh, Margaret?” you ask. When Harry nods, you continue. “She just sucks at taking shots. She pulls a face every time, so whenever we drink, she always tries to stop herself from doing it. It never works, though.”
Harry smirks. You look away. A few long seconds draw out before he speaks again.
“They seem nice,” he tells you. When you cock an eyebrow at him questioningly, he elaborates. “Your friends, I mean.”
“Oh.” You dip your chin. “Yeah, they’re great.”
He opens his mouth to say more, but just then, the blonde bartender returns with the drinks you’d ordered, setting them down onto the counter in front of you. “Anything else?” she asks, drumming her fingers on the surface of the bar. Your eyes are drawn to the low cut of her top.
“That’s all, thanks,” you declare, but then you pause. “Actually…,” you decide, and you turn to Harry. “Do you want anything?”
He balks, slightly stunned. His eyebrows shoot up into his hairline, and you suppress a small smile—that’s probably the most expressive you’ve ever seen him.
“No, no,” Harry assures you. “I’m alright.”
“I insist,” you say, and there must be something powerful in your gaze, because he just purses his lips and forfeits his repudiation.
“Er, I’ll just have a coke, then.”
You and the bartender both nod simultaneously. In less than thirty seconds, she’s got his drink standing alongside the others on the counter. “That’ll be eighteen dollars,” she tells you. You unzip your wallet and hand her the exact change before taking a quick sip of your vodka cranberry.
“I’m surprised you didn’t order whiskey,” you joke lightly, peeking over at Harry. He lifts the rim of his glass and takes a hearty gulp of his soda, licking his lips once he swallows.
“I—,” he begins, shaking his head. “Actually, I don’t drink.”
“Oh, really?” You cock your head to the side. “Why not?” A moment later, you backpedal hastily. “I mean, if you don’t mind me asking.”
“It’s fine,” he says. “I used to drink a lot while I was doing my undergrad. Like, a lot. Shit happened, and I ended up needing to get my stomach pumped. After that, I just kind of…made the decision to lay off.”
“I see.” You falter. “Was it difficult?”
Harry nods, but only barely. He suddenly seems much more interested in the shiny floorboards of the bar. “Yeah, it was. But it was for the best. I’m here now, and I’m a teaching assistant for two classes, so I’d say things worked out pretty well.”
“Two classes?”
“Yeah. Neuropsychology, and then Doctor Chen’s psychopathology class,” he tells you.
“I was actually thinking of taking that,” you confess. “It looks really interesting.”
“It is.”
Though your mouth is dry, you hold up your vodka cranberry. “Well, then…cheers to you. That’s definitely something to be proud of.”
Harry gazes at you through his lashes and lifts his own drink, clinking your glasses together. The two of you take a sip at the same time; his eyes hold onto yours over the rim of his cup. You’re the first one to look away, your heart hammering as you reach out to grab Margaret’s shot. Harry mimics you and wraps his fingers around Mateo’s root beer.
“What’s your favourite drink?” he inquires, his grassy eyes alert. You pause.
“Probably tequila,” you say eventually. “It goes down smoother than anything else, I’ve found. Plus, it doesn’t take much for it to fuck me up.”
A low chuckle slips from Harry’s lips. Your thighs clench together at the sound.
“Guess I’ll have to buy you a shot of tequila later,” Harry tells you, leaning against the bar. “To repay you.”
You can hear the blood thundering in your ears. There’s an odd, fluttery sensation in your chest. You aren’t sure of whether it’s excitement, or anxiety, or perhaps both. All you know is that this is uncharted territory for you. You think that maybe it’s because of the pub and the atmosphere it provides: something laid-back and nonchalant. Harry has never spoken to you like this—like you’re a friend. You have no clue how to feel about it, so you settle for simply hoping that you won’t accidentally say the wrong thing and dash all of the progress you’ve made.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” you answer, shaking your head. “I think that this was me repaying you for that coffee you bought me a while back. Do you remember?”
Bringing up his previous act of generosity makes you nervous; he’d swiftly cut you off the last time you’d tried to thank him for the latte. But—much to your surprise—his features don’t harden when your words sink in. You watch as his brows knit together for only a moment before a spark of recognition flickers in his eyes.
Harry’s expression opens up as the memory dawns on him, like petals from a rosebud. “I do.”
You shoot him a tight smile. “See? So now we’re even.”
He smirks. “I guess we are.”
You swallow down the lump in your throat and lift your chin in the direction of where your friends are still waiting. “Shall we?”
He nods, holding out his arm and inviting you to take the lead.
Your feet have only carried you a few steps when you hear someone call out, “Wait!”
Instinctively, both you and Harry spin around. The blonde bartender is back, raking her fingers through her hair and sliding a napkin across the counter. She’s looking at Harry, a roguish smile twisting her mouth upward. When he leans forward to accept her offering, you catch a glimpse of a series of numbers written across the serviette in black ink. Something in your stomach drops grossly; you turn to avoid witnessing Harry’s reaction and hastily speed away.
Margaret claps her hands excitedly when you return with her drink. Mateo looks at you inquisitively.
“Where’s Harry?”
“He’s coming,” you mumble, refusing to meet your friend’s eyes. You remain standing as you take a long sip of your vodka cranberry. Mateo’s lips curve down into the smallest of frowns, like he can sense that something is off with you. Thankfully, he doesn’t pry.
A moment later, Harry appears beside you, holding out the glass of root beer in his left hand. “Sorry, mate,” he apologises to Mateo. “Here you go.”
“Thanks, man.”
“Okay!” Margaret exclaims, rubbing her hands together and staring intently at the shot of vodka resting on the table in front of her. “I’m gonna do it!”
Mateo grins at her, giving her the type of smile that you’d offer to a child who’s just done something endearing. You snicker silently.
The hairs on the back of your neck stand straight up when Harry turns to you and lays a large hand on your forearm. You stop breathing as he leans in close and whispers against your ear, “Is this the part where she…?”
The words are warm against your skin. A violent shudder races down your spine. In response, you can only muster a nod and a high-pitched, “Mhm.”
He chuckles lowly before pulling away.
Margaret downs the shot, and you, Harry, and Mateo all laugh when her face collapses into a vicious grimace. She’s still grumbling about her failed attempt when Harry states that he should be getting back to his friends on the other side of the bar.
“Have a nice night, you lot.” He shakes Mateo’s hand and shoots Margaret a small smile. He then turns to you, his gaze locking with yours. Your cheeks tingle hotly.
“And, you…,” Harry murmurs, the corners of his lips twitching. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
You nod, swallowing with some difficulty. When the words finally make it out of your mouth, they’re wobbly and forced.
“See you tomorrow.”
~*~
Around one in the morning, you and your friends have decided that it’s time to put an end to the night. Even Margaret is ready to go home.
“I’ve got to be up early tomorrow, anyway,” you explain to her. “My meeting with Harry is at ten.”
“Right.” Margaret nods knowingly and wiggles her brows. “Your meeting. Are you guys gonna fuck in his office?”
“Margaret!”
“What?” she laughs, gathering her hair into a low ponytail. “That would be so hot!”
You shake your head. Mateo pinches the bridge of his nose. The three of you head toward the exit of the pub, passing by the large group made up of Harry’s friends. They all seem to be having a great time, absorbed in a flurry of conversation and laughter. You scan each face quickly, frowning when you note that Harry isn’t among them. He must’ve gone to grab another soda, you decide, or perhaps he had to use the washroom. Either way, you don’t dwell on his absence.
You wrap your windbreaker around your body as you step out into the chilly October air. Beside you, Mateo sighs—his breath emerges as a small, foggy cloud.
“Do you guys want me to call an Uber?” he asks. He shoots Margaret a pointed glare. “Or are you gonna do it this time, you cheapskate?”
“Excuse you,” Margaret protests, still sloshed. “I’m not a cheapskate!”
“You’re literally the stingiest person I know,” Mateo deadpans. She squawks.
While the two of them bicker, you glance around and take in your surroundings. The road in front of you is dark and quiet, disturbed only by the occasional car. There are squished wads of gum, burnt cigarette butts, and haphazard attempts at graffiti littering the sidewalk. The streetlights bathe you in a warm, orange glow. About twenty feet away, a man and a woman are engrossed in a series of heavy kisses.
You pause. Your eyes narrow.
Holy shit.
“Fine!” Margaret yells, fishing her phone out of her pocket. “I’ll call the Uber!”
She’s too loud.
Her voice carries through the air.
Lips parting, you watch in horror as Harry detaches his mouth from the bartender’s neck and turns his head toward the noise. His eyes land on your face, and your chest seizes up in panic. In the millisecond that passes before you look away, his features morph from an expression of surprise to that of shame.
You whip around, nearly snapping your neck.
“Actually,” you say shrilly, interrupting Margaret and Mateo’s squabble. “Let’s hit up one more place. I’m not ready to head home just yet.”
Your friends stare at you, mystified.
“Okay…,” Margaret says slowly. “Why don’t we just stay here, then?”
“No!” you blurt before you can stop yourself. The divot between Margaret’s eyebrows deepens. Her pupils bounce from side to side in drunken confusion, but then her gaze lands on the person behind you that you know is Harry, and she gasps.
“Fuck,” she whispers. You glue your eyes to the floor.
Mateo is gawking, too, now. You shake your head and reach for the pair of them, wrapping your fingers around their arms and guiding them further away from the scene. “Let’s just go,” you murmur quietly. The words taste sour on your tongue.
“What—?” Margaret turns back to you, her nostrils flaring angrily. You find solace in knowing that she’s equally as upset as you are. “What do you wanna do?”
You shrug, too overrun with humiliation to meet her eyes. Mateo wraps a protective arm around your shoulder, and you busy yourself with ogling the buttons on his coat. Your throat is tight with emotion, ears ringing relentlessly.
“Can we go somewhere else?” you ask weakly—your friends are nodding before you’ve even finished the question. “I want to get fucked up.”
October 14th, 2019
Your head hurts.
Standing in front of Harry’s office, you wish that you’d forgone that final shot of tequila. Your stomach churns uneasily even now—hours later—and you find yourself struggling to recall certain points from last night. You don’t remember much, but what you do know is that Margaret hadn’t ended up being the one hunched over the toilet at three in the morning.
Where the fuck is he?
The door is locked, leaving you no choice but to stand outside in the hall and lean against the wall for support. Your eyes are puffy and red from lack of sleep. You’re fairly certain that your cheeks are swollen, too. You’d cried yourself into a fitful slumber just as the sun began to rise.
You touch your face; your skin feels grainy thanks to the tears that had escaped your eyes and soaked through the cotton of your pillowcase.
You check your phone and bite your lip. It’s a quarter past ten.
Harry is never late.
You’ll wait another ten minutes, you conclude, and if he doesn’t show up, you’ll just go home.
Only a minute after you settle on the decision, the squeaky sound of shoes slipping against polished tiles reaches your ears. You turn toward the sound just in time to watch Harry skid around the corner. Before you can stop yourself, your brows shoot up in dry disbelief.
He’s a mess.
“Hi,” Harry says, slightly out of breath. “Sorry to have kept you waiting.”
He’s wearing a pair of brown corduroy trousers that sit lopsided on his hips and a white button up tucked beneath a tan-coloured sweater vest. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up unevenly, and the vest itself is wrinkled near the hem. His tortoise-shell glasses are crooked on his face; his hair is disheveled. That same messenger bag is slung over his body, but there’s also a disorganized, rumpled pile of papers in his arms. A loose sheet slips from his grasp and flutters to the floor.
“Shit,” Harry mutters. Silently, you bend down, pick up the page, and hold it out to him. He grunts, wrestling one hand free to accept it. “Thank you.”
“No problem.” Your words are monotone; you refuse make eye contact with him.
Harry digs his fingers into his pocket and produces a set of keys. They jingle cheerfully as he jams one into the lock on the door and twists it to the side—you wince at the loud noise. A telling click echoes through the air. With a gentle push, the door swings open.
“Ladies first,” Harry mumbles. Forcing your chin up, you walk into his office.
The room is very different compared to how it had been a few days ago. It’s emptier. A couple of boxes are strewn across the floor, packed up with supplies. All that’s left on Harry’s bureau now is a red pen and a desktop computer. Even the tall bookshelf in the corner of the room is bare, void of all the novels that it had previously housed. You cock your head to the side, nibbling apprehensively on your bottom lip.
“Sorry about the mess,” Harry says, shutting the door and staggering over to his desk. He plops the pile of papers onto the corner of the table and collapses into his rolling chair. “Renovations start the day after tomorrow, so I’ve been clearing out my essentials.”
“All of your books are essential?” you mutter, gingerly taking a seat in one of the cushioned chairs across from him. You don’t intend for him to hear the question—it’s actually more of a taunt, if you’re being honest—but he does.
“I like to read.” He shrugs.
You unzip your bag and rustle around for your midterm. “Me too.”
When you finally retrieve the exam, you pull it out and look up at him for the first time that day. His lips twitch almost indiscernibly, and it’s a soft, mocking lilt when he says, “I know.”
It dawns on you, then, that you’ve already had the same conversation in this exact spot. Your face grows hot, but you compel yourself to shake off the embarrassment. Clearing your throat, you slide your midterm onto his desk in hopes of changing the subject. “Here you go.”
Harry’s eyes fall to the packet.
“Right,” he says, tucking himself in closer. He licks his lips, turning it to the side and opening it up to the first page of questions. “You can see it like this, yeah?”
You nod, placing your elbows on his desk and slyly trying to massage your temples with two fingers—your headache seems to have only gotten worse.
“Okay.” Harry shifts in his seat and points to the third question on the sheet. “This answer here was B. The common name for fluoxetine is Prozac.”
“Got it,” you say, nodding solemnly. You feel silly for having forgotten something as simple as a type of medication.
Harry’s eyes skim the paper before he shifts his finger to the bottom of the page. “And this one here—,” he starts, “The motor cortex is located in the frontal lobe, just before the central sulcus.”
“Oh, shit.” You cringe, pinching the bridge of your nose. “The one in the parietal lobe is the somatosensory cortex, right?”
“Exactly.”
You shake your head, and then immediately regret doing so—it feels like someone is drilling screws into your skull. “What a stupid mistake.”
“It’s not, really,” Harry says, scratching the underside of his jaw. “The parietal lobe tends to be responsible for processing sensory information—some of it is visual, but most of it is tactile. And because of that, it’s really easy to get it mixed up, because we tend to associate touch with movement.”
“That’s exactly what I did,” you admit, pursing your lips.
He shrugs. “It’s okay. You’re learning—that’s the point.”
You glance up at him and find his eyes trained on you. It’s like he’s trying to convey something unspoken, but you don’t quite know what it is. Your throat bobs with a heavy swallow, and you force yourself to look away.
“Next page,” you urge softly. Harry obliges.
He places his finger beside the first question at the top. “This answer was D—all of the above. Because yeah, cerebrospinal fluid is produced by the ependymal cells, but those are located in the choroid plexuses, which, in turn, are found in the ventricles.” He puckers his lips. “It was a bit of a trick question.”
“No kidding.”
Harry’s lips curl grimly.
He’s in the middle of explaining the next error on your exam when your stomach flips and the top of your throat pulses dangerously. You sit back in your seat, one hand flying to your belly while the other shoots up to cover your mouth. Harry looks up at you quizzically; his expression softens when he absorbs your wide, terrified eyes and your hunched shoulders.
“Are you gonna be sick?” he asks quickly, straightening up.
At that exact moment, the nausea passes. The tension melts from your body, and your chest visibly deflates. You exhale quietly; your hand drops from where it had been shielding the lower half of your face.
Nervously, you peer up at Harry, only to find him regarding you with a blank expression. His lips are tucked into a thin line, and his stare is shallow and emotionless. You open your mouth to say something, but he beats you to it.
“You’re hungover,” he states flatly. There’s no humour lacing the words.
“I—,” you grit your teeth. “Yeah, I am.”
Harry sighs regretfully, sinking back in his chair. He hooks his finger into the collar of his shirt and twists it around to loosen the material. Your lips part in shock, eyes nearly bulging out of your head.
“And you’re marked up,” you exclaim before you can stop yourself.
Harry’s brows knit together in confusion. As soon as the realisation strikes, though, he sits up straight, his nostrils flaring with a sharp inhale. His hand flies to cover his throat, but it’s too late—you’ve already seen them.
A number of dark, splotchy purple marks stand out against the smooth, tan skin of his neck. You’re not sure how many there are in total, and you don’t think that you want to know. Harry’s staring at you, his expression severe. You can’t tear your gaze away from his face—it feels like an eternity passes before either of you says anything.
“I think…,” Harry speaks slowly, his eyes flitting from side to side as he studies your features. “We should reschedule.”
“Good idea,” you breathe.
“And I think,” he adds, still using the same tone, “That we should both agree to keep this entire ordeal…confidential.”
You bite the inside of your cheek. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”
“Deal.”
You can’t help it, then—you snort once before dissolving into laughter. Though bewildered creases dig into Harry’s forehead, the corners of his lips slowly curve up into a smile. Before long, he’s joining you in your amusement, his chest vibrating with deep, rumbling chuckles. His blocky front teeth latch onto his bottom lip, and he covers his mouth with his fingers in an attempt to subdue the sounds.
Deep in your abdomen, you can feel a tight little ball of jealousy festering. It had been conceived yesterday upon seeing the bartender slip Harry that napkin, and it had grown once you’d witnessed him kissing her outside of the pub. The hickies on his neck should be sending you into a downward spiral, but the hilarity of your current situation is enough to overshadow the ugliness—at least for the time being.
Later, you know that you’ll probably feel sick to your stomach, but you’ll just choose to blame it on the surplus of alcohol from last night.
“Wait, wait,” you say, rubbing your palm over your cheek. There’s a small smile on your lips, and your shoulders tremble with silent giggles. “What—when do you want to meet, then? Didn’t you say that renovations are starting soon?”
“Oh, shit.” Harry’s face falls immediately. He frowns in thought. “Does tomorrow work? I’ll be here in the afternoon.”
“I’ve got class until noon, and then I’ve got to leave for a dentist appointment at one,” you say mournfully.
Harry curses under his breath. You rub your hands together anxiously, watching him come to the realisation that you’re both out of options. He pinches his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger, gazing down emptily at the exam still splayed out on the desk.
“Okay,” he murmurs. He looks up at you, speaking with a bit more conviction. “Come over to my place on Wednesday, then.”
The look of unapologetic shock on your face must be priceless, but Harry holds his ground. The gears in your mind immediately kick into overdrive; you try to quell the noise—it’s only going to make your headache worse. You look at Harry, hoping that he can’t see the way you’ve just swallowed down the hard lump in your throat.
“Your place,” you echo dumbly. “On Wednesday.”
Harry nods assuredly. “Yeah.”
It’s taking everything in you to steer clear of an overreaction. Harry’s suggesting it because he wants to help you improve in time for the final exam—he’s just trying to do his job. You don’t want to be the one to make it weird. There’s a certain kind of maturity to his idea, you think, and you want to show him the ease with which you can meet him on that level.
“Are you sure?” you ask. “I don’t want to, like, impose.”
“I’m sure.” His reply is firm. “You’re not imposing. I told you that I’d go over the midterm with you, and that’s what I’m going to do.”
You nod, rubbing your clammy hands against your thighs. “Okay.”
“Perfect,” Harry says. He reaches forward and folds your exam closed before sliding it back to you. “Can you make it for, let’s say, six in the evening?”
“Um, alright.” You hesitate. “Where exactly do you—?”
“I’ll e-mail you my address,” Harry promises before you can finish your question. You clamp your mouth shut, nodding again. You don’t miss the delicate curl of his lips, or the shallow, nearly invisible crinkles that appear at the corners of his eyes. You stand up, slipping your midterm back into your bag and tugging on the zipper to ensure that it stays secure.
“Okay, well…,” you look at him through your eyelashes, too afraid to fix him with a proper stare. “Have a good day, then.”
He shoots you a tight, pained smile. You wonder if he’s already regretting his offer.
“You too.”
And for the second time in less than a week, you find yourself exiting Harry’s office with a muddy mind, sweaty palms, and a racing heart.
October 15th, 2019
“You’re going to his house?” Margaret shrieks.
You wince and bury your face into your palms. The half-eaten plate of gnocchi that you’d ordered is pushed off to your right, abandoned. Margaret stabs her lasagna with her silver fork, shovelling a piece past her lips and chewing frantically. “What were you thinking?” she demands through a mouthful of pasta.
In the dim lighting of the restaurant, her gaze is piercingly judgmental.
“I was thinking about my grade!” you retort defensively. You groan, squeezing your eyes shut. “And I didn’t want to be the one to make it awkward. Like, if he’s suggesting it, that obviously means that he doesn’t see anything wrong with it. So, if I get all freaked out, then I just end up looking like a child.”
Your friend turns your words over in her head, tilting her chin from side to side in acknowledgement. “I get that,” she says, swallowing her food. “But I’m still fucking upset about the other night.”
“You and me both,” you mumble, averting your gaze.
“Hey,” Margaret says sternly, fixing you with a strict glare. “You’re not allowed to feel embarrassed about that. You did nothing wrong—he’s just a dick.”
“He’s not a dick,” you tell her, a hint of admonishment creeping into your words. “And it’s not like he asked me out before hooking up with her. There’s no valid reason for me to be mad about this.”
“Say that again,” Margaret warns, pointing her fork in your direction, “And I’ll punch you straight in the tit.”
You snort.
“I still want you to sleep with him,” she says casually, popping another bite of lasagna into her mouth. “But if he wants my forgiveness, it better be a phenomenal fuck.”
“Margaret!”
“What? I’m just telling it like it is!”
“Jesus Christ.”
October 16th, 2019
You had been looking forward to today’s lecture. It’s all about memory processes and mnemonic devices, retention and phenomena regarding recollection. You’d been hoping to integrate some of the information into your study habits—though you already know all about the spacing and testing effects, you’re always open to learning new tricks.
Yet you don’t find yourself as immersed in the class as you thought you’d be. Margaret and Mateo are beside you, giving themselves to Dr. Renault with rapt attention, but you can’t seem to devote to him that same level of focus. A small, naïve part of you wonders why, but deep down, you know the exact reason for your lack of concentration.
And that reason is currently standing off to the side of the room, his tattooed arms crossed over his chest and his olive eyes fixated shamelessly on you. You have to suppress a smile—he’s not even trying to hide it.
Around thirty minutes ago, Harry had returned the quizzes that you had all written last week. You’d looked down at your paper to find a perfect score, along with a messy red scribble in the corner.
Well done, love. See you tonight. H. x
You don’t think that your heart has ever swelled so rapidly. Even now, sitting in the middle of the room, you can hear the blood rushing through your ears. Sometimes, when you glance down at Harry, he’ll look away—other times, he just stares at you evenly, refusing to be the first to give in. You’ve witnessed his lips twitching with a forbidden smirk on multiple occasions. It takes everything in you to keep from grinning like a maniac.
What the fuck is going on?
He must be in a good mood, you decide. You peek down at him one last time—to your surprise, his attention is elsewhere, eyes trained on his watch to check the time. When he lifts his head back up, you deflect your gaze immediately and try to ignore the giddy warmth that erupts across your chest.
You refuse to look at him again, but in your peripheral vision, you swear that you see his shoulders rumble with a silent laugh.
~*~
Harry’s building is really nice. The floors in the lobby are shiny and polished, and glass chandeliers hang from the ceiling. Actual chandeliers! The windows are large and clear, letting in just enough natural light from outside to make you feel like you’re starring in an episode of Gossip Girl. You shoot a timid smile to the woman sitting behind the front desk—since when do apartment complexes have receptionists?
Even the elevators look like they’ve been recently renovated. The buttons light up when you press them, a thin ring of red surrounding each number. You find yourself humming along to the music playing softly from the speakers.
The elevator dings when you reach your level. “Fourth floor,” an automated voice announces. You chuckle incredulously as you step out into the hallway. How the hell is he living here?
Your eyes narrow as you scan the plaque on each door that you pass. 4A, 4B…
4C.
You stop short, running your fingers through your hair and tugging on the sleeves of your denim jacket. You pull your phone out from your pocket and glance at the time—it’s exactly six o’clock.
Before you can lose your nerve, you lift your fist and rap gently on the wood. The sound is drowned out by the ringing in your ears. You swallow heavily and shove your hands behind your back, waiting with a held breath and a racing pulse. The passing seconds feel like eons; you’re about to knock again, but then there’s a faint click, and the door is swinging open before you can blink.
“Hey,” Harry says, not unkindly.
You offer up a nervous smile. “Hey.”
The first thing you notice is that his outfit looks nothing like the usual ensemble he wears to your lectures. You were beginning to think that all he owned in his closet were slacks and button-ups and any other articles of clothing that make him look about twenty years older than he really is. But here he stands before you, sporting a light grey hoodie and a pair of black sweatpants. Cute little ankle socks cover his feet, and—as he had on the first day of class—he’s pinned his hair back using his glasses. His eyes seem brighter than usual, and his lips look slightly swollen, like he’s been chewing on them continuously. The prospect of him being antsy to see you makes your stomach flip with anticipation.
You force the thought out of your mind and silently berate yourself. He’s not eager to see you, and there’s nothing here for you to dissect—you’re reading too much into this.
“Come in,” Harry says, stepping away from the door and making room for you to pass through. You thank him softly, gliding past the threshold and taking a short moment to toe off your shoes.
“How are you?” you ask him, though you don’t meet his gaze.
“Good, thanks,” he replies. “You?”
“I’m good.”
“Good.”
You snicker hollowly—the playfulness he’d channeled today in class has clearly faded away. Harry turns on his heel and pads down the hall; unsure of what to do, you simply follow. You take advantage of the fact that he can’t see you, allowing your eyes to rake over his broad, muscular back. Your mouth waters when you cast only a momentary glance at his ass.
“I figured we could set up in the kitchen,” Harry tells you matter-of-factly.
“Sounds good.”
He nods and stops in front of another doorway. Just as he had done before, he steps aside and motions for you to enter first. “After you.”
You hate the weak articulation of your response. “Thank you.”
Everything in the kitchen is white, save for the black marble countertops and the sleek grey refrigerator standing proudly in the corner. On the table sits a bowl of bananas and a small stack of letters and bills. When you glance at Harry with a puzzled look on your face, he just shrugs.
“I really like bananas,” he says, somewhat sheepishly. His sudden awkwardness makes you smile.
“I prefer pomegranates,” you reply, a hint of teasing evident in your tone.
Harry nods. “Those are good.”
“Right?” you say, setting your bag down onto one of the kitchen chairs. “They’re a real bitch to peel, though.”
“I know,” he hums, rolling his eyes. “It takes forever.”
You chuckle and look up at him properly for the first time since he’d opened his front door. His irises twinkle with mischief, and the sight makes your heart flutter in your chest. You’re not used to seeing him like this—with just a few short sentences, it feels like he’s let down his guard and is allowing you to see a new side of him. You like it. You don’t want to screw it up.
“Have you got your exam?” Harry asks, snapping you out of your thoughts. You blink and nod quickly, unzipping your bag and pulling your midterm out of a random binder.
“Here we go,” you murmur, handing it over to him.
He hums gently before motioning for you to take a seat. You lower yourself into the chair at the head of the table, and he chooses to occupy the one adjacent to you. The skin on your arms prickles when he shifts a bit closer. He unfolds your exam, opening it up to the second page.
“Right, then,” he says, clearing his throat. He points to the top of the sheet. “We ended off with this question the other day, yeah?”
“Yes.”
“Okay,” Harry mumbles. He slides his index finger to the very bottom of the paper, where your next error is circled in red. Your attention is glued to the small cross tattooed on his hand.
“For this one,” he starts, tapping the page softly, “Sleep spindles become apparent on a monitor during the second stage of light sleep, not the third.”
“The third stage consists of delta waves, correct?” you ask. Harry nods—you think that there’s a trace of pride in his expression, but you can’t be sure.
“See?” he tells you, pinning you with a serious look. “You know this stuff. You just had a bad morning that day, that’s all.”
His words make you want to lean over the corner of the table and tackle him in a hug.
“I—thank you,” you stammer instead. You focus your attention on your exam, praying that he doesn’t catch the stupid smile that spreads across your face. Your cheeks are aflame, and your heart feels like it’s only seconds away from giving out. You adjust your position in the chair, crossing your legs and shoving your hands beneath your thighs to hide the way that they tremble.
The two of you work through most of the remaining questions together—you’re shocked at how many of the correct answers you actually know. You feel like an idiot for having gotten them wrong; when you mutter as much under your breath, Harry shoots you a stern glare.
“You’re not an idiot,” he tells you, a hard edge to his voice. You shrink beneath his piercing gaze. “This is why we encourage going to bed early the night before an exam. You know so many of these, but a lack of sleep can really just screw you over.”
“Yeah,” you say, sighing softly. A second later, you add, “Thanks for bearing with me.”
“It’s my pleasure,” Harry responds. He flips to the last page of the packet. “We’re nearly done,” he reveals, and you have to fight to hide your surprise when he smiles teasingly at you. “Then you’ll be able to get me out of your hair.”
You scoff and emit a nervous laugh. “If anything, I’m the one in your hair.”
“Not true,” Harry says. His shoulders shake with a cool shrug. “I wouldn’t have been doing anything tonight, anyway. Your presence is a welcome distraction.”
You snort, though the sound rapidly dissolves into a violent cough. Harry’s eyes widen, and he rubs his palm over his forehead when the realisation hits him.
“Fuck,” he murmurs before speaking up. “I didn’t even offer you something to drink, Christ. What can I get for you?”
“Um,” you choke out, placing your hand on your chest. “Water—water’s fine.”
“Brilliant.” He shoots up from his chair and darts around the counter. You curl your fingers into a fist and deliver a few gentle pounds to your sternum. When the hacking fit passes, you swallow heavily and squeeze your eyes shut, embarrassed beyond belief. You busy yourself with staring at the last page of your midterm, skimming mindlessly over the words on the sheet.
Lost in your humiliation, you don’t look up when the loud clinking of glass reaches your ears. It’s only when you hear the deep baritone of Harry’s voice that you lift your gaze.
“Er…would you mind?”
Your jaw drops.
“How the hell did you manage to do that?”
“It wasn’t my fault!” Harry protests as you stand. His features contort with concentration. “They all just fell down at once!”
You laugh and scurry around the counter quickly. Harry’s standing in front of an open cabinet, his forearms acting as the only barrier between several cups and the floor. He wrinkles his nose as he shifts, only to freeze immediately when one of the glasses slips further down. You pause beside him, looking for a way to provide help without causing anything to fall and shatter.
“Why’re you just standing there?” he demands, but the question is laced with laughter.
“I’m trying to find a way to get in here!” you say, giggling. You gnaw on your bottom lip to suppress a smile, stepping closer to him and placing your fingertips delicately onto his elbow.
“Okay, maybe—lift your arm a bit for me.”
“What?”
“Lift your arm!”
“Alright, shit!” Harry obeys.
You hunch your shoulders and slip in between him and the counter, ending up with your back pressed against his chest. His breath washes out onto the shell of your left ear—a shiver races down your spine. You bite down harshly on your tongue as you lift your own arms, carefully plucking each glass from its teetering position and placing them all safely back onto the shelf.
“There we go,” you murmur, holding out your hands in front of the cabinet—one last act of caution. His arms fall from where they were outstretched next to yours. You give yourself a mental pat on the back, smirking proudly and turning around.
Your breath gets caught in your throat.
Harry hasn’t moved an inch.
His expression is unreadable, features stony. His eyes stare at you with such intensity you feel as though he’s pulling you apart layer by layer and scrutinizing everything that lies beneath. You watch anxiously as his tongue dips out to wet his lips—the action is over just as quickly as it begins. His strong chest moves against yours, rising and falling with shallow, sporadic gasps. You swallow roughly, refusing to make the first move.
But then Harry lets out a defeated sigh.
“Fuck it all,” he says.
A pair of large hands fly up to grip the sides of your face, and he covers your lips with his.
~*~
If someone had told you a week ago that you’d end up like this, you’re pretty sure that you would have cackled right in their face. Hell, if someone had told you ten minutes ago that you’d end up like this, you would have considered it to be the grandest comedy special of the century.
But there’s nothing funny about this situation.
You fail to see any bit of humour in the way that Harry presses his lips to yours with a bruising force. You don’t laugh when he steps closer to you, trapping you against the counter and sliding his fingers into your hair to keep you near. And you’re not fucking around one bit when you melt against him, your hands slipping past his waist and your fingers interlocking at the small of his back. A soft, pleased sigh escapes your lips.
Finally.
“I’ve thought—,” Harry breathes against your mouth, cutting himself off so that he can pepper hard kisses to the corner of your lips. “—thought about this so much, you’ve got no idea.”
“Shut up,” you murmur, digging your nails into his back through the thick material of his sweater. He presses a forceful kiss to the curve of your jaw; you can feel the way his cheeks lift with a smirk.
It’s frenzied, it’s feverish, and it’s been a long time coming. Harry doesn’t waste a second, hiking you up onto the counter and tugging your denim jacket from your shoulders. You whimper delightedly at the action. His fingers find the hem of your white t-shirt, slipping beneath the soft cotton and rucking it up your sides. His nails scrape gently across your skin, leaving a searing path behind. Your top falls to the floor, leaving you in a plain, nude bra.
Your face heats up in embarrassment—of course, you’re wearing the foulest undergarments you own. You hadn’t exactly expected to wind up here.
“You too,” you protest breathlessly, trying to turn his attention away from the sheer ugliness of your intimates. You ball the fabric of Harry’s hoodie up in your fists; his body rumbles with a faint chuckle. He steps back, fixing you with an intense stare as his grip curls into the collar of his sweater. You watch with hot cheeks and dilated pupils, clenching your thighs together when he finally rids himself of the material.
He’s got a few dozen more tattoos hidden beneath the sweatshirt, designs littered across his shoulders and his chest. You’re not even surprised. Your gaze falls to the intricate butterfly inked across his abdomen. Harry moves back into your space, and you reach out to trail your fingers along the insect’s ebony wings.
“It’s gorgeous,” you mumble softly.
“I want you,” he replies.
You look up at him with wide eyes. “Have me, then,” you say, lunging for the knot on the waistband of his sweatpants.
“Wait.” He stops you, his long fingers circling around your wrists. “Not yet. First, I’ve got to—”
“What is it?” you ask, somewhat impatiently. You duck your face down, intending to sponge kisses up and down his neck. Your urges are dashed, however, when you catch a glimpse of the marks already scattered across his throat. The hickies aren’t as dark as they had been a couple of days ago (they’ve faded into a light brown, now), but the mere sight of them still leaves you paralyzed with resentment.
You sit back on the counter, your features hardening. Harry watches you in confusion before it dawns on him. One of his hands shoots up to cover his neck.
“She—it didn’t mean anything,” he tells you quickly.
You choke on a dry laugh. “And this does?”
His eyes grow dark. He cups your face in his palms, leaning forward so that his lips brush against yours when he speaks.
“You have no idea,” he says lowly, “how much this means to me.”
You gulp. Your voice shakes when you say, “Prove it.”
Harry kisses you urgently, wrestling his way in between your legs. Your thighs fall open easily, welcoming him closer. He growls gruffly when you hook one of your calves around his hips, drawing him in. His fingers dance up your spine, playing hesitantly with the clasp of your bra. You arch your back, silently encouraging him to take it off.
He makes quick work of the ordeal, undoing the three little hooks in a matter of seconds. Your lips detach from his with a loud smacking sound when the cups loosen around your chest and the straps slide from your shoulders.
“Lemme see, love,” Harry rasps. “Please.”
You swear that those four words are enough to have you soaking through your jeans.
You pull your bra from your body, tossing it away mindlessly. Harry diverts all of his attention to your breasts, reaching up to caress them in his hands. His thumbs stroke over your skin. Your nipples grow tight with arousal, and you’re about to beg him to just do something, but then he bends down and engulfs one of them into his mouth.
“Shit,” you breathe, tilting your head back. “That feels good.”
Harry continues to fondle your other breast with his left hand, while the right slips down so that he can plant a firm grasp on your waist. He rubs his fingers soothingly along the space just above the waistband of your bottoms. You’re torn between pushing your hips back against his touch and curving your torso forward into his mouth.
He pops off of your chest, licking his lips and scattering a haphazard trail of kisses along your cleavage until he reaches the other side. He’s quick to pamper your other nipple with the same amount of attention, sucking avidly and swirling his tongue around it. You whimper, his actions unearthing something wild buried deep in the pit of your belly.
“Harry,” you moan, gripping the edge of the counter tightly. “Please.”
“My hair…,” he mumbles quietly, moving away from your chest and leaving a path of wet kisses up your neck. You sigh when he bites down gently on your collarbone.
“What?” you murmur, your eyes fluttering shut. Harry snickers.
“Pull—”
He kisses your throat.
“—my—”
He kisses your chin.
“—hair.”
He kisses your lips.
Your fingers twine immediately through the wavy brown tendrils at the back of his neck. You stroke his hair zealously, your nails bumping against the glasses that are still perched on top of his head.
“Take these off,” you mumble, giggling against his lips. Harry smiles, removing the frames. Instead of folding them up, though, he slides them onto the bridge of your nose, his cheeks dimpling with a smug smirk.
“You look hot,” he says matter-of-factly. “I’d love to fuck you while you’re wearing my glasses, but I think you’d just end up with a headache afterwards.”
“My God,” you mutter, shaking your head softly and pulling them off. His words are intended to mock, but they’ve only succeeded in turning you on beyond belief. You leg tightens around Harry’s waist, and you place your hand on his right shoulder to guide him down for a kiss.
“Are we—do you wanna—?” you inquire between soft smacks of your lips against his. Harry seems to catch on to what you’re trying to ask. He nods vehemently, winding his arms around your waist and squeezing you tightly. Your breasts squish against his bare chest—the contact sends a shiver down your spine.
“C’mere,” Harry says, helping you stand from the counter. You reach out for the knot on his sweatpants again, but just like before, he interrupts the act.
“Stop that,” he instructs, his lips twitching in amusement when he registers the pout on your face. “I wanna do something else, first.”
“What is it?” you whine. Harry flips your hands over and traces small circles into your palms. He plants a few chaste pecks on your lips before guiding your fingers into his hair once more.
“Keep them there,” he murmurs as he kisses down your neck. “You’re gonna need something to hold onto.”
You open your mouth to question him, but then he’s dropping to his knees and fiddling with the button on your jeans, and your voice betrays you. Harry tugs your zipper down slowly, peering up at you through his eyelashes and fighting to mask a conceited grin. You wiggle your hips as he jerks your pants down your legs, eventually stepping out of the material once it pools at your feet.
“I can smell you, love,” Harry whispers, groaning wantonly and pressing his forehead against the top of your left thigh. You swallow violently at the pure lust coating each syllable of his sentence, arranging your feet so that they’re planted a bit further apart.
“Can I have it?” Harry asks, looking up at you for permission. His fingers hook into the fabric of your panties.
You nod feebly, choking on the word. “Yes.”
With that, he yanks your underwear smoothly down your legs, throws one of your thighs over his shoulder, and goes to town.
You tilt your head backward as he licks a wide stripe up the length of your folds. His plush, swollen lips pepper kisses against the innermost parts of your core. Your clit throbs when he pulls it into his mouth and sucks gently. He grunts appreciatively when you tug on his hair.
“Don’t stop,” you breathe, your eyes fluttering shut. The cold edge of the marble counter presses into the small of your back, but you pay it no attention. Harry places one hand on your waist, while the other snakes around to cup your ass. He pinches your bum lightly, chuckling when you squeak and twitch in response.
“How’s it feel?” he asks, sticking his tongue out and flicking it rapidly against your clit. Your lips part with a lewd moan, and your fingers tighten in his curls. You feel him smirk against your cunt, evidently satisfied with your answer.
“Harry,” you breathe, your chest heaving. “You’re gonna make me cum.”
“Good.”
He doubles his efforts after that. You can’t even be embarrassed about the sounds that leave your mouth. It feels like he’s everywhere at once, pressing kisses to the inside of your thighs and lapping fervently at your folds. You jump when he circles your entrance with the tip of his index finger, and whimper as he slowly sinks the digit inside of you. He probes around, cursing at the sensation of your walls bearing down on him.
You can’t believe that this is happening. Never in a million years would you have predicted that you’d be standing in Harry’s ridiculously expensive kitchen, stark naked, with his lips and his tongue guiding you to the brink of an orgasm.
Things have a funny way of working out, you suppose.
Harry hooks his finger inside of you, petting a rough, sensitive spot. You cry out and fall over the edge. The muscles in your legs shake so violently that you have to lean against the counter to keep yourself upright. The heel of your foot digs into Harry’s back, and your grasp on his hair grows unbelievably strong. He continues to pump his finger in and out of your cunt, his thumb rubbing against your clit as he pulls back to watch your features contort in pleasure.
“Beautiful,” he mumbles, kissing the skin just beneath your navel. “So fuckin’ beautiful.”
“Damn,” you whisper, inhaling deeply. You pause when you realise that you’ve still got an ironlike grip on the wavy tendrils atop his head. Releasing his curls, you flex your fingers and wipe your sweaty palms against the sides of your bare thighs. Harry’s eyes glitter.
“You’re good at that,” you say breathlessly. He grins, and you swoon upon spotting the deep crevice of his dimple.
“Can I kiss you again?” he requests.
A winded laugh falls from your mouth. “You didn’t ask me if you could before.”
“I should’ve.” He grimaces. “I’m sorry.”
“Are you seriously saying that right now?” Your eyebrows climb up your forehead.
A low grunt escapes Harry’s lips when he stands. You watch, amused, as he places a hand on his lower back and stretches. His nose wrinkles in contempt.
“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Back problems.”
“Why’re you apologising?” The corner of your mouth quirks up. Harry pauses, looking down at you before an incredulous chuckle rumbles from deep in his chest.
“You’re something else,” he says, shaking his head. You smile, winding your arms around his neck and steering him in for a long, lazy kiss.
He tastes like you. The realisation makes you moan.
Sneakily, you run your hands down his back, taking only a moment to marvel at the way his muscles shift beneath his skin. You stop right above his bum, gliding your fingers over the elastic of his bottoms and circling back to the front. Harry scoffs when you begin tinkering with the tie on his sweatpants, and you giggle. Despite his slight jeer, though, he allows you to continue.
You pull at the string, and it promptly comes loose. “Wait,” Harry says.
You groan.
“I swear to God,” you exclaim. “If you don’t let me get you naked—”
He grabs your face in his palms and cuts you off with a bruising kiss. Your empty threat dies on the tip of your tongue.
“I just meant—,” Harry mumbles, the words hot and sticky, “—maybe we should take this to my room.”
You pull back and blink. “That’s awfully forward of you.”
His face is vacant until your sentence sinks in, and then he laughs. The sound comes from deep in his diaphragm, capping off at the end with a high-pitched squeak. It makes you want to grab him and cover his lips with yours until you’re both struggling to breathe.
“C’mon,” Harry commands, tangling his fingers with yours.
He leads you out of the kitchen and down the hall, stopping at the last door on the left. As soon as you step into his room, you note that his bed is preposterously big. That’s the only observation you’re able to make, though, because then he’s picking you up in all of your naked glory and flinging you onto the mattress.
You yelp in surprise, scrambling up to where a mountain of pillows is propped against the headboard. Harry watches you as he saunters over, his eyes hungry and voracious. His tongue swipes over his teeth as he joins you on the bed. You giggle eagerly.
Once your lips convene again, the atmosphere shifts. The playfulness is gone, replaced by something deeper, something greedier. Harry licks into your mouth, ravenous. You whimper, wrapping your legs around his waist and subconsciously bucking your hips up off the duvet. You can feel his cock inside his bottoms, hard and heavy and waiting to be freed. Fed up with the numerous delays, you grab onto material covering his thighs and yank it down. He notices your struggle, and he sits back on his knees to help you in your quest to get him undressed.
“I’m not—,” Harry begins, but he’s too slow.
Your eyes grow wide when they land on what lies beneath his sweatpants.
I’m not small, he might have started to say, or perhaps, I’m not wearing any underwear.
You’re not sure which statement it would have been, because both are true. He’s now equally as naked as you, his cock swollen and curved against his stomach. The tip is flushed a light pink, dotted with clear drops of arousal. A prominent vein runs along the underside—you’re suddenly overcome by the urge to feel it against your tongue. A few inches lower, there’s a tattoo of a tiger’s face inked on his thigh. You feel your stomach tighten as an entirely new wave of desire washes over you.
You look up at Harry with unreadable eyes. He stares back at you, and—for what may be the first time ever—you think you see a hint of insecurity brewing in his gaze. He swallows; you get the feeling that he’s going to say something, but you beat him to it.
“You’re so sexy,” you tell him earnestly, and then you kiss him again.
He ruts against you, his cock sliding along the inner crease of your thigh as the two of you move together. His hands slither up your body to squeeze your breasts, and you arch into his touch. After a few minutes of him devoting his attention to your chest, he reaches over and pulls open the top drawer of his nightstand.
“I’m clean,” he says, panting. “But…just in case.”
You nod once. “Agreed.”
He fishes out a condom, the foil packet crinkling loudly in his grasp. The sound snaps you out of whatever trance you’d fallen into.
You’re really about to have sex with Harry.
Harry, who grades your papers.
Harry, who is employed by the university that you’re currently attending.
Harry, who ignored you for weeks.
All of those things should send off warning bells in your brain. They should remind you that what you’re doing is wrong, and the two of you could get into an unbelievable amount of trouble. Your academic career might very well never recover. Harry could lose his job.
But you don’t care. Because though he’s the same Harry who grades your papers and who works for your university and who ignored you for weeks, he’s also Harry, who writes little notes on all of your tests and assignments. Harry, who bought you a coffee just because he felt like it. Harry, who was willing to devote a hefty portion of his free time to reviewing your midterm with you and showing you where you went wrong.
“You good?”
His innocent inquiry pulls you out of your haze. The condom has been rolled on.
You nod firmly, your legs falling open with a surprising amount of ease. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Let’s do it.”
When his cock first enters you, it takes a minute to get used to the intrusion. Harry watches your features for any sign of discomfort; you find it sweet. You pulse around him, and his hips falter as he swears softly.
“Sorry,” he says. “It feels good.”
“Glad to hear it,” you say wryly. He smirks.
You take deep breaths as you try to grow accustomed to the way he’s spreading you apart. He leans down, balancing on his forearms and sprinkling dozens of kisses across your face. His lips land on your forehead, your nose, your cheeks, your chin. The small displays of affection help you loosen up.
“I think it’s okay, now,” you whisper, pushing his hair out of his face. Harry seals his lips against yours, gradually pulling out and thrusting back in. His pace is still slow, cautious, wary; you cup his jaw and skirt your thumb over the small mole by the corner of his mouth.
Steadily, he begins to pick up speed. Within minutes, you’ve got your lips parted and your back curved, your little mewls of pleasure filling the air. Harry curses, sitting back on his heels and searching for a secure grip on your waist. He pistons his hips, pulling you onto his cock with each drive forward. Your fingers dig into the duvet.
“Fuck,” you whine, covering your face with your hands. “It’s so good.”
Harry reaches forward to pull your hands away. “Don’t,” he gasps, his forehead gleaming with a thin sheen of sweat. “Lemme hear you, I wanna—,” he groans, “I wanna hear you.”
You moan in response. The headboard creaks incessantly, but neither of you pay the noise any attention. Harry’s chest is flushed a dark shade of pink, matching the blush on his cheeks. His hair has flopped over onto his forehead; he doesn’t even attempt to move it out of the way. You can feel his thighs flexing against your bum as he fills you to the brim with every thrust.
“Bloody fuck.” He grits his teeth, a vein in his neck popping. “So fuckin’ tight, love. You’re squeezing me.”
At that, you deliberately clench around his cock. One of Harry’s hands splays out over your navel abruptly. The next drive of his dick inside of you is hard and sudden—a form of admonishment. It makes you gasp.
“Don’t,” he warns softly, sliding his palm upward and pinching your left nipple. “Be—be good for me.”
His hand continues further north, and your eyes widen when you feel him wrap his fingers around your throat. He doesn’t apply much pressure, but you moan loudly anyway. His thumb strokes over the gentle curve of your jaw, and his middle finger prods gently at your mouth. Without hesitating, you take the digit past your lips, laving your tongue over his knuckle.
“You’re incredible,” he whispers. He stares at you—completely awestruck—like he can’t fathom that you’re real. You whine and buck your hips against his, urging him to resume his previous pace.
“Filthy,” Harry mutters, shaking his head in disbelief. He releases your neck, trailing his finger down your sternum and leaving behind a damp path of your own saliva.
“I’m almost there,” you tell him, biting on the inside of your cheek to keep your sounds from increasing in volume.
“Yeah?” he asks breathlessly. “Gonna cum for me? Please, darling—I wanna see it.”
“Fuck me,” you gasp, twitching at the lewdness of his demand.
Harry grunts, and with the finger that was just inside of your mouth, he rubs frantic, messy shapes against your clit. The sudden onslaught of stimulation catches you by surprise, and you shriek when your orgasm crashes into you unexpectedly.
“Holy shit!” you cry out, squeezing your eyes shut. Your climax is powerful, splintering through your entire body. Your toes curl into the mattress and your thighs quiver pugnaciously. Harry continues to fuck you, alternating between deep, languid strokes, and short staccato pumps. He digs his fingers into your skin as his rhythm wavers.
“Fuck, I’m cumming,” he groans, his face screwing up in pleasure. You grasp at his wrist with shaky hands, stroking over the anchor on his arm when he releases a string of cusses. Harry snaps into your cunt one, two, three more times before stilling and collapsing on top of you, utterly depleted.
The two of you lie there for eons, it seems. Your bodies are hot, spent, and slick with sweat. He sighs, nuzzling into you and delivering a gentle kiss to your temple. Your chest rises and falls unevenly as you struggle to regain your bearings. The room is silent, except for the shifting of limbs and the sound of Harry’s breathing in your ear.
“Was good,” he croaks, lifting a hand and tucking your hair away from your face with feeble fingers.
You hum and turn to the side, the tip of your nose brushing his chin. “Yeah. It was.”
“We’re fucked,” he adds weakly.
You purse your lips. “Yeah,” you repeat. “We are.”
October 23rd, 2019
The next week, Harry isn’t in class. Instead, settled in the corner of the room, there’s a short Korean girl with dark silky hair and a bright shade of red daubed on her lips. She’s wearing a brown knitted-sweater that looks awfully cozy, and her feet are covered by a clunky pair of combat boots.
Who would transfer into a class this late in the semester? You wonder. Is that even allowed?
At that exact moment, Dr. Renault clears his throat. His announcement makes all of the blood in your body run cold.
“Good morning, everyone. Unfortunately, Harry will no longer be accompanying us on our exciting quest to learn about the brain.” He gestures to the Korean girl standing off to the side. “This is Hana. She will be my new assistant for the remainder of the course.”
November 13th, 2019
“Oh my God, here it comes!” Margaret squeals, her nails digging into your bicep. You laugh at her excitement. Mateo leans over to pull her painted claws out of your skin.
“Jesus, woman, you’re gonna draw blood,” he berates her. Margaret rolls her eyes and faces him with her hands on her hips.
“I didn’t see her complaining!”
“I was about to,” you pipe up, shooting her a dry smile. Your friend turns on you, her features warping with an expression of betrayal, but before she can say anything, the barista sets three tall cups of coffee onto the counter and calls out your orders.
“That’s us, bitch!” Margaret exclaims. “Thank you,” she adds in a softer tone. The barista just smiles, giggling quietly and wishing you a good day.
You reach out for your latte, taking a small sip and humming appreciatively at the taste. “I fucking missed this place,” you say. “Nobody does coffee like Grounded.”
“Agreed.” Mateo nods.
The three of you make your way down the hall, the sounds of whirring espresso machines and jingling coins growing fainter in the distance. The corridor is teeming with students, people engrossed in animated conversations as they head to their next class. Margaret is rambling about how she can’t wait to resume her routine of drinking three cups of caffeine a day, and Mateo is marvelling at the spotlessness of the basement floors.
“They really cleaned this place up,” he says. “I guess renovations aren’t useless, after all.”
“Mhm,” you hum in response.
You balance your coffee in one hand as you rifle through your bag for the little pot of lip balm that you know is hidden somewhere in the smallest pocket. You’re so absorbed in your search that you don’t notice a tall figure walk right out of the door in front of you and into your path.
“Oh, shit!” you hiss, bumping into a solid body. A few drops of coffee spill from your cup and run down your fingers. The liquid is still hot; you whimper.
“I’m so sorry,” you ramble, lifting your gaze as you apologise to the stranger. “I wasn’t looking where I was—”
You stop in your tracks, and the rest of your sentence fizzles out. Harry’s peering down at you with piercing green eyes, seeming to stare through your soul. He’s wearing a maroon crewneck and a pair of dark brown trousers, and his glasses are tucked securely into the collar of his shirt. His hair has grown since you’d last seen him all those weeks ago, wispy tendrils curling just beneath his ears. Your skin tingles with the memory of running your fingers through the soft strands, and you have to hold back a sigh.
“Hi,” Harry says, the greeting deep and guttural. You swallow heavily, gripping your coffee with both hands.
“Hi,” you whisper.
He buries his knuckles into his pockets, his brown loafers squeaking against the floor. “How’ve you been?”
“Fine.” Your answer is curt. “You?”
“I’ve been alright, yeah.”
“That’s good.”
A beat of silence passes before someone beside you clears their throat. You jump; you’d forgotten all about your friends.
“Okay, well, we’re gonna go…,” Margaret says slowly, drawing out the last vowel of her sentence. She’s only referring to Mateo and herself, but you put your hand on her forearm to keep her still for a second longer.
“I’ll come with you,” you tell her quickly, refusing to look at the man standing in front of you.
“Actually,” Harry pipes up. “I was wondering if I could talk to you about something.”
You force yourself to meet his eyes. Margaret and Mateo step away leisurely. “What is it?”
“It’s about your midterm,” Harry says, even though both of you know that it’s not. Everything on his face reveals to you that his words are a lie, from the pursing of his lips to the furrowing of his brows. Despite your irritation, though, you find yourself nodding apprehensively.
Harry steps back, holding out his arm and motioning for you to walk into his office. You don’t bother shooting your friends one last glance before you oblige.
They’ll be fine; you’re not worried about them.
You’re worried about yourself.
You don’t miss the sound of the lock on the door clicking into place. You busy yourself with studying the office—Harry has begun moving his supplies back into place. The bookshelf in the corner is half-full; a few boxes—each of them are filled to the brim with novels—sit on the floor as they wait to be emptied. There’s a tall pile of papers on Harry’s desk. Your brows furrow in confusion for only a moment before you remember that he’s also serving as a teaching assistant for Dr. Chen’s psychopathology course.
“Er…,” Harry says from behind you. You keep your back to him, choosing instead to run your fingers over the smooth surface of his desk.
“What’s up?” you ask, trying to keep your voice level.
He sighs. “I quit my position in Dr. Renault’s class.”
“Really?” you say. Your tone is light, but the sarcasm in your words carries a harsh bite. “I hadn’t noticed.”
Your name leaves Harry’s lips in a quiet plea. It shocks you so much that you instinctively turn around to face him.
“Don’t be like that,” he implores. “Please.”
“Like what?” you snap, scowling at him. “What exactly am I doing?”
“You’re upset with me,” Harry states weakly. A dry, hollow laugh falls from your mouth.
“Maybe I am.” You shrug, the corners of your mouth curling disdainfully. “Wouldn’t you be upset if the person you’d fucked just decided to ghost you for a month?”
“I didn’t—,” he starts, but you cut him off without hesitating.
“Yes, you did,” you say, a hard edge creeping into your voice. “You kissed me, we fucked, and then you fell off the face of the planet.”
Harry remains silent, because he knows that you’re right. You grip your coffee tightly in one hand, the other coming up to rub tiredly at your forehead. Your heart is about to beat out of your chest, but there’s an odd, gratifying sensation spreading through your body. It feels good to tell him off, you realise. The anger and resentment brewing within you for the past month has made you astonishingly bitter.
“Why did you bring me in here, Harry?” you ask, sighing. “To tell me you quit Doctor Renault’s class? Because I already knew that.”
The words hurt as they exit your mouth. Hana seems like an absolute sweetheart, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss the little notes scrawled in messy, boyish handwriting at the top of your weekly quizzes. You blink rapidly and will the reflection out of your mind, drumming your fingers against the side of your latte.
“Bloody hell,” Harry mutters, shaking his head. “Why the fuck do you think I quit?”
“Excuse me?” Your brows knit together.
“Why do you think I quit?” Harry demands, his lips twisting into a frown. You balk, hating that the question has caught you by surprise.
“I—,” you start, growing frustrated. “How the hell am I supposed to know?”
“God, you really are quite dense, aren’t you?” Harry asks, chuckling sardonically.
You narrow your eyes. “I didn’t come here to be belittled.”
“What did you come here for, then?” he shoots back. “Why’d you agree to speak with me?”
“Because I wanted an explanation,” you say, feeling your chest grow tight. The words are thick when they leave your lips. “But if you’re not going to give me one, then…”
“Fuck, wait,” Harry rushes out. He blocks the path to the door as you try to sidestep his broad frame. “Please, just…lemme figure out a way to say what I’m thinking.”
You cross your arms over your chest and glare at him. “You’ve got two minutes.”
He scratches the back of his neck, pulling gently on the collar of his dark sweater. You watch him turn phrases over in his head and hate that even now, in the middle of an argument, you still want to kiss him. Your lips prickle as you recall what it felt like to lick into his mouth, and how he swallowed up every single one of your moans.
“We had sex,” Harry finally says carefully. “That’s against the university’s policy.”
“I’m aware,” you say. You’ve realised this—why is he reiterating what you already know?
“I’m not allowed to be involved with a student in the classes where I’m…,” he continues and shakes his head, “Basically, if I’m a teaching assistant for a certain course, the people enrolled in it are off-limits.”
“I know.” You’re growing impatient, now. Harry’s mouth twitches.
“But I’m no longer the teaching assistant for Doctor Renault’s class,” he says softly. His stare is earnest, like he’s trying to tell you something without actually saying it.
You pause, allowing his words to sink in. Your lips part when the situation dawns on you, and you suddenly understand what he chose to do—what he’s done. You look up at him with wide, disbelieving eyes, your fingers constricting so tightly around your coffee that the cup nearly dents under the pressure.
“You—,” you initiate, but Harry interrupts you before you can continue.
“Have dinner with me,” he requests with prudence, approaching you slowly. “I’ll take you wherever you want to go. We can even see a movie after, if you’d like.”
Despite your dispute from only a few minutes ago, a small smile creeps onto your face. Harry takes another step toward you, and your stomach flips in anticipation. You gaze into his eyes, taking note of the way his green irises glimmer with hope. He lifts his hand and runs his thumb over your jaw. You find yourself leaning into his touch.
“You want to take me out on a date?” you ask, fighting to keep your eyelids from drifting shut. Harry smirks, his dimple popping on his cheek.
“I do,” he confirms, pinching your chin gently. “Will you let me?”
“I guess,” you say dreamily, and then your lips are on his. He exhales in relief, wrapping his arms around your waist as yours loop behind his neck.
Sparks are whizzing around in your brain. You’re sure that, realistically, they can be attributed to some sort of neurotransmitter, but you choose to believe that it’s just The Harry Effect.
You eventually pull apart for air, gasping hotly and scattering kisses anywhere you can reach. “As much as I’d love to continue this,” you say, sighing delicately as Harry delivers several hard pecks to your lips, “I need to head home and finish up a research report for my experimental psych class. It’s due on Friday.”
“Fine.” Harry drags himself away from you but keeps your face nestled in his hands. He runs his index finger along the seam of your mouth. “Go on, then. Congratulations on being a responsible student, I suppose.”
You smile and hold out your hand. “Give me your phone,” you order. His lifts an eyebrow teasingly; you mirror his coy expression and elaborate. “Let me put my number in. That way, we don’t have to e-mail back and forth like we’re in our fucking fifties.”
“I like to think that e-mailing is a very efficient way of sending messages,” Harry says.
You laugh. “Are you saying that you don’t want my number, then?”
“No, no,” he backtracks quickly, fishing his phone out of his pocket and unlocking it before handing it over to you. “Here, by all means.”
“That’s what I thought,” you simper. You key your information into the device, grinning as you pass it back to him. “There we go.”
Harry leans down, stealing a chaste kiss before you can even register what’s happening. He pulls back, humming impishly at the stunned expression on your face. “There we go,” he repeats, flashing you a crooked smirk.
He escorts you out of his office, down the hall, and up onto the main floor. Every so often, your hands brush as you walk. When you reach one of the many exits in the building, you turn to him.
“You’ll text me, right?” you check, succumbing to the small sliver of doubt that nags at your brain.
He nods. “I promise.”
“Okay.” You chew on your bottom lip. Your mouth subconsciously lifts into a doting smile. “Have a good day, Harry.”
His eyes are full of tenderness. “You too, love. Take care.”
You turn and push through the doors without looking back.
When you finally find your car in the winding maze of the parking lot, you feel your phone vibrate in your back pocket. You dig it out and open it absentmindedly. A soft laugh slips past your lips when you discover a text sent from an unknown number.
“He’s cute,” you murmur to yourself, your eyes scanning over the message.
It was really nice seeing you. I look forward to having dinner with you soon. H. x
~*~
thank you for reading 💖 and thank you to @all-things-fic, @emotionally-imbruised, and @imethiminthemorning for being my betas! i love you guys [masterlist] [askbox]
Dopamine (a Serotonin extra)
if you enjoyed this piece, please consider donating to my ko-fi! thank you bunches <3
#harry styles smut#harry styles one shot#harry styles imagine#harry styles blurb#harry styles fanfiction#i really hope you guys love this#TArry#harry writing
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AND THEY WERE ROOMMATES: CHAPTER 10 (PT. II)
i am barely a third of the way thru and im Screaming
OH MY GOD HE’S A FUCKING POWERHOUSE 🗣 KING SHIT !!!!! GOT THAT ANNABETH KISS FUELING HIM EVEN FURTHER 🗣 cannae believe u made me excited about a SPORT emma 😭 ok but fr tho .... “they lay down their loyalties for the boy in blue” is SUCH an iconic line and smth so percy 🥺 this is so precious to me im ROTTING!! like percy looking at annabeth... “star-eyed with victory”... SO SEXY OF U TO WRITE THIS MISS EMMA !!!!
ANNABETH AND SALLY IN THE MIDDLE!!!! PERCY’S FAVORITE WOMEN!!! AND ANNABETH SURROUNDED BY ALL OF THOSE SHE LOVES??? ITS WHAT SHE FUCKING DESERVES THANK U MISS EMMA !!! IM LITERALLY FUCKING CHEWING GLASS. HE SAID LOVE YOU TOO 😩😩😩😩😩 HE- HE !!!!! LOVES !!! HER
HOW MANY NEW COLORS SHE WILL SEE THROUGH THE LENDS OF LOVING HIM NOW WHAT THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO DO W THIS LINE. HOW DO I COPE. I AM LITERALLY JUST STANDING HERE 🧍🏻♀️
😠 i am about to throttle sloan with my bare hands i swear to GOD- PERCY DIDN’T EVEN... 😐 hate that i’m so invested in a fictional character’s team sport that i want to 🔪⚰️ sloan
OK 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 that line is so romantic..... percy 😩 wtf (i mean more like emma what the literal fuck tho im am Unwell .... eyes are so open right now)
TWO ALIENS PHONING HOME... GRAVITY PULLING THEM TO THEIR PHONES.... THIS PARAGRAPH IS SO SEXY EMMA I LOVE IT!!! ALSOOOOOOIOOO ILL BE YOUR BOY IN BLUE 🥺 YOUR BOY !!!!! IM THE SCREAMINGCAT RN DO NOT PERCIEVE ME AS I MELT INTO THE VOID!!!!
emma 👁👄👁 this description is so immaculate.... how do u just Do this ..... i am looking So Intently
FUCK!!! SHE’S RIGHT THERE WITH HIM IM IN PAIN SHE IS SO SUPPORTIVE!!!!!
HER !! BOY !! IN FUCKING BLUE !!!! THERE ARE NO AMOUNT OF WORDS THAT CAN DESCRIBE THE FUCKING EMOTIONS IM FEELING IM ABSOLUTELY SOBBING 😭 WHEN THE COLLEGE AU HITS SO DEEP U PHYSICALLY TEAR UP !!! CHEWING GLASS RN !!! PERCY HAS ALWAYS BEEN HER FINISH LINE. GOD. FUCKING END ME. HE JUST. THEY. SHE!! SHE IS THE BEST THING THATS EVER HAPPENED TO HIM I NEED TO TAKE A MINUTE . SEVERAL MINUTES . NEED TO CALM DOWN 😩
GODDAMMIT IM SOBBING. HE’S THE SUN!!! ☀️😭🥺 HER GOLDEN BOY !!! THIS IS SUCH A FUCKING ALYSSA / LIZ DIRECTED MISSILE I AM BESIDE MYSELF. SHE GETS TO HOLD 🥺 SUNLIGHT IN THE PALMS OF HIS HANDS. I AM SO UNWELL I FEEL LIKE THE WORLD TURNED ON ITS AXIS ITS FINE
#long post#emma tag#f: none#misc: fic#fic: and they were roommates#t: text#tais toi lys#alyssa live reads fic!
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Manhattan 8
Word Count: 4557
A/N: Hi! I’m alive. I’m so sorry it took so long for me to write again but here I am. Anyway, I hope you guys are still practicing social distancing and still following the safety protocols wherever you are. Stay safe and healthy, y’all. Let me know what you think of this. I only proofread this once, so have mercy on me. xx
Summary: Definitely not what you asked for. :)
Parts: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 9
***
“Lou?”
The Heist crew looked at each other across the board room while Lou just continues to stare blankly out the tall window, unable to hear anyone around her. It’s the time of the year again. The anniversary of the day Lou lost you.
“Lou?” Debbie tried to get her attention by standing directly at her line of sight.
Lou blinked twice before looking up at Debbie. “Shit,” she muttered under her breath and sat up straighter. “Sorry, I was elsewhere.”
“We were just asking if you’re ready with the marketing of this joint exhibit with Selene Quaid?”
“Yes but we’re still waiting for Quaid and her team’s feedback about the graphics,” Lou assured her best friend with a smile.
Debbie stared at her for a couple of seconds before nodding and turning back to the whole team. Lou didn’t dare look back to her friends in fear to see them pitying her for being unable to move on after two years now. Yes, it’s been two years since she thought walking away would be easy but it was far from it. It was agonizing and physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausting. Especially when she thought seeing you, even from afar, would ease the pain but didn’t.
For the first few months after you left, Lou made secret trips every weekend to visit Tate and hopefully catch a glimpse of you. At first, she was elated to see you thriving; the museum is indeed your natural habitat but as time goes by, it hurts even more because she misses you tremendously. She misses sharing life with you, that’s why it pains her to see you living one that she can’t be a part of. She owns the pain, she knows she brought it upon herself. So, she sucked it up.
Until she got an intervention.
“You thought we didn’t know? You’re always away on the weekends. You’re not on Ithaca, and you’re not with your brothers,” Debbie says gently as they sit Lou on their board room. Her brothers were in attendance too.
“Rats,” she hissed while looking at Thor and Loki who was leaning against the far wall.
Her friends chuckled. “They didn’t snitch on you. Nine found your trail.”
She whipped her head back to her friends, eyes wide in surprise. “What?”
“You didn’t give us any choice,” Tammy said while playing at the ends of her blonde hair. A telltale sign that she’s nervous. “You won’t talk to us.”
“That didn’t give you the right to hack my email though.”
Lou crossed her arms across her chest. Daphne chuckled at the childish pout on their friend’s face.
“This can’t go on forever, Lou,” Daphne said. “When’s the last time you spent time with us?” Daphne gestured to everyone in the room. “With your brothers?”
Lou caught her brother’s eyes and suddenly she felt a wave of guilt. “We need you here too,” Thor says sincerely. “We all do.”
Loki nodded. “We know you love her. We know that she loves you too. She wouldn’t want this for you.” Loki admonished. “You said you did what you did because you didn’t want Y/N to spread herself thin for you. Well, guess what, as her friend, we know she wouldn’t want this for you too.”
She admits it. Flying back and forth every week was taking a toll on her. So, she relented to visiting Tate at least two times a month. Until it became once a month, then just whenever she’s free or whenever missing you get so intense.
She knew she couldn’t put her life on hold forever.
She knew she can’t just sit around and mope, and wait for you to come home.
***
With the joint exhibit happening in five days, everyone was legit on their toes with everything that needs to be done. The whole office was buzzing with activity the moment Lou walked in at 8 in the morning. Agatha just put the box of breakfast pastries down the one table where everyone likes to work even though they all have designated desks when she walked in.
“Good morning Lou,” Agatha greeted with a smile before handing her, her favourite coffee.
“Morning.” She smiled back before glancing towards Debbie who’s pacing back and forth inside her glass office. “What’s wrong?”
“Debbie’s frustrated that Quaid still hasn’t approved Daphne’s marketing collateral.”
“Has anyone spoken with Quaid?” She asked pensively.
“Yes. Quaid’s secretary said someone will be coming over to represent her,” Tammy answered, rolling her chair away from her computer. Before she can respond though, Charlie entered the room at the same time Debbie exited her office.
“What is it, Charlie?” Debbie asked, immediately picking up on Charlie’s excited demeanour.
“Quaid’s representative is outside,” he responded with a broad smile.
Everyone raised their eyebrow at him. “Well, what are you waiting for? Let them in,” Daphne sassed.
“She picked up a call but will be with us right about -” Charlie paused. The door to the office opened. “Now.”
And to everyone’s surprise, you walked in.
***
A collective gasped was heard across the room before silence swept through it. You looked at Charlie who has already recovered from his shock at seeing you again after two long years. You turned back to everyone before smiling.
“Hey.” You greeted. Lou’s heart skipped a beat and ached at the same time. Your voice shook everyone out of their reverie, making everyone simultaneously yell your name in excitement and gather around you.
Nine was the first to reach you and almost tackle you down in a tight hug. “Y/N!” she yelled as she wraps her arms around you tightly. “Oh! My! God! I can’t believe you’re here!”
Daphne, Debbie, and Rose, who weren’t much of a hugger just sidled next to you. “You look all grown up, Y/L/N.” Debbie noticed. Of course, she’ll still be too cool to give direct compliments. You smiled your thanks.
“You were cute before in your graphic tees and distressed jeans. Now, you definitely look -” Daphne stopped to consider her next words.
Nine pulled away from you to look at you a once over. “Hot! Definitely fucking hot, if you asked me” she finished for Daphne making the brunette roll her eyes at Nine’s choice of language.
“Good thing no one asked you,” Constance teased before coming over to give you a short hug, and a whispered ‘I missed you.’
You laughed at their antics but it was shortly interrupted by Rose’s hand touching the sleeve of your suit.
“Are these custom-made, darling?” She asked before she can help herself.
“Missed you too, Rose.” You teased. Rose looked at you wide-eyed and with a soft blush tainting her cheeks.
“Oh, no. I didn’t mean to seem more interested in your clothes -” she stuttered out. “-I missed you too, darling.”
“I’m joking, Rose.” You laughed. “And to answer your question, yes, the suit is custom made. I can’t really work in the museum wearing graphic tees, tattered jeans and converse. At least, not all the time.”
Tammy nearly cried before she could have a turn in wrapping you in her arms again. She still feels the warmest, her golden hair are still soft, and she still smell like fresh waffles in the morning. “Oh, are you still my baby?” Tammy wailed, cupping your cheeks and looking at you intently.
You can’t help but get teary-eyed too. You chuckled before nodding at Tammy’s question. “I am,” you said before you launched yourself at her. Aside from Nine and Lou, you’re closest with Tammy too. “I missed you so much, Tams.”
“I missed you so much, too, baby.” Tammy held you a little tighter. Amita who was behind Tammy took a closer look at you from the blonde’s shoulder.
“You look so different, Y/N,” Amita said before raising her hand for a fist bump. You were just about to raise your hand and tap Amita’s fist with yours when Lou’s voice cut through everything that’s been happening around you.
“I don’t think so. I think she looks the same.” Lou’s not looking at you but on her boots. “She’s still breathtaking though.”
Tammy let go of you so you can look at the blonde properly. Everyone held their breath in anticipation. This is, after all, the first time you’re seeing each other after all the mess that went down years prior.
You walked up to your ex-girlfriend. “Say it to my face, if you mean it.” Lou looked up at you in surprise.
“I-” She chewed her bottom lip. “-didn’t mean to say it out loud.” She looked uncharacteristically nervous. “But I do mean it. You look as beautiful as the day I met you.”
You didn’t say anything for a minute, making Lou’s heart almost jumped out of her ribcage. After a long pause, you smiled genuinely at her and opened your arms for a hug. To say that Lou was surprised was an understatement. She thought you would hate her for what she did but there you were opening your arms again for her.
She didn’t have to be asked twice, she stepped towards you and hugged your body close to her. She had to bite the inside of her cheeks to keep herself from sobbing. It’s been so long since she felt home.
***
Lou rolled out of her bed an hour before her alarm clock hits. She smiled at the ceiling before rolling out of bed and making her way to her open kitchen. She went directly to her coffee maker. She was humming softly while measuring coffee grinds for her morning rations when someone spoke from her couch.
“Isn’t it a little too early to be this chirpy?” Nine groaned before burying her head on the pillow Lou lent her.
Lou nearly spilt the grounds over the counter in her surprise. She literally forgot that Nine and Tammy slept over to help finish some preparations for the meeting with you. Tammy stood up and stretched before walking up to Lou with a smile.
“Don’t take it personally. She’s never a morning person.”
“Coffee?” Lou asked with a soft smile and a light blush adorning her cheek.
“Yes, please.” Tammy sat on the stool by the counter and watched Lou’s back. “Are we having breakfast here or shall we have the kids (Agatha and Charlie) pick up some before heading to the office?”
Lou bit her bottom lip as she thinks about her options. She opened her fridge and studied the contents of it. “Well, I have enough ingredients for your packed breakfasts, if you want to cook.”
Tammy immediately perked up at that. “Yes, please. I’ll make Y/N’s favourites.”
Lou smiled and nodded, just in time for the coffee maker to finish brewing. She got a mug of black coffee before turning towards Tammy who was already opening her cupboards for everything that she’ll need.
“Alright. I’ll get out of your hair then.” Lou knows better to stay away from the kitchen when Tammy’s cooking. The woman prefers cooking alone as she knows that their crew tends to leave a bigger mess when they’re trying to help.
Tammy just smiled and shooed her away. Nine walked in the open kitchen right when Lou seated at the balcony of her apartment. They both watched Lou with her eyes closed, face turned towards the early morning sun, and a soft smile on her face.
“It’s been too long since I’ve seen her this -” Tammy paused, searching for the right word.
“Happy?” Nine tried to guess. Tammy shook her head lightly, watching Lou for another minute before she found the perfect word.
“Alive.”
***
Nine drove the three of them to work using Lou’s car. A testament of how good Lou must be feeling to let the tech girl drive her precious car. Lou just happily sat on the passenger seat, looking out of the window like she hasn’t lived in the city most of her adult life.
“Nine-” Lou said without looking at the brunette. She just continued to survey the yellow taxi idle next to their car.
“Yeah?”
“Do you know if Y/N’s dating anyone?”
Nine chuckled, Lou has been asking the same question at least every quarter of the year. Since Lou’s not on any social media platform, she didn’t have any means to watch over you. She told herself that making an Instagram account would be a violation of her efforts to move forward. She told herself it will also be futile since she’s sure you won’t let her follow you, as all your accounts are private.
“You’ve asked this before and the answer is still the same.” Nine teased lightly before handing Lou her unlocked mobile phone. “Check for yourself. The girl still flies under the radar.”
She scrolled through the endless apps installed in Nine’s phone before she found Instagram. She opened it and searched your handle through Nine’s following tab. True to her word, there’s really no sign that you’re romantically involved with someone.
Your feed is all travel photos, food crawls in your travel destinations, museums you’ve visited through London and other parts of Europe. There were also photos of your cosy apartment, and your pet cat but that’s it. One might say, there’s nothing juicy about it. You don’t even post selfies. Lou took one last quick scroll through your feed before she closed the app and handed Nine her phone back.
“Thank you.”
“No problem.” Nine grinned, eyes still trained out front. “So, what’s the plan?”
Lou scrunched her eyebrows together in confusion before turning her body slightly to address her friend. “What plan?”
Nine’s smile just got more mischievous. “The plan,” she said like Lou’s supposed to get it already. When Lou just kept giving her the confused look, she sighed. “What’s the plan to get Y/N back?”
“Oh.” A quick look of worry and sadness passed through Lou’s face before she turned back to the city. “I don’t know, N. I feel like I don’t deserve her. Even more so now.”
Nine frowned at that before she can speak though, Tammy kicked the back of Lou’s seat making her yelp. “What the hell, Tammy?” Lou yelled.
“What do you mean you don’t know?” Tammy asked exasperated.
“Exactly that. I mean, I don’t know.” Lou crossed her arms over her chest.
“How about apologizing and telling her the truth that you never cheated on her?” Tammy mirrored Lou’s position: arms crossed and frowning deeply.
“What does it matter now? It’s been long overdue.”
“Better late than never, L.” Nine glanced at her while waiting for the traffic light to turn green.
“It won’t erase what you did but if you want her back, I think coming clean is the first step,” Tammy whispered.
***
Lou resolved to take her friends advice and apologize even though she thinks its overdue. It turns out apologizing wasn’t going to be the problem, it’s actually getting you alone for more than two minutes is. The moment they stepped into the gallery, it seems like everyone gravitate towards you. Besides that, you were also laser focus on everything that needs to be done for opening night that she finds it hard to approach you in fear of disturbing you.
Days passed in a blur of meetings, site inspections, and generally making sure that everything is on point for the event that Lou barely noticed that she still hasn’t had any alone time with you until it was opening night. You arrived at the same time everyone from the Heist was supposed to check in even though you’re technically not their employee anymore. You walked in wearing an elegant black dress with matching black heels.
“Everything is going as planned outside. Security is already in their positions, and I just saw a few VIP cars parking upfront,” you said in place of a greeting while tapping away at your phone. “Deb you might need to get your pretty ass upfront and welcome the guests.”
When only silence follows, you looked up to find every single one of your friends is gaping at you.
”I’m sorry is there something in -”
“You look beautiful,” Lou whispered loud enough for everyone to hear. You looked straight at the blonde’s blue eyes and smirked at her. “I mean -”
“Thanks, Lou.” You cut her off. “You look great too.”
A soft blush tinted Lou’s cheeks. Constance cleared her throat. “Ugh. I hate to interrupt this flirt fest but the guests are coming,” she said before nodding towards the door.
True to Constance words, invited guests started pouring in prompting everyone into action to receive them.
***
The rented space for the event was significantly bigger than the gallery but it’s still packed with art enthusiasts from all walks of life. Selene Quaid’s name plastered in every printed and digital marketing collateral does bring in the people. She’s like the sun, and everyone’s Icarus who doesn’t care if they burn just to be near her. About an hour into the event and there’s still no sign of the woman, which Lou knows because she’s been at the bar surveying the crowd all night.
She just downed her first glass of champagne when you plopped down on the stool next to her and ordered yourself a drink.
“Tequila? This early?” Lou asked after you downed your first shot.
“Yeah.” You downed another shot.
Lou crinkled her eyebrows together. “What’s wrong?”
You downed your last shot before turning towards your ex-girlfriend. “Selene’s late. Again. You know how tardiness makes me anxious.”
Lou nodded because she does remember the two of your discussing the issue before that’s why she made it a point never to be late in any of your dates in the past. “I’m sure she’s on the way.”
You just hummed in acknowledgement before swivelling the rest of your stool to face the buzzing crowd. Lou can’t help but study the side profile of your face.
“Lou, you’re staring.”
“I can’t help it.” She whispered loud enough for only you to hear. “I just can’t believe you’re here and talking to me.”
You glanced at her and smiled. “It’s been too long, hasn’t it?” You said before turning back to watch the door.
“Yes, and it may be overdue but I’m sorry for what I did.” Lou’s voice cracked as she tries to reign in her emotions.
You fully turn your attention to her then. “Lou, I’ve for-”
“No before you say that. I need you to know that truth,” she cut you off.
You nodded to prompt her to continue. “I never cheated on you,” she muttered with conviction. You searched her face for a hint of a lie but you can’t find any. “I did lie to you though.”
“Explain,” you said after flagging the waiter for another round of shots. You feel like you might need it with how serious Lou is.
Lou looked so guilty and sad when you faced her again. “I didn’t think you would ever take the job at Tate if you were with me. So I asked Therese to pretend that we were fooling around behind your back.”
You gripped the edge of the counter, as you digest that new information. Lou can see the unshed tears starting to gather in your eyes and she wanted nothing more but to reach out and pull you to her but you were gritting your teeth and she knew your habits very well.
“I’m sorry,” Lou repeated.
You downed 1 out of your 3 tequila shots. “That wasn’t your call,” you whispered angrily at her. “Leaving you was the hardest thing I had to do, not quitting the program to go back and beg you to choose me was the next.”
“I’m sorry.” Lou apologizing again is just making you angrier by the minute. You throw back your second shot.
“We could have made it work. I could have flown to you every Friday night. It’s just a 7-hour flight.” You downed your last tequila shot, ignoring the burn in your throat and almost slamming the glass down on the bar had you not remembered you two are supposed to be working.
“I’m so sorry, Y/N.” Lou tried to reach for your hand but you yanked it away from her.
“You never gave me a chance,” you spat. Lou shook her head.
“You never gave us a chance.
***
Lou wanted to defend her decision but she was cut off when the rest of the Heist crew bounded happily to the bar.
“There you are!” Nine declared enthusiastically. You made a subtle attempt to dab the tears in your eyes before turning to your friends.
“What’s up?” You answered over-enthusiastically.
“Someone’s been looking for you,” Amita quipped.
Before you can ask who, Selene Quaid reached the bar with Rose. When she looked up and saw you, she immediately halted her conversation with the fashion designer and excused herself to come to you.
“Hey.” Selene greeted, scratching at the back of her neck. “You look fantastic.”
“You’re late,” you ignored the compliment and admonished the brunette, which surprised everyone. No one gets to tell Selene Quiad what to do. She goes places and does things in her own pace and time.
“I’m sorry.” Selene cupped your right cheek with her right hand. She looked genuinely remorseful. “I’ll make it up to you.”
You smiled softly, leaning into Selene’s touch as it temporarily soothes the ache from your previous conversation with Lou. “You better,” you said smiling.
Selene took it as a sign that she’s forgiven. Smiling broadly before stepping closer and pulling you into a soft, brief kiss that took Lou’s breath away. Just like that, Lou’s dream of getting you back was shuttered in a million tiny pieces right in front of her eyes.
It’s too late.
She’s too late.
Taglist: @kaytoopio @marvelfansince08love @marvelb00kwolf @shycucumbersandwich @subject7creed @theprassebox @confessionsofawritingdork @gaytrashgoblin @cup-of-stars
#avengers cross#avengers x oceans 8#avengers x reader#oceans 8 x reader#avengers imagine#oceans 8 imagine#lou miller imagine#cate blanchett imagine#lou miller x reader#cate blanchett x reader#lou miller#cate blanchett
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Selfish - Peter Parker
Part Two : Stained Glass
// Selfish // Highly requested by those tagged below and 4 anons//
// Tags: @josiemara @dylanstilinskiposts @just-a-sad-chicken-nugget-xxx @throughparisallthroughrome @tomhollandssecurityguard // Warnings: Angst, language, small altercation, crying//
Pairing: Peter Parker x Stark!Reader
Word Count: 6,110
Summary: Y/N Y/L/N has revealed herself to be Y/N Stark. But in an effort to get Y/N to reveal her alter ego, Heretic, Peter exposes himself as Spiderman. Knowing her hatred of heroes, can Y/N and Peter mend their relationship? Can Y/N bond with her dad, Tony? Will the Stained Glass of their relationship lead to something beautiful or a tragedy?
Despite everything you were feeling, the pain and the mistrust, you put on a happy face for your mom and at school. You didn’t tell her how the conversation ended with Tony and Peter the week before. When you came out of your room with red, puffy eyes, you told her that it was because you weren’t sure what was the right thing to do. You told her that you felt lost, that you wanted to look within yourself and trust your heart. But your heart was too busy fighting itself to be of any help to your head.
After the shocking discovery of Peter’s alter ego, you hung up your mask and all of your Heretic activities. You flushed your serums down the toilet, dismantled your vocal manipulator, and crushed the neurotransmitter on the knives. You threw the soundproof boots in the back of your closet and shoved the suit deep under your bed. The only thing you kept within reach was the knives themselves, just in case something dangerous happened in your apartment. It was highly unlikely but you wanted to be prepared.
At school, you pretended as if nothing happened. You were able to lift your slightly slipping grades since you had time to actually study the topics outside of class. You laughed more, joked more. Things weren’t as heavy as they were when you started Heretic. But one thing that couldn’t go back to normal was your relationship with Peter.
“Y/N, are you coming to my party this weekend?” Liz asked after decathlon. “I think Peter said he was gonna go.”
“I think I have to spend this weekend with my dad.” You sighed. “I have to check with my mom if it’s this weekend or next. But if I’m free, I will definitely be there!”
“Yay!” She smiled, hugging you quickly before striding away with her friends. MJ soon replaced Liz in front of you.
“You’re being weird.” She said simply.
“Things have been weird lately.” You shrugged, blowing out a long sigh. “With my dad being back and-”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.” She cut in.
“What’s the issue then?”
“You and Peter…” She tried as if it was obvious.
“We had a fight.” You laughed dismissively. “I was freaked about my dad and I took it out on him. We’re good though. We talked about it and everything is fine.”
“You’re a horrible liar.”
“MJ, everything is fine. Stop worrying.”
She huffed in annoyance, figuring the conversation wouldn’t go anywhere. She shook her head in disappointment, having to refrain from rolling her eyes. She knew you were lying. She was surprised no one else had picked up on it. It was obvious that something had changed between you and Peter, but MJ decided she wasn’t going to bring it up again.
Nights seemed longer when you stayed in the house. You had sworn off Heretic, knowing that falling back into it wouldn’t be good for you. You woke often in the middle of the night, unable to fall back asleep for hours after that. You would climb onto your fire escape, curled in a blanket and wondering if you’d see Peter swing by. Some nights you would even fall asleep on the fire escape, waking up only when the sun was shining in your eyes.
You had stopped answering Peter’s texts and calls for the time being. You tried to convince yourself that it was nothing personal against Peter. It was simply your anger at Spiderman. But in that argument, you always circled back to the fact that Peter was Spiderman.
lover boy🥵❤️: did you do the physics work?😷
-
lover boy🥵❤️: ice cream after school? my treat :)
-
lover boy🥵❤️: little old lady bought me a churro today.
lover boy🥵❤️: she was nice :)
-
peter🥵❤️: please call me
-
peter: y/n?
spiderman: is this cuz 🕷🕷
parker: ?????
parker: :(
parker🕷: is this your way of breaking up w me??? please say it isn’t :(
You tried simply ignoring his messages, but seeing his name popping up only made it harder to resist. You had resorted to changing his name in your contacts, from lover boy to peter to spiderman. You had finally landed on parker, deciding that would remind you that you were upset with him.
You had also been receiving messages from your dad. You ignored those too, but soon your mom started to get involved.
tony🙄: Cap’s coming back from a mission today. You and your mom want to come meet him?
tony🙄: How does LA sound for this weekend? You can bring your mom too
tony🙄: You can’t ignore me or Peter forever, kid.
You were sitting with your friends at lunch at your usual table. Ned and Betty sat opposite of you, MJ, and Peter. You were beside Peter, your head leaning on his shoulder and your hands intertwined under the table. You knew it would only confuse Peter to act one way in public and a different way when you were by yourself. You knew it was wrong and unfair, but your heart still yearned for him. At school, you only knew him as Peter, so it was easy to forget it all.
Peter was in a bind. You ignored him outside of school, but you would act as if nothing happened when the bell rang. You’d act as if everything was fine. You held his hand, hugged him, kissed him and talked to him as if everything was normal. Peter wasn’t stupid. He knew it was only an act in public, a way to avoid explaining the situation to your friends.
Peter wanted to be okay with it. He wanted to be able to sleep at night knowing it was for his own good. It kept both of your secrets after all.
But it still felt wrong. Deep down it hurt to know that you were only showing him the affection he had grown used to as an act. He knew you were hurting, processing an insanely unlikely scenario. He knew it shook you to your core to know the boy you were in love with had a secret life that had intertwined with yours. And not in a positive way.
He knew it was hard to accept that the boy you loved was a hero, working with the father you didn’t claim. The father you didn’t care to know. But after all, despite everything, Peter didn’t have it in him to resist. He enjoyed your touch, your voice. Even if it was an elaborate ruse, he just enjoyed your company.
“You two are so cute!” Betty commented from her place beside Ned. “I swear you two are always so happy.”
“Who wouldn’t be happy with Peter?” You smiled, glancing up at him.
“Yeah, well.” He smiled with a playful shrug. “Guess I’m just lucky to have her.”
“You’re damn right you’re lucky.” Flash commented, plopping himself down beside you. “How does Y/N Y/L/N get stuck with you?”
“Why must you interrupt my lunch?” You sighed, lifting your head from Peter’s shoulder to glare at your classmate.
“All I’m saying is that you could do better than Penis Parker.” Flash defended, his hands up in mock surrender.
“Don’t you have Spiderman fanfiction to write?” MJ asked plainly, leaning around Peter to see Flash’s reaction.
“I don’t write fanfiction!” He argued quickly, and too loud for the quiet cafeteria.
You bit back your laughter as the boy stomped away. He moved to smack the back of Peter’s neck, but you put your hand in the way. Flash ended up smacking the back of your hand, but you decided to make a scene, if only to prove a point and embarrass the bully even further.
“What the hell, Flash?” You announced, putting your hand behind your neck to make it more convincing.
“Oh my god!” He exclaimed in a panic. “I meant to hit Parker. I am so sorry!”
“You just smacked my fucking neck!” You stood from your place beside Peter, glaring at the panicked boy in front of you. “Are you serious?”
“Why did you hit her?” Betty joined in.
“Not cool, dude!” Ned egged the situation on, shaking his head in disapproval.
“I was trying to hit Parker!” Flash defended.
“That doesn’t make it any better!” You shouted. You could hear the mumbles throughout the cafeteria, some wondering if you would hit Flash back or if you were going to chew him out in front of everyone. Both options were tempting, but you didn’t know what you were really going for. “You can’t walk around campus hitting people!”
“I would run if I was you.” MJ told Flash, giving him a thumbs up that quickly turned to the middle finger.
“Y/N, I am so sorry.” He reached out his hands, as if to take you in an embrace.
Without thinking, you knocked one hand away before twisting the other one outwards. You kicked out a knee and pinned his arm behind his back. You took his backpack and flipped it over his head so it was on his chest. You pushed him forward before crossing your arms over your chest.
“I told you to run.” MJ said with a shrug. The rest of the cafeteria burst out in applause, hoots and hollers of approval once Flash hit the ground. He fumbled to get back on his feet, momentarily stuck in his backpack. You were backing away to retake your seat beside Peter, biting your lower lip to keep back your laughter.
“Y/L/N!” You heard Mr. Dell yell at you before you could get back to your seat. You sighed before grabbing your backpack. You pressed a quick kiss to Peter’s cheek without thinking and followed Mr. Dell down the hall.
The small kiss only confused Peter more. You didn’t have to do that. Everything seemed normal that day. Your friends were unsuspecting of any tension between you two. He watched you go, a longing look in his eyes. He sighed to himself, wondering how he could fix things between you two.
“You okay, Peter?” Betty asked softly, drawing her friends attention back to the group.
“What?” Peter said quickly, his head snapping back. “Yeah, yeah I’m good. Just a little… shocked.”
“Yeah, I didn’t know Y/N had that in her.” Ned gushed. “Where did she learn to do that?”
“She’s been taking self defense classes.” MJ shrugged.
“She has?” Peter brows furrowed, but then he realized she probably took them so she could fight back as Heretic.
“You seriously didn’t know?” She chuckled hesitantly. It wasn’t like Y/N to have kept that a secret from Peter.
“She does self defense and softball? And she has great grades here?” Betty gaped, her eyes wide as she thought about it. “Wow. Her college applications are going to look amazing.”
You sat in the principal’s office, slouched in the stiff chair. You let your head hang over the back, waiting for the principal to return from the secretary’s office. He went to find your file so he could get your mother’s number, even though you offered to give him her work number.
“Your mother isn’t able to come get you.” Principal Morita announced when he entered his office again.
“I told you that she was busy at work.” You shrugged. “I guess it’s detention then?”
“No, she gave me the number of your father. He’s coming to get you.”
“You did not call my dad.” You groaned, covering your face with both hands.
“You gave me no choice, Y/N. Laying hands on another student-”
“He hit me first!” You defended quickly.
“Regardless, you were the one who escala-”
“I escalated it?” You snapped. You weren’t necessarily mad at the situation. You were annoyed that you were getting in trouble but Flash wasn’t, but not enough for you to yell at your principal. “Flash has been bullying Peter since middle school but no one on this godforsaken campus does anything about it. Why? Cause his dad funds some of the programs? That’s not fair.”
“Y/N, please calm down.”
“No, I will not calm down.” You continued, quickly getting to your feet. “I am not the only one who was involved in that fight. Flash started it and I finished it. But if I am the only one getting in trouble then there is something seriously wrong with this disciplinary system. Not to mention, that by punishing the female student that was involved in a physical altercation with a male student could potentially send the wrong message about the values of the school.”
“I assure you, Y/N, that we take any sort of assault on students very seriously.”
“Then why aren’t you calling Flash in?” You challenged plainly. “Call in Flash Thompson and I will stop arguing.”
“Holy cow.” Morita said in soft amazement as his attention shifted from your heated words to the door. “Mr. Stark, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I- I didn’t know that you were Y/N’s father.”
You groaned in embarrassment, the fuel to your rant now gone. You slumped into the chair, pulling your backpack into your lap and using it to hide behind. You peaked up from behind it, only to find Tony looking at you expectantly. You were mildly surprised that he actually showed up, but even more shocked when he didn’t seem angry about it.
“Fill me in.” He nodded, pointing between you and your principal. “What happened?”
“The kid that always bullies Peter went to smack him but smacked me instead. I pushed him to the ground - and embarrassed him in front of everyone - but there’s only one kid in this office.” You muttered from behind your backpack. “And it’s not even the kid that started it, might I add.”
“Two kids were involved. Why is she the only one here?” Tony asked, pointing at you.
“Well, I- One of our faculty only saw-”
“Only saw my kid?” Tony questioned. You felt an odd pride in your chest when he called you his kid, but you buried it quickly. You were still supposed to be upset with him and Peter, but you didn’t know if you were upset anymore. You couldn’t quite name what you were feeling and you hated it. “Hmm. So, what? Suspension? She has to write ‘I will not push people’ a hundred times?”
“The usual punishment for- for putting hands on another student is a week suspension. But seeing as this is Y/N’s first offense, and she’s really a top notch student - which is no surprise seeing who her family is.” Morita gushed, still in awe with your dad being there. “I suppose we can just send her home today and then detention for the rest of the week.”
“That’s not gonna work.” Tony shook his head.
“It’s not?” You asked from your chair. “What’s wrong with that?”
“She works at Stark Industries with Peter right after school. She can’t be in detention.” Tony looked down at you and shot you a quick wink. You smiled slightly, turning to see your principal’s reaction.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Stark but that’s the best I can do. I’m already-”
“You’re not gonna talk to the other one so why even bother with her?” Tony reasoned. “Let her off with a warning and call it a day. Everyone’s happy.”
Morita sighed slightly before nodding. “She’ll be sent home today. If she does this again, we’ll have to take more assertive action.”
“Fair enough.” You shrugged.
Tony led you out of your school and to his car. Luckily, no one was in the halls. Neither of you spoke until you reached the car, driving in the opposite direction of your apartment. Your phone vibrated in your pocket, pulling it out you saw it was Peter.
parker🕷: everything okay??
parker🕷: i really need to talk to you
parker🕷: please :(
parker🕷: ik your probably still upset about 🕷 but idk where we stand anymore and if we’re even together anymore. i love you and this feels weird and i dont like it
You sighed slightly, shoving your phone into your backpack. You thought about the spider emoji that you put by his name, hoping that it would help you normalize the fact that Peter was Spiderman. But it didn’t. If anything it just made it worse, constantly reminding you of the conversation that you had in your bedroom.
“You’re ignoring him.” Tony finally said.
“No, I’m not.” You countered.
“He just texted me saying that you’ll only talk to him at school and he thinks you’re going to break up with him.”
“You didn’t even pull your phone out.” You rolled your eyes slightly. “I’m not answering any texts at the moment so Peter isn’t special.”
“Peter isn’t special?”
“You know what I meant.” You waved him off. “I wouldn’t even know what to say to him.”
“Here.” Tony offered you his sunglasses, seemingly trying to change the subject. “Put them on.”
You took the glasses with a reluctant sigh, sliding them onto your face. “What’s so special about these?”
Just as that sentence left your mouth, they lit up like a screen. Everything you looked at was analyzed and you were shown facts about it. When you looked at Tony, you saw some notes about him. The name of his latest suit upgrade, his net worth, his birthday, his age, and his title at Stark Industries.
“Woah.” You breathed in amazement.
“You like them?” Tony smiled.
“They’re incredible.”
“These are for you, then.” Tony took his glasses off your face and handed you a case instead. You opened it to find a similar pair to Tony’s. The lenses were a bit smaller and the frame was designed differently, but the lenses had the same tint. You stared at the gift with soft appreciation.
“Tony, you didn’t have to.” You reasoned.
“Yeah, I did.” He nodded. “You’re my kid so you should have something like this.”
“Are you sure?” You questioned. You were hoping to find a reason for him to take them back, feeling that you didn’t deserve a gift from Tony. “After the way I’ve been acting, ignoring you and Peter. And I’ve been so angry since you left… I don’t deserve these.”
“Sure you do.” Tony urged. “Look, when Peter told me that someone he loved was Heretic, the boy was near tears. He kept it a secret because he didn’t want to upset you and get to a point like this.”
“My life's just a faded memory of one I can't have And everything 'round me is starting to fade into black.” You said sadly. “I can’t just go back to the way it was so everything can be normal again.”
“Your boyfriend and your dad are superheroes. There is no going back to normal.”
“Exactly.” You turned in your seat to face your dad. “I love Peter. I really do. And I think I want to have a better relationship with you. But I’m hurting and I’m confused.”
“Let me ask you something.. Peter said you act like everything is normal at school. Why?”
“So that way I don’t have to explain anything to our friends.” You answered. “It protects both of our secrets that way.”
“But you won’t talk to Peter outside of school so you don’t have to pretend?”
“I get it, alright?” You said quickly. “It’s not fair to Peter. It’s always about Peter. We have to make sure Peter is happy.”
“I’m not worried about Peter right now.” He shook his head. “He’s not my kid. You are. And I know I’m still new at this whole ‘father figure’ thing and I got a lot to make up for, but I can see that this is messing with your head. I’ve been there, when nothing feels right but you have to put on a show anyways. Trust me, kid, I get it. But I can tell you that it’s all going to catch up to you, Y/N. And when it does, it may be too late to mend those relationships. For your sake, and yes even Peter’s, you gotta open up a bit.”
You pondered his words, digesting what he meant. It made sense. You could lose Peter if you kept this up. But you also wondered what happened to the great Tony Stark that would’ve messed with his head. You had never noticed any sort of emotional turmoil when he was in front of a camera, but you figured that was the point.
“I don’t have a lot of ‘father figure’ experience either, but you seem alright to me. At least you’re trying, you know?” You smiled softly. “Thanks, Dad.”
“Did you mean to call me Dad or was that a slip up?” He teased. “Cause you don’t have me as Dad in your phone.”
“Do you want me to change it?” You laughed.
“Yes, actually. I do.”
“Okay.” You chuckled as you pulled out your phone. The messages from Peter distracted you for a moment.
parker🕷: have fun with your dad. i love you🖤🖤
parker🕷: call me when youre home?🥺🥺
You sent a quick reply to Peter before changing Tony’s contact name from tony to old man stark. You showed Tony the new contact with a cheesy smile before jumping into a conversation about where you were going. Tony was actually taking you to Columbia University to watch a Columbia vs. Princeton softball game. You gushed about how much you loved the sport, how you pitched for a club softball team, how you were trying to get Midtown to adopt a softball team.
Peter was working on homework when you finally texted him back. The quick motion to grab his phone almost took him out of his computer chair. He opened his phone without hesitation, reading over the message several times.
pretty girl🤩💛: come by tonight? maybe we can talk
pretty girl🤩💛: i owe u an explanation… srry😔
Peter’s heart soared. You had finally messaged him back after a week and you actually wanted to talk to him. He wanted to keep the conversation going, to not lose that interaction with you. So, he sent a message. But he instantly regretted it so he sent a couple more to try and recover.
parker🕷: of course baby. as 🕷 or 😇???
parker🕷: cause ill do either. idk who you wanna see tho
parker🕷: what are you and mr stark doing today???👀
The first message Peter sent made your heart drop when you read it. It was a swift kick to the gut as a reminder that Peter had two lives. He was two different people. You tried to see them as not different people, but different sides to the same person. But it was still hard.
pretty girl🤩💛: whichever. i just wanna see u on my fire escape tonight when u get a chance… i miss u and i wanna try and fix stuff🥺
pretty girl🤩💛: hes taking me to columbia for a columbia/princeton softball game!! im so excited!!!!! text u in a bit🥎🥎
When you got home from spending the day with your dad at the game and then getting dinner at a nice restaurant, your mom was waiting for you. She asked what happened at school and why you weren’t home when she got home. She said that she wasn’t happy that you ran off with Tony without telling her.
“You wanted me to let him into my life.” You said as your defense. “Are you seriously mad at me for spending a day with my dad?”
“When you were pulled out of school for assaulting another student, yes. I am mad.” She said firmly.
“Flash hit me, Mom.” You explained carefully. “He tried to hit Peter, but he hit me.”
“That’s not what Principal Morita told me.”
“Who do you really believe?” You waited for a response, but she simply crossed her arms. “You know what, you’re right.” You chuckled in annoyance. “Next time, I’ll just let the boy hit me.”
“That’s not what I meant, Y/N, and you know it.” She said firmly.
“Well, what do you mean then!?” You threw your arms out in front of you. “Dad and Peter were the only ones on my side today. Morita thought I was just starting a fight and so do you. You were the one who wanted me to be able to defend myself, to stand up for myself. And when I do, I get penalized in my own home.”
Before letting your mom answer, you went into your room. You let out a deep sigh before changing into pajamas. You hung up the shirt your dad got you from the game and gathered some homework supplies. You took your laptop, phone, Chemistry textbook, your notebook, and your pencil pouch with you on your fire escape. You played your music softly, bobbing your head as you typed notes and solved the equations in your notebook.
You waited for Peter to show up, but you were on your fire escape for a couple hours after your work was done. You had put all your school supplies away, leaving you and your phone wrapped in a blanket outside. It was just past midnight when you gave up. You were pulling out your phone to text Peter when he landed beside you on the fire escape.
“Hey.” He said from behind the mask. You realized his voice sounded different than it did last time you had talked to him in his suit. This time you could tell it was his voice. “Sorry, got caught up with a bank robbery.”
“Are you okay?” You asked softly, gathering your blanket to stand.
“Yeah, I’m good.” He shrugged. “Did you have fun with Mr. Stark?”
“It was really great, yeah.” You smiled. “Your voice sounds different… When we would fight and you were in your suit, you didn’t sound like you.”
“Yeah, there was a program that would make my voice sound different. But I turned it off on my way over.”
“Oh.” You nodded slightly. “Can you come inside or are you on a schedule?”
“I’m all yours for the rest of the night.”
You crawled inside first, Peter right behind you. He helped you collect your blanket and you two stood in the middle of your room. You tossed your massive blanket aside, placing your hands on your lower back. Peter fiddled with his fingers, unsure of what to do and what to say.
“Can you… Can you take off the mask?” You gestured to his face and Peter slowly took off the fabric.
You admired him for a moment, watching the way his eyes adjusted to the bright lights of your room. His curls were messy, slightly sweaty and out of place. His cheeks were flushed, his lips pressed into a fine line. It was like the first time seeing Peter.
“Say something, please.” Peter said softly, almost pleading.
“Your hair looks cute when it’s messy.” You tried.
“That’s not what I meant.” He sighed.
“I’m sorry. It’s a lot to take in, I guess.” Your eyes scanned Peter’s figure in the suit, a familiar desire to be close to Peter blossoming in your chest. “You look good though.”
“Y/N-” He tried again.
You shut him up quickly with a kiss. Your lips met his before he could say another word, your hands sliding up his chest to their place at the nape of his neck. His hands were on your hips, pulling you closer to him. His grip on your hips was tighter than usual but you weren’t complaining. You pulled him down to your height, drawing a small chuckle from him.
“Not that I’m complaining.” He said with a smile when he pulled away. He looked down at you with a soft expression. A content feeling filled his chest. He was elated to be so close to you again. Things felt right when you were close, as if there wasn’t a seemingly growing divide between you two. “But we both know why you asked me to come by tonight. Say something, please.”
“Lately, I’m counting the words that I haven’t said.” You admitted with a sad sigh, walking away from Peter to sit on your bed. Peter turned to watch you go, not sure if you wanted him to follow. Part of you did, but part of you still wanted to kick him out and never have to see him in the suit ever again. “My heart’s so heavy, it’s ready to fall out twice.”
“I’m so sorry, Y/N.” He took a quick step closer, his hands out in front. He wanted to reach for you. He wanted to hold your hands and pull you into his chest for a hug. But the pain in your voice, the sadness your words held, it kept him at a distance. “I wanted to tell you sooner. I just- I- I didn’t want to lose you.”
“Is this any better?” You scoffed. You felt the back of your eyes burn, hot tears threatening to fall. But you swallowed hard, keeping the pain inside. It wasn’t fair to take it out on Peter, but you were still upset with him. “Is this honestly any better?”
“I was wrong. I know that.” He tried desperately. “Tell me what I can do to fix this.”
“You can’t just fix this, Peter! That’s what you don’t seem to get.” You snapped loudly. You paused, waiting to hear if it woke up your mom. When no noise came from down the hall, you kept going. “I understand why you didn’t tell me… I really do. But I need you to understand where I’m coming from.”
“I do.”
“You don’t.” You shook your head, closing your eyes to try to keep your voice level. “I grew up despising superheroes because I felt like I was abandoned by one. I grew up with the idea that superheroes were an act, a facade put on by men with God complexes to get the admiration they craved. Then suddenly, my dad wants to actually be a dad. Great. I’m actually enjoying having him in my life. But to make matters worse, my boyfriend turns out to be the hero that I’ve been going up against for weeks. Peter, I’ve stabbed you and I’ve thrown you off a building!”
“But I’m fine!” He countered. You threw your hands up in annoyance, disappointed that Peter seemed to miss the whole point of what you were saying.
“I can see that, but I’m not!” You urged. “Part of me wants to hate you… I don’t, but part of me wants to.”
“Because you hate Spiderman…”
You nodded silently. You didn’t even want to admit that you did. You weren’t even sure if that was necessarily the truth. But it was the best word you had for the feeling you got when you thought of Spiderman.
“But you don’t hate Peter… Right?”
“Peter, I love you more than anything. I need you to know that above all else, I love you.” You jumped up from your bed, taking his hands in yours. His eyes dropped, closing tightly. A small tear slipped through his closed lids, and the sight nearly broke you. “I really do love you and I’m trying. I’m really trying cause I know you don’t deserve this.”
“I don’t want to pressure you, but I just can’t take it. Whatever it is we’re doing right now…” Peter said tightly. You could tell it was taking everything he had to not fall apart right in front of you.
“What are you saying?” You asked quietly, backing away and letting your grip on his hands slip away.
“I love you, Y/N. But I can’t sit here and pretend to be okay with this. You act one way at school in front of our friends. You’ll act like everything is fine and then you turn around and ignore me.”
“Would you rather me ignore you completely?” You scoffed. “If I ignore you completely, someone is gonna ask what’s wrong. Then how am I going to explain this one? How do I explain that my boyfriend is actually Spiderman and I’m fighting myself over what to do next?”
“I’d rather you not ignore me at all… If you need space to figure this out, I get it. But just say that’s what you need and I’ll give it to you.”
“I don’t know what I need in the long run. I just need you tonight… I need Peter tonight.”
“Peter and Spiderman are the same person, baby. I need you to need both.”
“I can’t… Not right now.”
Peter took the few steps to close the distance. He leaned down and placed a sweet kiss on your cheek. He sighed slightly, backing towards your window. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He said sadly.
“Wait!” You called, stopping him on your fire escape. He pulled down his mask and turned to you, waiting for your next few words. “You’re not gonna stay?” His silence was enough of an answer for you. “Are we gonna be okay?”
“You need time to figure it out…”
“Are you breaking up with me?” You were silently pleading that he wasn’t. You didn’t think you could take it if you lost him. Not over this.
“I’m giving you the space you need.” He said before disappearing.
You didn’t sleep that night. You stayed up, pacing and crying. You pulled your knives out from under your bed and shoved them back multiple times, not knowing what to do with the newfound pain in your chest. You wanted to default to what you had done, covering your face and taking out your pain in small acts that couldn’t be traced back to you. You wanted to go out and pick a fight, find a physical distraction to clear your muggy thoughts, if only for a few minutes at a time. But you knew you couldn’t. You shouldn’t. You had sworn off Heretic. She had caused you more harm than good at the end of the day.
No, you couldn’t dawn that mask again. You couldn’t pick up those knives again. Instead, you paced. You cried. You blamed yourself. You dialed Peter, then hung up after one ring. You dialed Tony, but hung up when you realized it was three in the morning. You sat on your fire escape, laying down and staring at the sky. You tried to settle yourself. You tried to collect your thoughts and rationalize them. But you didn’t know where to start.
It was stupid to let yourself lose Peter because of your vendetta against heroes. You were trying to work through it, to put it in the past and allow yourself to see past the masks, and you were willing to look past it so you could have your dad in your life. It was starting to become easier to be around your dad, but maybe that was because you only interacted with him as Tony. You never talked to him as Iron Man.
That was when you realized the difference. It wasn’t because you had found out Peter was Spiderman. It wasn’t because he kept it hidden from you, and you had done terrible things to him without thinking twice about it. It was because you knew Peter, you loved Peter, but you had a different relationship with Spiderman. You were at odds with Spiderman, not quite enemies but no where near friends. You were trying to merge two relationships that were polar opposites. You couldn’t keep it separate any longer, but you couldn’t mesh them so easily. It was going to take time, maybe some sort of grand gesture.
When the sun started shining, you climbed back into your room. You saw the dark circles under your eyes, weighing heavy on your facial features. You wiped the exhaustion from your face before gathering clothes for a cold shower. You got yourself ready, covering all signs of your internal crisis. Your dad had called you back so you explained everything to him. He offered for you to come to the tower after school, suggesting that the distraction could be exactly what you needed. You braced yourself for seeing Peter at school.
The thought was terrifying. You had no idea how Peter would act when he saw you. Would things be normal? Would he do what you did and pretend that there were no issues? Or would he run? Would he avoid you so he didn’t have to pretend, in essence leaving you to explain to your nosy - but well intended - friends why Peter wasn’t around?
#peter parker#peter parker x reader#peter parker fanfic#peter parker fic#peter x you#peter parker imagine#peter parker x you#peter x reader#spider man imagine#spiderman x reader#spiderman x y/n#spiderman fanfic#peter fanfic
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134. Sweetness and Decency
read the scarecrow and the bell on ao3
index | from the beginning | < previous | next >
TW for some brief talk about death in childbirth
The dango shop was a welcome comfort in chaotic times such as these—as was Sekkachi, miraculously enough. Sitting across from her now made things feel almost even normal. Almost. Rei watched as she sipped her water, poked at her little bowl of rice, grimaced at the cheery passerby.
“So is there a reason you decided to drag me out here, or no?” Sekkachi asked boredly. “Didn’t expect a lunch date on a Monday afternoon. Besides, aren’t you supposed to be at work?”
Rei chewed her lower lip, circled her index finger along the lip of her glass. “Well, I haven’t really been feeling well so I took a few days off…” she replied slowly, cautiously. It wasn’t like she had been hiding the fact that she was sick, and yet she still felt guilty about it. She still felt like in some capacity, she was lying. She didn’t particularly want to take off work but she needed time to process. If she had not called out sick, she knew she would have put the lives of herself and everyone under her supervision in danger by virtue of her own preoccupation. Her concentration was practically nonexistent, not to mention the everpresent nausea that still loomed heavy over her head.
Sekkachi smirked and chuckled under her breath. “The ANBU captain neglecting her duties? That doesn’t sound very responsible of you” she joked.
Rei sank down in her seat, crossing her arms about her chest. “Oh, shut up” she muttered. There was an added malice to her tone, a scathing jab that Sekkachi had not quite expected.
�� Amused with Rei’s sudden angst, Sekkachi raised her hands in surrender and stifled her laughter. “I’m just saying” she replied. She took another swig of her water then and proceeded to ask, “So are you going to answer the question or not?”
Narrowing her eyes, Rei shot Sekkachi a sharp glare. This was not going well. “Is it so wrong to just want to spend time with a friend?” she snapped. “Do I always have to have an ulterior motive?”
“No” Sekkachi replied, fishing a pack of cigarettes from her back pouch, “but you do anyways, don’t you?”
“You’re unbelievable” Rei muttered through gritted teeth.
“So, what is it?” Sekakchi asked. She fixed the cigarette between her teeth, snapped the switch on her finicky lighter. Rei’s heart leapt into her throat. “Make it quick so I can go back home.”
Just as Sekkachi finally got her lighter to ignite, Rei grimaced and leaned across the table, ripping the cigarette from her mouth. “Well first off, no more smoking. Got it?” she insisted.
Sekkachi whined, clearly insulted. “What the fuck, Rei?!” she asked, pulling another cigarette from the pack. “You’ve never had an issue with this shit before. Besides, you know how I need my smokes.”
“Not anymore” Rei snapped. She stole the second cigarette from Sekkachi’s mouth and swatted her hand away from the package before she could reach for a third. “It may not have mattered back then, but things are different now. You can’t smoke around me anymore.”
“Oh yeah? And why is that?” Sekkachi asked incredulously. She tossed the package of cigarettes across the table, swirled her water around in her glass casually before taking a long sip.
Rei clenched her fists at her sides, prepared herself for the ultimate admission. She wondered if it would be acceptable to just vanish into thin air, or to slink under the table and crawl home. Just avoid the subject completely. Her growing rage, however, said otherwise. It encouraged her to snap and scream and make a spectacle of herself as if to seek revenge against Sekkachi’s carelessness. But no, she would compose herself. Sucking in a sharp breath, Rei narrowed her eyes and finally confessed.
“Because…I’m pregnant.”
Sekkachi immediately choked on her drink, spewing water across the table and spluttering into the crook of her elbow. “Rei, what the fuck?! That’s not funny!” she shouted, slapping Rei on the forearm. “Just for that, I’m smoking twice as much today.”
“I’m not joking, you dick!” Rei fired back. She reached across the table to slap Sekkachi on the arm in retaliation. Huffing, she then angrily fished around in her back pouch before pulling out the pregnancy test and slapping it on the table. “See for yourself. I’m telling the truth.”
“Ew, get that shit away from me” Sekkachi cringed, flicking the test back towards Rei. “You should know better than to get your piss stick near my food.”
“Oh, as if you’re even eating it to begin with” Rei rolled her eyes. She snatched the pregnancy test off the table, stalled before putting it back in her pouch. Her eyes idled on that little pink line. She still had trouble processing it herself. “You know, something along the lines of ‘congratulations’ would have sufficed” she muttered.
“Why?” Sekkachi asked. “This is more of a curse than anything else.”
“Oh yeah?” Rei glared at her. “And how do you figure that?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Sekkachi replied. “Your body is going to get ripped to shreds, you’re going to shove a giant kid out of your vag, and then spend the next eighteen years cleaning up after it and going broke paying for everything it whines for. If you even live that long. Listen, I thought we already had this conversation back when you first came up with this psycho scheme. I thought you had given up on this shit. What the hell happened?”
Rei narrowed her eyes. “Your birthday is what fucking happened” she snapped.
Groaning, Sekkachi fell back against the booth and pressed the heels of her hands into her eye sockets. “Fuck, this just keeps getting worse and worse!” she complained. The aftereffects of Mikazuki’s voice mail still weighed heavy on her mind.
“God, you’re such a child” Rei spat, rolling her eyes. “What the fuck is your deal, anyway? What is with you and this…this thing that you’ve got against having kids? Are other people’s life choices really that much of an inconvenience to you, Sekkachi? God fucking forbid.”
“Rei, children are an inconvenience to everyone” Sekkachi insisted. She dropped her eyes to the ground, pouted. She really didn’t want to talk about this. Her stomach creaked in response to her mounting stress and she considered the pills in her back pouch. “I just don’t think you’re taking this seriously” she muttered sourly.
“I’m not taking this seriously?” Rei asked, borderline offended. “Alright, listen, I could understand when I told you that Kakashi and I were trying to conceive. That was one thing. But now to sit here and say this shit after I’ve already told you that I’m pregnant? God, can you be any more insensitive?”
“That’s all the more reason to tell you the harsh truth!” Sekkachi fired back. “Do you have any idea what’s going to happen to you, Rei? What could happen to you?”
“Sekkachi, what the fuck are you talking about?” Rei asked. She could feel her face growing hot, her hands growing numb. Her stomach began to churn. The emotional toll that this conversation was taking on her would not bode well for her morning sickness.
Sekkachi tensed and Rei could tell she had finally lost it. For the first time in a long time, her dark eyes had grown glossy with tears. She gripped the package of cigarettes on the table and her voice cracked. “I’m just not ready to fucking lose you, Rei” she plead.
Rei sighed. “Sekkachi, you’re not going to lose me” she assured.
“No, Rei, you don’t fucking get it” Sekkachi growled. The package of cigarettes began to crumple in her fist. “I don’t care about how your life is going to change after you have a kid. I know you won’t have much time for me anymore. I accept that. It’s the danger of being pregnant that I cannot accept.”
“Danger?” Rei asked. She knew that pregnancy always came with the possibility of complications, but perhaps Rei was naïve in her ignorance of them. In the hollow, hopeful belief that she was immune to them. She did not expect anything bad to happen to her, nor did she see any reason. Sekkachi was just overreacting. Her personal beliefs were clouding her judgment.
Gritting her teeth, Sekakchi repeated, “Yes, Rei. Danger.” She squeezed her eyes shut tight and tried to remain calm, but she was not doing a very good job at it. “Rei…my mother died bringing me into this world. And then I watched the same fucking thing happen to my aunt when she had Roru. I…I can’t even begin to describe the horror of seeing someone you love go through that kind of pain, to put in all of that physical labor, and then just…fucking lose it. Rei, you don’t understand. I am not going to let the same thing happen to you.”
Rei sucked in a sharp breath. Sekkachi’s fears were certainly valid but… “Sekkachi, I am not your mother. And I’m not your aunt, either” she started. “What do you even expect me to do? Get an abortion? Just to please you?” The mere mention of such drastic measures made Rei’s throat tighten. She couldn’t even imagine. Clenching her jaw, she dropped her gaze to the table and shoved the thoughts out of her mind. “You know” she snapped, “if you’re so fucking preoccupied with losing me, then it might do you well to be a little more supportive.” Perhaps it was just the hormones, but Rei’s emotions had become far too overwhelming. She felt chaotic and unhinged, her hands shaking and her heart beating out of her chest.
She should’ve known this was a mistake. She should’ve known Sekkachi would never be supportive. That she would never accept Rei’s yearning for domesticity and motherhood. Whatever pain Rei was feeling now was her own fault for ever thinking otherwise. And now that she had unraveled, a manic urgency took root in the pit of her stomach. She needed to leave. Now.
Rei locked eyes with Sekkachi for only a moment as she gathered her things and slapped a few dollars on the table. Her voice cracked as she bid Sekkachi a parting thought: “I can leave your life in more ways than one.”
When Kakashi returned home that night, the house was dark and silent. He flicked on the kitchen light to find Rei curled up on the couch, snuggled up in his shuriken blanket. A trash can sat by her side and Toshio slept dutifully by her feet. Kakashi kicked his shoes off and set his vest down before approaching, kneeling beside her and brushing the hair out of her face. Her cheeks were stained with dried tears and her eyes looked puffy and tired. She furrowed her brows and slowly blinked awake at his touch before quickly pulling him into a tight hug.
“R-Rei…what’s going on? Did something happen?” he asked as she buried her face in his neck. Her forehead was damp with sweat. He knew she had plans to meet with Sekkachi, and he knew that it likely did not go well. He felt obligated to ask anyway.
“K-Kakashi…I don’t think I have a best friend anymore” Rei sobbed.
“Oh?” Kakashi asked. He stroked her hair and kissed her exposed, freckled shoulder. “Why? What happened?”
Rei leaned back then, sniffled, wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “I told Sekkachi a-about the pregnancy and…she didn’t take it very well. And then I got angry and stormed out of the dango shop, b-but now I just…I feel like I can’t do anything right and like all I ever do i-is push her further and further away a-and I just—!” Rei explained, frantic and unhinged. She tightened her grip on his sleeves, gasped through her monstrous tears. “I-I don’t want to lose my best friend, Kakashi—!”
“Shh, it’s okay, I know” Kakashi whispered, pulling her close. His chest tightened, a desperation taking root. He hated seeing her so distraught but even more, he hated that he wasn’t even entirely surprised. He appreciated Sekkachi’s companionship, of course. He liked knowing that Rei had such a steadfast friend. He only wished that Sekkachi had been softer, kinder—especially now. But Sekkachi was nothing more than hard edges and blunt force trauma. She was unfiltered to a dangerous degree, bitter and harsh and honest. And, much like a parasite, she was also incredibly hard to get rid of—for better or for worse. “I’m sure things will calm down and she’ll come back around” Kakashi assured his fiancée. “You know Sekkachi, she’s always been like this.”
Rei sniffled. “A-are you sure?” she asked. “What if she decides that this is the last straw, though? What if she decides th-that she’s sick and tired of my bullshit?”
Kakashi shook his head. “I don’t think she will” he replied. He thought of Naru, of the fragile series of loss and grief upon which Rei and Sekkachi’s relationship had been built. They needed each other. “If she didn’t have you” Kakashi continued, “then who would she have?”
“Guy” Rei quipped. Kakashi considered this for a moment before deciding that ultimately, Might Guy did not count. After all, everyone had Might Guy. He belonged to all of them, like some sort of communal cheerleader. Yes, he and Sekkachi had a special bond but still. After a few more moments, Rei spoke again, voice choked and hoarse. “S-Sekkachi said she doesn’t want to lose me, she said th-that she’s scared I’m making a mistake. Th-that childbirth is dangerous, a-and I could…could die. But how can she say that when she keeps treating me like this, Kakashi? How can she say she doesn’t want to lose me when i-it’s like she’s doing this shit to herself?!”
Kakashi pursed his lips, sucked in a sharp breath. He hated to admit that the dangers of childbirth had weighed heavy on his mind amid all of this, too. He refused to let anything happen to Rei or their unborn child. But he also knew Rei’s capacity for panic, and he knew better than to make his own fears known. He needed to be strong and unaffected for the sake of her own sanity. She was already unhinged enough. With a gentle hand, Kakashi tilted Rei’s chin up to face him. He met her gaze with affectionate purpose. “Rei, look at me: you are not going to die. Nothing bad is going to happen. I promise. Sekkachi is just scared, and I’m sure she has every right to be. But if she really cared about you, if she was really your friend, she’ll come around. Just…give her some time.”
Rei wasn’t sure she believed Kakashi’s words. After all, he always knew what to say to make her feel better, whether it was true or not. She wanted him to be honest with her, and she wanted to believe that he would understand that. Kakashi was not going to do her any favors by lying.
But deep down, Kakashi truly was genuine in his words. He may not have known Sekkachi as intimately or for as long as Rei or even Guy had, but he knew well enough that she would not abandon her comrades. She would whine and complain and feign apathy but she would never abandon them. Not really. Not after Naru.
Kakashi pulled his fiancée close and rubbed the small of her back as she continued to sob, releasing all of her pent-up, emphasized emotions. Once she had cried herself to sleep, he scooped her up in his arms and carried her into the bedroom, resting her gently upon the mattress and tucking her in much like a child. He dragged the trash can to her bedside just in case, kissed her sweaty temple, and turned out the light.
Come Wednesday morning, Kakashi stood in the doorway as Rei struggled through her morning routine, a white-knuckle grip on the counter and her face pale and dewy with sweat. “Are you going to be okay?” he asked softly.
Gritting her teeth, Rei gave a minute shake of her head. “K-Kakashi, I don’t think I can do this” she whispered. Their doctor’s appointment was in thirty minutes. They were already cutting things close.
The altercation with Sekkachi had only further emphasized Rei’s inner panic over the past few days. Between that and her fear of confronting Lady Tsunade, she thought of little else. Kakashi could clearly see the toll that this was taking on her. He saw it in the dark circles beneath her eyes, her sunken cheeks and the pallor of her skin. In the way she poked at her food, disinterested, and how her temper so easily flared.
Inching nearer, Kakashi rested a gentle hand on the small of Rei’s back. “What do you need me to do?” he then asked. If there was any way he could lessen her burden, he was ready and willing.
“Take my place and face all of this for me?” she asked, smiling weakly at him. She knew the answer was an obvious no. He was not a seahorse, and she was not that lucky. Kakashi chuckled under his breath, pressed his forehead to her temple to kiss her cheek.
“Go sit down and take a minute” he suggested. “I’ll get our stuff together in the meantime.” Neither of them were sure what, exactly, was necessary to bring to their first prenatal appointment but they assumed the pregnancy test itself, a list of questions and concerns (of which they had many), and of course the usual identification and insurance cards.
While Rei did not feel entirely at ease with just sitting, she knew that if she forced herself to stand over the bathroom sink any longer, she was going to pass out. Her head was already spinning and her stomach was in knots. She willed herself to remain steady as she made her way to the couch, her vision blurring with splotches of indescribable color. She wondered if she ought to eat something, but then decided against it. She would only throw it back up anyway, and the last thing she needed was to vomit all over the doctor. Toshio followed close behind, hopping up on the couch beside her and swiping his tongue across her cheek. A laugh broke past her lips as she wiped the slobber off her face with the cuff of her sleeve and scratched him affectionately behind the ear. If only he could come with them, but hospitals did not seem to take very kindly to dogs.
As she quieted down, Rei suddenly swore she could hear the echo of footsteps in the hallway. “Kakashi…?” she called into the bedroom. “Do you hear that, or am I just losing it?” And then there was a knock at the door and Rei’s back went ramrod straight. She clutched at the thick fur at Toshio’s neck and forced her breathing to steady. They were not expecting company. This was the last thing she needed on a morning like this.
Kakashi poked his head out of the bedroom, arching a brow. “Is someone at the door?” he asked. He knew it was a dumb question—he had heard the knock, too—but he wanted to make sure that he, too, was not hallucinating amid his own anxiety.
Rei met his gaze with wide, panicked eyes, nodding slowly. She glanced to the door, swallowed hard, then replied weakly, “I-I’ll get it.”
“Are you sure?” Kakashi asked. He didn’t want her to overexert herself. Before he could rush to her side, she was already on her feet and approaching.
“I’m sure it’s nothing” she replied. “Probably just the mailman or something, right?” Kakashi gave a slow nod, idling in the doorway. Rei’s hand hovered over the doorknob, shaky and unsure. She gripped it slowly, sucked in a deep breath, squeezed her eyes shut tight. She didn’t even want to bother with the peephole. If there was someone on the other side, she didn’t want to know. She feared she already knew the answer anyway. Then finally, with a soft grunt, she shoved the door open. There was no one.
Once Kakashi saw that the hallway was empty, he felt safer letting Rei handle this on her own. Surely she was right, and it was just the mail. He swore he caught sight of a package on the doorstep anyway. With a sigh of relief, he turned back to the bedroom and finished gathering their things.
Rei’s breath hitched in her throat as she knelt down to retrieve the package. Tied with a neat little bow was a pair of vintage baby booties and a matching blanket. Rei ran her hand across the blanket’s soft fabric—pale blue fleece—and something in her clicked. Embroidered in the corner was a happy little teddy bear holding three primary-colored balloons. Her hands shook. She recognized this blanket. It was the same one she had seen in the antiques shop a month ago. And there was only one person who would have known about it: Sekkachi.
Tucked underneath the ribbon was a little note, wrinkled and tinged with the faintest scent of cigarette smoke. Rei hugged the blanket to her chest as she unfolded it, skimmed that all-too-familiar scribbled penmanship.
Rei,
Sorry we got off on a bad foot the other day. Hope this makes up for it.
-Sekkachi
Rei clapped a hand over her mouth as she tried to restrain her tears but failed miserably. She had to admit, this was the perfect gift. Sekkachi must have recognized the longing in her eyes when Rei first found it, and it was just like her to gift something so cozy and warm. Sekkachi refused to admit it out loud, but she had a secret penchant for the soft and snuggly. She always knew the perfect fabric for blankets, the perfect firmness for a pillow. This was truly the perfect gift.
The moment Kakashi heard Rei’s sobs, he raced out of the bedroom and to her side at, quite frankly, a ridiculous speed. “What’s wrong? What is it?” he asked, resting a hand on her back and searching the hallway for a hidden perpetrator. Rei sniffled and tightened her grip on the blanket. “Oh? What’s this?” Kakashi asked, calming once he realized there was no present danger. He reached out to carefully caress the corner of the blanket between his thumb and forefinger.
A teary smile touched Rei’s lips as she handed Kakashi the note. “It’s from Sekkachi” she croaked. Kakashi took the slip of paper cautiously, skimming the brief message, and relief washed over him. Finally, a weight had been lifted off of Rei’s mind—or at least one of many. He knew Sekkachi was bound to come around sooner or later. It warmed his heart to see her go to such great lengths for an apology. A true acceptance of the hand fate had dealt them, a promise of companionship and support.
“Can I see what she got us?” Kakashi asked softly. Rei nodded and handed over the blanket and booties, and an incredulous little laugh broke past Kakashi’s lips. Somehow holding them now, the first little gifts for their child, made the situation feel so much more real. He turned the booties over in his hands, swinging the little pompoms dangling from the cuff. They were so tiny. How could anyone ever be so tiny? And yet in just under a year, he would have his answer in the form of their own little baby. Kakashi sucked in a deep breath, tried to maintain his composure. He could not, however, fight the smile spreading wide across his lips.
Rei’s heart soared to see him so moved. Kakashi truly was going to be an incredible father, she just knew it. She brushed the bangs back out of her face, sniffled, glanced to the clock. “Hey, we better get going” she then said. “We’re running late.”
“Right” Kakashi nodded and set the gift down on the kitchen table. He could return to revel in it later. Right now, they had more pressing matters at hand. He took Rei’s hand in his, kissed her forehead sweetly, and together they went off with equal parts hope and anxiety for the future. For the first notes of the steady thump of their child’s heartbeat. For the beginning of the rest of their lives.
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But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 9: Follow The Rules]
Hi y’all, I hope you are all doing well 💜
Chapter summary: Veronica has some questions, Roger has a plan, John has a short temper.
This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.
Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.
Chapter warnings: Language, medical stuff, pregnancy.
Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE
Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii @loveandbeloved29 @killer-queen-xo @maggieroseevans @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @im-an-adult-ish @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @joemazzmatazz @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye @namelesslosers @inthegardensofourminds @deacyblues @youngpastafanmug @sleepretreat @hardyshoe @bramblesforbreakfast @sevenseasofcats @tensecondvacation @bookandband @queen-crue @jennyggggrrr @madeinheavxn @whatgoeson-itslate @brianssixpence @simonedk @herewegoagainniall @stardust-killer-queen
Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! :)
At the wedding, Roger is wearing a cast on his right arm and a dazzling smile...and a white suit that he looks criminally good in.
John is in black, Brian in blue, Freddie in maroon-colored velvet and heavy eyeliner. Veronica’s dress is high-waisted and falls in huge, billowing, shapeless ruffles to hide her silhouette. Her family knows, of course—it’s written all over the tense, grim lines of their mouths and the blades their pale eyes hurl at John—but none of those strict Catholics are going to mention an out-of-wedlock pregnancy in God’s house, nor at the modest reception in the church basement that follows the ceremony.
Veronica’s mother and aunts and sisters are just like her, docile and milky-skinned and small-boned, and you’ve helped them deck the vast room with enough flowers, ribbons, candles, and balloons to make everyone forget this event was thrown together in five weeks and on a shoestring budget. There’s a simple buffet with pot roast and potatoes and vegetables, a live band (some of John’s old friends from high school), and a homemade Polish honey cake baked by Veronica’s grandmother situated regally on a china serving dish. Veronica and John cycle through the tables of guests, smiling and nodding and thanking them for coming, dutifully and yet also seemingly genuinely cheerful.
“The boning is bloody impaling me,” Chrissie murmurs as she tugs at the bodice of her gown. It’s satin and a muted pink, just like yours and Mary’s and Veronica’s sisters’. “If I happen die, wrap me in one of those nice tablecloths I paid for and throw me in a ditch somewhere, will you love?”
“You got it.” You stab a piece of potato with your fork. “This should inspire you to be especially compassionate towards your own bridesmaids! Maybe no horrid shiny green.”
Brian chuckles. “Good luck with that.”
“Are you comfortable?!” Chrissie asks Mary, exasperated, fanning herself with a wedding program.
“I am,” Mary admits cautiously. “But...well...at the moment, I think my dress is a bit...roomier.”
Chrissie moans, dropping her face into her hands. “I always gain when the students go home for summer. My routine is wrecked, all I want to do is read Glamour magazines and listen to records, it’s too damn hot to go walking...and I adore ice cream.”
“I like you just fine,” Brian reassures her.
Freddie snickers as he taps his cigarette against an ashtray. “Yes, we’re all well aware of your anatomical preferences, Bri.”
Chrissie rolls her eyes. “Please do not elaborate.” She’s not offended—she’s far too used to Freddie’s shenanigans to be offended—but she’ll be embarrassed if he makes a scene at a wedding.
“Darling, I don’t care what anyone tries to tell you, plenty of men love a little extra meat on the bones. Particularly the ass bones.”
“We’re in God’s house!” you scold him in a hiss. “You’re going to give Great Aunt Zofia over there an aneurysm if she hears you!”
Roger quips: “Great Aunt Zofia stole the last kielbasa right out of my disabled, ineffectual grasp, so fuck her.”
You all burst into shocked, uncontrollable laughter. Great Aunt Zofia squints judgmentally at the commotion from several tables away, gnawing on her kielbasa; she’s been glaring at John and Veronica—the Tetzlaffs’ very own fallen angel—since she first ambled into the church. Roger rocks back in his chair, smoking with his unbroken left arm, smirking cockily and basking in the distraction from the real world that the wedding has gifted you all tonight. He catches you watching him—marveling at him, truthfully—and winks.
John appears and rests his hands on the back of your chair. “What’s so amusing? I swear, I leave you people alone for two hours and you’re having all sorts of fun without me, I won’t stand for it!”
“It was a lovely ceremony,” you tell him. “I’d forgotten how beautiful Catholic weddings are, all the music and ambiance.”
“And from what I saw, you knew most of the words.”
“We have a lot of Irish people in Boston. Saint Patrick’s Day is bigger than Christmas.”
John points at Roger’s cast. “It’s not paining you too much, is it?”
Roger holds his Dark ‘n Stormy aloft, and ice clinks in the misted glass. “Enough of these, and I can’t feel anything. Numb to the world’s many disappointments. I highly recommend it.”
“Noted,” John replies. Roger has pills for his arm, but they only take the edge off. You don’t know that because he’s told you; Roger never tells you that he’s hurting, that he’s frustrated, that he’s afraid. He wears grins and flippant humor like a second skin, shrouding his wounds—both physical and disembodied, old and new—in darkness. Still...you can see all those words he doesn’t say swimming in the depths of his eyes. “I think I’ll hunt down a Manhattan myself.”
“Dad made an impression!” you tell John enthusiastically. “I’ll have to let him know, he’ll be overjoyed.”
“He mixes a good one, that’s for sure. I doubt Cousin Bartosz will be able to compare.” He casts a glance at a perplexed-looking, flame-haired teenager manning a tiny wet bar.
“Booze won’t help you heal,” Freddie informs Roger, checking his reflection in Mary’s makeup compact and fluffing his lustrous hair. “Eat your vegetables. Get more sleep. When do you start physical therapy, again?” Then, to you: “Darling, when does Roger start his therapy?”
Roger sighs. “I’ve got it handled, Fred.”
“Dear, don’t have a fit, I just want to make sure you’ll be ready—”
“I’ve got it handled,” Roger repeats, his tone a warning.
Brian breaks the tension with a toast, his Vesper jangling against Roger’s Dark ‘n Stormy. “I’m thrilled, honestly. Now I’m not the only one who’s ruined a tour.”
Roger grimaces. “Thanks, Bri.”
“Yes, let’s all have a turn,” Freddie mutters, sipping champagne. “Deaky can electrocute himself while fiddling with his amp, and then I’ll...what? Have my foot chewed off by an alligator in New Orleans? Get gored by a wild boar outside Atlanta? It just can’t be a boring maiming, that’s my only request.”
“Alaska has grizzlies, huge ones,” Brian suggests.
“Darling, in what dimension would my luxurious self ever end up in fucking Alaska?”
You shake your head, frowning down into your wine glass. It’s June now, the dead center of a crestfallen year: the rest of the Sheer Heart Attack Tour is cancelled, the record company is furious, and the band is broker than ever. Queen is supposed to start recording their next album—their last album, the record company insists, unless it happens to be a runaway success—in July, but you don’t know if Roger’s arm will be healed in time. None of you know that. You wonder if this really is God’s house, or at least one of his homes, sanctified piles of bricks and glass scattered across the globe; maybe you could ask Him where Queen’s future lies.
Veronica swoops in and dusts an airy kiss onto Mary’s cheek, and then Chrissie’s, and then yours. “Thank you so much,” she gushes. Her high cheekbones are flushed, her watery eyes sparkling. She’s in heaven, sinner or not. Her massive white dress swishes with every step. “We couldn’t have done it without you. And you’re next, Chris! I can’t wait.”
Chrissie smiles. She and Brian are getting married just before Christmas. “Yes, well, time will tell if we’ll be serving Christmas ham or canned beans.”
“And then Mary...” Veronica’s gaze migrates across the table. Mary’s been wearing a ring on her wedding finger since Queen returned from Japan, a simple gold band that once belonged to Freddie’s mother. “What about you, Y/N? Any plans? Then we’d all be hitched!”
Red wine spurts from your lips and you fumble for a cloth napkin. Roger doesn’t believe in marriage, and neither do you; not after only four months together, anyway. And yet...is there some part of you that can’t help but think of papers and rings when you get lost in his eyes, of promises of forever, of some way to tie yourself to him like vessels to a heart? Sure; and that’s a little wonderful, that’s a little terrifying. “Uh, uh, oh, oh no, definitely no plans whatsoever.”
“What bollocks!” Rog sneers. “Really, what’s the point if you’re not religious? Who needs a bloody piece of paper to prove they love someone?! ‘I care for you so much I need the government to know we’re together and the hassle of divorce fees to make me stay,’ what the fuck. I mean, uh, no offense John, Bri, uh...this is all well and good for you, but...ah...”
“It’s just not your scene. That’s fine, Rog,” Freddie says with a tad too much empathy. Mary doesn’t seem to notice.
“But you’ll want children at some point, won’t you?” Veronica asks you, almost pained. She’s not trying to be cruel, you realize; she genuinely can’t fathom the pinnacle of a woman’s life as anything but being a wife and mother.
“Theoretically, sure. One day. Eventually.” You titter nervously. Roger’s good arm circles your shoulders, his cigarette lofting smoke. Oh, but wouldn’t he make beautiful children? You push that thought away. It’s too soon, it’s too much, it’s not in the cards for an impoverished maybe-drummer and his girlfriend; and a girlfriend—with all the intangibility and impermanence that title entails—is all I’ll ever be. “I think I need to travel the world a bit more first.”
John sighs and pats the back of Veronica’s hand. What is that weight in his voice...impatience? Annoyance? “Ronnie, please, don’t bother her.”
Veronica sulks, scraping the old scuffed linoleum floor with her pointy white heels. “I wasn’t trying to bother anyone...”
Mary comes to the rescue: “No, of course not. You didn’t, dear.” She likes Veronica more than Chrissie does. Isn’t she oppressively vapid? Chrissie has asked you more than once. Isn’t she so miserably naïve? Veronica is sweet, sure, but she has no fucking idea what she’s in for. “Babies are wonderful, but they do make things harder, don’t you think? Especially for the mother. You have to be ready to drop everything for them. All your other interests and aspirations.”
“I suppose,” Veronica mumbles. You can tell she’s thinking: What other aspirations?
“But you must be so excited!” You beam up at Veronica. It’s her wedding day, and John’s; it should be happy, it should be optimistic. And you’re learning to like Veronica—less than Mary, but more than Chris—because you know that’s the best thing for John.
She instinctively rests her hand on the swell of her belly; or, rather, where it must be somewhere beneath all those heaps of satin and tulle. Great Aunt Zofia’s glare intensifies. “I’m scared to death, to tell you the truth.”
“Why?!” Mary cries.
“I’m so afraid something will happen to him.” Veronica’s voice is soft, her blue eyes glassy. She’s certain the baby is a boy, claims she had some sort of dream about it. “There’s a lot of bad luck going around for us, isn’t there? And my mother lost four babies. Any time he stops moving, I worry constantly until my next appointment. I haven’t felt anything in days, and I just...I just...” She trails off, staring vacantly across the crowded church basement. She’s trying not to cry, you realize.
“I can try to check for you,” you offer. “If it would make you feel better.”
“Really?” Veronica sounds hopeful, but guardedly so.
“This is embarrassing, but I carry my nurse kit almost everywhere I go now. That’s why I brought my huge blue purse even though it doesn’t match the dress. You know, you can’t be too careful...”
“Yes, who knows when someone will try something idiotic like jogging backwards down the stairs?” Freddie muses. Roger lobs a pierogi at him. Great Aunt Zofia wheezes out a disgusted huff and crosses her veiny, wrinkled arms over her sagging chest.
“I have a stethoscope,” you continue. “I can’t guarantee I’ll find a heartbeat, but I’ll give it a try if that would help.”
“Would you, Y/N?” Veronica clutches for John’s hand, and he lets her take it without any resistance; but he doesn’t seem to know how to comfort her. He has the same dazed look on his face that he has a lot these days, the same look that Bri and Freddie sometimes get: like they’re on autopilot, like they’re actively filtering through brainwaves to fish out any that wander astray. Roger lands a kiss on your bare shoulder and pitches you a playful smirk, his I’m so proud of my too-fucking-smart girlfriend smirk.
You grab your purse from beneath the table. “Does God’s house have a cozy private spot somewhere?”
Veronica leads you, Mary, and Chrissie to a small unoccupied room that is used (how pertinently) as the church nursery. The pink wallpaper is dotted with waddling ducklings, cloud-shaped sheep leaping over fences, smiling suns and winged cartoonish angels. Veronica settles into a faded blue couch, and Mary and Chris help her shove aside the massive plumes of her wedding dress to reveal the plain shift she’s wearing underneath. She’s over five months along now, and her entirely unremarkable bump seems colossal on her delicate frame.
You pop the headset into your ears and press the chestpiece against Veronica’s unyielding belly, gliding it over the pearly shift as you try different positions.
“Anything?” Mary asks anxiously.
“It’s not bloody instant, Mary!” Chrissie snaps. “Be quiet so she can listen.”
“No need to be cranky—”
“You can’t find a heartbeat, can you?” Veronica says, her voice quivering. “Oh god...”
“Found it,” you announce. You hold the chestpiece in place as you yank the headset off and pass it to Veronica.
She gapes at you. “You’re just saying that so I’ll stop worrying, aren’t you?”
“Hear for yourself.”
Veronica takes the headset and listens, closing her eyes as the rapid-fire and rhythmic swishing of her child’s heartbeat floods through her ears. “Oh,” she breathes, beaming. “There he is.”
“That’s incredible!” Mary trills. “Can I hear too, Veronica? Whenever you’re finished...”
Mary listens, and Chrissie does too, and then you all help touch up Veronica’s hair and makeup before you head back to the reception. The cake is due to be cut in twelve minutes. As you smooth the short train on her dress, Veronica turns back to you.
“Do you think I’m a bad person?” she asks timidly, hugging her belly. “You know...for this.”
“That’s something I’ve always liked about nursing. So many jobs require sorting out who’s right and wrong, casting judgment, assigning punishment. There’s no weighing of the moral scales in medicine. It doesn’t matter if a patient is trustworthy, deceitful, good, bad, worthy, undeserving, if they disappoint you, if they’re the ones who hurt themselves. You treat everyone, you heal everyone. And I would like to keep that part of myself for as long as I can.” You smile at Veronica. “But, for the record, no. I don’t think you’re a bad person at all.”
She sighs in relief, untethering an anchor she hadn’t even known she’d been dragging around by her throat. “Thank you,” she whispers, tears snaking down her powdered ivory cheeks.
~~~~~~~~~~
“Come on.”
“How do you feel about marble lion statues? You know, the ones at the end of long, winding driveways. Rich people’s driveways. Mansion driveways. Or do you prefer gargoyles?”
“Roger.”
He groans, grins, presses his right fist into your palm. You measure the force with your mind, with your muscle memory. He’s stronger than he was yesterday, the day before, last week. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Rog teases. “You’ve got a soft spot for damaged people. Helpless people. That’s why you warmed to Brian so quickly. He was lying there all gaunt and jaundiced and terrified, and you just couldn’t resist, you just had to make sure all his wildest dreams came true.”
“I have a soft spot for self-destructive musicians who end up in hospitals, evidently.” Your gaze cruises over the scar on Roger’s forearm where the surgeons popped his bones back into place, stabilized them, stitched the ragged gore closed. You hate looking at it; you hate reminders of how mortal Roger really is.
“I want lions,” Rog decides. “For the driveway of our eventual mansion. I like the Leo connection.”
“And the Queen crest connection.”
His grin widens, toothy and radiant. “See, I knew you were the love of my life.”
“Come on. Again.”
He winces this time. “Doesn’t hurt a bit.”
“Uh huh. I bet.” You’ve slathered his fresh blisters with numbing antiseptic ointment, iced his arm, administered pain medicine, allowed him the constant sips of alcohol necessary for him to work, to drum, to sleep. But he still hurts. You imagine he hurts all the fucking time.
It’s August now, and Queen is recording their fourth album at Rockfield Farm. You and Roger are sitting by the pool as Freddie splashes around in the clear chlorine-smelling water trying to get John’s attention. John, meanwhile, is lounging on an inflatable raft, wearing black sunglasses and most likely asleep. Brian circles the pool snapping photos with your Canon F-1.
“I have a plan,” Roger informs you as he starts his stretches without prompting. He knows the drill, even if he likes to be difficult about it.
“By all means, enlighten me.”
“Fred’s thing, the weird one. It has a name now.”
“Does it?”
“Yeah. Bohemian Rhapsody.”
“Oh, it’s perfect!” You try to stay out of the band’s business decisions as much as possible; it’s not your expertise, and it’s not your place, and there are already a few too many creative chefs in that kitchen. Still, you love when they share their magic with you. “Eccentric, whimsical, exhilarating. Just like the song. Just like Queen.”
“I’m so glad you approve. We’re going to make sure it’s the first single off the album. And I know exactly what song’s going to be on the B-side. Freddie and Bri don’t know yet, but I do.”
“Sounds like they’re going to murder you when they find out.”
“I’ll convince them.” His grin is crafty, daring. “Picture it: you’ve just finished the incomparable experience that is Bohemian Rhapsody. You’re a newly converted Queen enthusiast. What could possibly come next? You flip the record over. And the virile, screeching, pure rock and roll passion of I’m In Love With My Car is there to greet you.”
“Oh my god, Roger.” You shake your head in mock mourning. “They actually are going to murder you.”
“Listen, love, BoRhap is going to be a hit. I can feel it.”
“Sure,” you agree lukewarmly. You want to be supportive, you really do. But disappointment stings more than resignation.
“It will be,” Roger maintains, unmovable. “And it’ll sell mountains and mountains of singles...and with my song on the B-side, I’ll get half the royalties. Which means we’ll get half the royalties.”
“Which is how we end up with the hypothetical mansion.”
“I’m being serious.” Roger picks up his mini barbell weights from the water-splattered concrete and begins his bicep curls, flinching each time he lifts his right fist.
“Rog—”
“I’m fine,” he insists. “I’m going to make this happen. I’m going to get rich so I can provide for my family. You know about that, you know it’s on my list. And my family includes you now.”
“I don’t need a mansion, Roger.” I just need you. You stare at his right arm worriedly. “Are you sure—?”
“I’m fine!” he shouts, and you recoil. Brian peers over from where he’s taking pictures of blooming purple foxgloves. Instantly, Roger regrets it. “I’m sorry,” he says, setting down the barbells and cradling your face with his rough, bandaged hands. “I have to be fine, you know? I don’t have a choice. If I can’t play, I can’t be in the band. If I leave, John will leave too, and that’ll be the end of everything. Or worse, John will break the pact and stay and they’ll find a new drummer and forget all about me. Sail off into some blissful new future. And where will I be? Moping as I drag myself back to dental school? Becoming a freaking lab biologist? Resigning myself to being some excruciatingly ordinary bloke, someone who climbed just far enough out of Cornwall to know everything he’s missing out on?”
You try to imagine who Roger would be without the band, but you can’t. You’ve never known a pre-Queen Roger. “No,” you say, amused. “You’ll never be just some ordinary bloke. You’re too brilliant, too determined. Even if you do have a dodgy arm.”
He kisses you, and you can feel his lips curling into a smile beneath yours. “So you’ll let me buy you a mansion.”
“If you get I’m In Love With My Car on the B-side, and BoRhap is a hit, and Freddie and Bri don’t smother you with a pillow in your sleep...yes, you can buy me a mansion. Buy us a mansion.”
He winks, his sapphire eyes glinting in the late-summer sunlight. “Watch out, baby. I get everything I want eventually.”
~~~~~~~~~~
“It’s done,” John tells the others as he passes out copies of his new song, the second he’s ever written. There are only four sheets of crisp white paper; as you watch from the studio couch, you wonder what the song is about, why he didn’t mention it to you.
“It’s done?!” Brian yelps. “What do you mean, it’s done?! Nothing’s ever done after the first pass! That’s how it works, that’s how it always works, someone suggests something and then we all dice it and slice it and flip it around and stitch it back together like the world’s most maniacal surgeons, and then, only then, maybe, it’s done.”
You glance up from where you’re sewing an eleventh patch onto Roger’s jeans. “Must we disparage the medical profession?”
“Sorry, love,” Roger tosses to you with a laugh.
“It’s done,” John repeats.
“Deaky, darling,” Freddie ventures gently. “We should endeavor to keep our minds open to collaboration—”
“Oh, should we, Fred?!” Bri exclaims. “How extraordinary, you never seem to encourage collaboration when it’s your song on the cutting floor!”
“Okay space boy, you listen here—”
“‘I’m happy at home’?!” Roger reads, revolted. “We’re not the bloody Bee Gees, Deaks!”
John explains measuredly and patiently, as if to a child: “That’s the way it goes. We record it as it is or not at all.”
“That’s not how we do things,” Brian mutters, deep frown lines chiseled through his face as he scans the lyrics.
“Then just fill the album with your and Fred’s songs like you always do, I’m sure that’ll keep me and Roger loyal.”
Brian glares at John. John stares back stoically, his eyes like steel. Brian looks to Roger for support; Roger lights a cigarette and pretends not to notice.
“Darling, please, you’re not being reasonable!” Freddie pleads.
“I need it.” John turns to Roger now. “I need it to stay the way it is.”
Rog just watches him for a while, exhales smoke, shrugs. “Okay,” he says at last.
“Okay?!” Brian howls. “What do you mean, okay?!”
“He said he needs it,” Roger replies simply.
Bri throws his hands into the air. “Bleeding christ! ‘He needs it.’ What rubbish! Do something, Fred!”
“Oh relax, darling.” Freddie sashays to the microphone and points to Brian’s Red Special. “Let’s try it out.”
“But—!”
Roger claps Brian on the back as he trots by him towards the drum kit. “Come on, Bri. Big smiles. Just picture the nice shiny pounds from all those album sales plinking into your bank account. You’ll have fifty Christmas hams at the wedding, one for every guest.”
You listen passively from the couch as they rehearse, trying not to let on that you’re paying attention, trying not to overstep. But you can’t help being struck by the lyrics, feeling the somberness of Freddie’s voice and John’s tentative notes on the electric piano slink into your bones; because it sounds so familiar, because it echoes so many things that John has told you.
When Queen takes a mid-afternoon break and John slips into the kitchen for a Coke, you follow him.
“Hey John?”
“Yeah.” He rests his hands on the dining room table. They’re sturdy and unmarred and completely unlike Roger’s; and you aren’t sure why you notice this, but you do.
“I completely understand if I’m being intrusive, and if I am please just tell me to shut up and I will.”
He chuckles. “You’re never intrusive. Go ahead.”
“I was just wondering...who is You’re My Best Friend about?”
Now his smile evaporates. “No one in particular,” he says briskly. “It’s just a song. Just something to put on the album. Maybe a single one day. A soulless royalties grab.”
That seems unlikely. “Really?”
“Yeah.” He takes a swig of Coke, peers down at the table, traces swirls of centuries-old oak with his fingertips.
“It’s just...you know...well...it kind of sounded like...maybe it was about me.”
He looks up. And for the first time, John levels some of his infamous, razored words at you: “Don’t be such a fucking narcissist.”
~~~~~~~~~~
Two days later, John doesn’t apologize. But he smiles at you over tea, offers to clean off the fingerprints of strawberry jelly that Roger left on the Canon, splashes you from the pool as you sunbathe beneath lapis August skies. And you agree, wordlessly and unconditionally, to forgive him. Because John is your best friend, whether or not you’re still his.
Nine weeks later, Bohemian Rhapsody is released as a single. (And, as promised, Roger ensures that I’m In Love With My Car is on the B-side.)
Twelve weeks later, Bohemian Rhapsody reaches the #1 spot on the UK Singles Chart, and remains there for over two months.
Fifteen weeks later, A Night At The Opera becomes the #1 album in the UK.
Fifteen weeks later, Queen’s future is suddenly crystal clear.
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“One cappuccino and chocolate brownie, please” - Chapter 11
Summary: Darcie Angel is thirty years old and owner of the famous cafe “The Coffee Cup” in New York City. She is known for her sweet smile and her amazing customer service. For six months now, John Wick has visited her cafe every day, earning himself a table that is always reserved for him. Darcie can’t stop thinking about him and when he asks her out one day, her dreams are finally coming true. But will it last?
John Wick x OFC Darcie
Word count: 1.8k
Warnings: Angst
Masterlist // Previous chapter // Next chapter
It has been a week after our first time and I was still living on cloud nine.
Until two days ago, when he had to leave for work. According to Jennie and Raye, I wasn’t my usual happy self, but that was mostly because I was so worried about him. Though he had texted me multiple times a day, it was still not enough. Every second I’m apart from him, makes me feel a little empty from the inside. I know I shouldn’t be that dependent on a man, but with John I can’t help it.
I feel so happy when I’m with him and staring at his empty table for two days straight, has been pretty hard.
But after the two longest day of my life have passed, I get in the Mustang with Tiki. John told me he didn’t need his car and he wanted me to drive it when I go to work. Because then I know for sure you get home safely was his reasoning.
I mean, you don’t hear me complaining. I even send my dad a picture with me in the chauffeurs seat, causing him to be very jealous and nearly leaving mid trial, just so he could see it.
With the window open and the radio turned on, I drive the car back to John’s house. He is finally back home and I hope he is doing all right. When he called me earlier this day at work, he told me he was home again and he hoped we could meet. Since I had never been to his house, I really wanted to go there.
And of course, because I missed him a lot.
I park the car in front of the car and I tell Tiki: ‘We’re finally at John’s place. Please be nice, don’t chew on stuff and please don’t pee anywhere, okay?’
Tiki barks and I get out of the car, letting her jump out. I grab the Kimchi Fried Rice from the night before from the backseat and I hear the front door open. John walks up to me and scoops me up in his arms. ‘I missed you so insanely much, Darcie,’ he says, pressing tons of kisses in my neck.
I squeal, trying to wiggle out of his arms, but he is too strong and holds me close to his body. ‘I missed you too,’ I chuckle. ‘I brought some Kimchi Fried Rice with me from last night.’
‘You are the best.’ He puts me down, only to scoop up Tiki, to pepper her face with kisses as well. ‘I really missed you too, sweetheart,’ he says in a high voice. With Tiki in his arms and holding my hand securely in his, we walk inside his house.
I’m not blind and do notice the tiny limp in his walk, but since I want to keep it as light as possible, not wanting to bring up a lot of work related stuff, I purse my lips together, physically restraining myself from saying anything.
I place the duffle bag on his counter. ‘Your house is pretty plain.’
Tiki nearly slips on the shiny floor, but recovers herself quickly. She jumps around John’s feet, clearly missing her favorite customer like crazy.
‘You can say it’s boring, Darcie,’ he laughs.
‘Well, I just miss some pink accents.’
John nods. ‘When Helen was still alive,’ he says, in a much more serious tone, ‘the house was much warmer. She loved a more natural color palette. More… Brownish, earthy colors, if that makes any sense at all.’
‘I get what you’re saying. Raye is all about those colors too. It’s always very cosy at her place.’
‘I just lack the fantasy to make a house feel like home.’
I frown. ‘I thought you lived here with Helen?’
‘I did, but…’ He sighs. ‘The house got burned down not long after she passed away.’
‘Oh my God,’ I exclaim. ‘John, that’s terrible. I bet a lot of her stuff got…’ Destroyed? Burned? How do I even put this into words, without sounding so harsh?
He nods. ‘Yeah, I ran inside a few times, hoping to recover the most important stuff. It’s on that table over there.’
I notice a small table and see some stuff laying on the surface. I walk towards it and see multiple pictures of him and Helen. They looked so happy, very in love. It makes me happy to see that there was a time that he was so happy. I notice a bracelet, but I decide not to touch anything. ‘She was really beautiful,’ I admit.
‘She was indeed.’
‘And from the looks of it, you love her very much.’ I turn around and see that he is heating up the left overs. He just nods at me, clearly not wanting to talk about this more.
I follow Tiki, who trots to the living room. How a human being can function in this kind of sterile environment is beyond me. The only colorful thing around the house are the pictures. I hardly think that can be good for anyone. I think my house barely has the color grey in it.
Tiki follows her nose and has to sniff every piece of furniture John has here. I check out the glass dining table, that has zero scratches on it, which means that John never eats here or he is a neat eater. In that case, I need to work on my table manners.
Underneath a pile of books, I notice a piece of paper. The word bounty pops up. I pull the paper from underneath the books and check it out. Four million dollars? That’s a whole lot of money. I would love to have this much money. I think I would buy myself a Lamborghini and my father a Mustang.
A name is printed above a picture of a man and some information about him is given.
Why do I feel like this is something from a movie?
I grab my phone out of my back pocket. I almost feel as stupid as Bella in Twilight when she looks up the word “vampire” on the internet, but since I really don’t know anything about a bounty and what that means, I cut myself some slack.
A sum paid for killing or capturing a person or animal.
My heart stops functioning for a minute. Is that what John does? Is that the confidential thing he does for a living? My sweet John, the one who hugs me when I’m a little sad, who makes me laugh and who loves my dog unconditionally? That John is an assassin?
Maybe I shouldn’t jump to conclusions, but I can’t really help myself. Was that the reason that he was beat up last week? Was that the reason he didn’t blink an eye when confronting Eric?
‘John,’ I say, when I walk back to the kitchen. ‘I’m going to ask something stupid, so please, don’t judge me okay?’
He is stirring the rice in the pan, the smell reminding me of when I was younger and my mom was cooking or when we were in South Korea, my grandma would make us. ‘You know I would never judge you,’ he says, looking up and flashing me a dashing smile.
It can’t be true, I think to myself. John can’t be what I think he is.
‘What’s this?’ I hold up the piece of paper.
All the color drains out of his face, which on its own is a tell all. ‘Sweetheart,’ he starts, ‘let me explain.’
I don’t let him explain. ‘So, it’s true,’ I say. ‘You’re an assassin.’
He visibly cringes. ‘Please don’t call it like that.’ He turns off the stove and steps away from the kitchen island. ‘I can explain.’
‘How?’ I ask, my voice trembling, partly because I’m scared, but mostly because I’m hurt. He lied to me. Or at least, thought he could hide this from me. ‘I mean, it’s really easy isn’t it? You kill people for a living.’
‘It’s not like that.’
‘I’m not stupid, John!’ I yell at him, raising my voice. ‘How the hell is it not like that?’
John clenches his jaw, not saying a word to me.
‘Were you planning on telling me this? Like ever?’
‘I wasn’t,’ he admits. ‘Because I’m trying to get out. I got out once before, when I met Helen. After she died, I somehow rolled back into the business. But then I discovered your cafe and I met you and fell in love. So… I’m trying to get out again, for you… For us.’
Sure, that sounds romantic, but that’s not what I want to know. ‘Is that why you got beat up that night?’ I ask. ‘Last week?’
He doesn’t even look at me.
‘John, answer me this then: when you “ran” into those people… Did you kill them?’
He sighs and his silence is my answer, causing my stomach to turn.
‘You killed people and two hours later you are making love to me?’ I slam the piece of paper on a cupboard, causing Tiki to walk up to John, plopping next to him. ‘You are fucking unbelievable. How can you kill people, but also be how you are?’
‘The man you got to know, that’s who I really am. I’m not the cold blooded killer you think I am.’
‘You kill people for a living, John. You killed people and after that, you fucking made love to me. Those hands that have murdered people, touched me!’ I nearly pull all my hair out. ‘I have to go. Tiki, come on girl.’ I grab the duffle bag from the counter and march to the door.
‘Darcie, please don’t go,’ he begs, walking behind me like a puppy, followed by Tiki. ‘Please, let’s talk about this.’
‘What is there to fucking talk about?’ I ask him, turning around when I’m at the door. ‘You are an assassin and I’m a manager of a cafe who really can’t deal with that sort of crap in my life. Tiki, come here!’ I command.
My dog doesn’t leave his side. She whimpers.
‘I said, come here. We’re leaving.’ I grab the leash out of the bag.
She slowly sneaks up to me and lets me put the leash on her.
‘I can give you a ride,’ he says.
‘No fucking way, John. You’re not giving me a ride. I’m going to hail a cab or take the bus, because I can’t be with you anymore. I can’t.’
John looks hurt after my harsh words. Knowing that I hurt him, hurts me, but I can’t stay here. I simply can’t.
I pull Tiki with me and open the front door. ‘Goodbye John,’ I say and I close the door behind me.
Taglist: @toomanystoriessolittletime
#keanu reeves x oc#keanu reeves fanfic#keanu reeves#keanu reeves x original character#keanu reeves x ofc#john wick x oc#john wick fanfic#john wick#john wick x original character#john wick x ofc#one cappuccino and a chocolate brownie please
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Friends... it is now.... well over 13k words and i’m maaaaybe a little over halfway done with the first chapter.... but I am a slut for positive reinforcement.... so here is another excerpt from my cronus fic (I see you and love you)
“Seriously, if you hate it that much give it back.”
“Nope, it’s crispmass and you gave me a gift. Even if it’s the worst gift anyone’s ever given me.” His words were slurred, v’s and w’s blurring together.
You sighed, rolling your eyes and leaning back against the next step up. From this angle you could see lavender from the Christmas lights bouncing off the thin membranes of his fins. And maybe it was the alcohol, or the faint nostalgic music coming from the other room, but you couldn’t help but stare. Polished orange horns shining with little rainbows dots, a small smile on his grey lips. He was breathtakingly pretty.
“At least you gave me a present I guess. None of my other asshole friends did. Like I get most of them are gutterblood trash-”
He just had to ruin the mood, didn’t he.
“Shooshooshoosh.” You grimaced and put your finger on his lips to quiet him and he froze; Stock still, eyes wide as he stared at you like a deer in the headlights. “God, you’re so fucking pretty, but literally everything that comes out of your stupid mouth is ugly.” You snapped. “So just… shut the actual fuck up for a little while.”
His fins fluttered a little and he seemed to look everywhere except directly at you. You realized after a few moments that you still had your finger on him and removed it, but didn’t look away. In the dim light of the room you could faintly see a violet flush tinting his cheeks, another one of those peculiar expressions on is face.
For a few minutes there was a blissful silence except for the muffled music as Cronus worried his bottom lip between his sharp teeth. “You uh... You really think I’m pretty….?” He asked after a while, finally turning to face you.
You shrugged, drinking some more eggnong. “Yeah. When you’re not being a complete and total d-bag, so uh… very infrequently. You’re kind of a douche a lot.”
He let out a soft, breathy laugh.
“But like... physically? You’ve got a lot going for you…. For an alien I guess. Not that I really know how you guys measure physical attractiveness. But by human standards… your aesthetic is immaculate.” You gave him an appraising look and his fins fluttered again. “But your vibes are rancid as fuck, dude.”
His lips curled back in a sneer showing off those perfectly even teeth, and you couldn’t help but wonder if trolls had orthodontics… Were those perfect teeth the product of genetics or did he have to wear braces as a kid. You failed to stifle a snicker at the thought.
It seemed to throw him off guard because the threat display dropped immediately.
“I don’t get it. What’s so funny?”
“Nothing, just alien braces.” You waved him off.
He gave you a quizzical look, but didn’t press you for any more details. He fell silent once more, staring down into the depths of the mug in his hands, fingers fidgeting and clenching. The Christmas music hung heavy in the air.
The snow’s coming down
I’m watching it fall
Lots of people around
Baby please come home
A pang of went through your heart and your grip on your eggnog tightened….
“So where’s this boyfriend you keep talking about?” Cronus asked. “Afraid I’d steal him away from you if he came?” He raised an eyebrow, lopsided grin growing on his face.
You swallowed, sighing and closing your eyes, trying to drown out the Christmas music through sheer force of will.
“He uh… he’s in Minnesota.”
“Gesundheit.”
A soft laugh escaped your throat. “Halfway ‘cross the country.” You explained.
“Oh shit… What’s he doing out there on crispmas?” You chanced a glance over at him, and were surprised to see his brow furrowed, head tilted… he looked… genuinely concerned.
“He lives out there… so does his family.” You were thankful when your voice didn’t crack or waver. “I was supposed to go visit him, but y’know,” You shrugged, “Life happens.”
“Shit, chief, so you’re tellin’ me,” He paused to let out a bewildered half chuckle. “You’re tellin’ me you’re in a relationship and you still ain’t getting any...?” He made an odd, but recognizably lewd gesture with his hand.
“Relationships are about more than sex, Cronus.” You mumbled, trying not to think about the fact that you were going to be very, very alone this Christmas.
“Well, yeah. I know that.” He rolled his eyes. “But like… don’t you get lonely?”
Your jaw clenched, you were simultaneously way too drunk and not drunk enough for this conversation. “Nope. Never.”
Loneliness whom? You do not know her. (If you tell yourself enough, it’ll be true. That’s how emotions work, right?)
He pursed his lips, eyes narrowing as he searched you for something.
Ah fuck, was he making an insight check? Is that what insight checks looked like? Did you roll high enough on your deception?
“Humans are fuckin’ weird as hell.” The sea-troll said after a few moments. “I just don’t get it. Like what kind of quadrant are you even in that that sort of distance makes sense? I’d say flushed but you ain’t even pailing so what’s the point of it?”
“Pailing?” What the fuck kind of bullshit….
“Sex.” Cronus opened his mouth as if to say more, but closed it with an exasperated huff instead. He definitely looked like he wanted to keep probing you (heh) for more information, but he just stared into the contents of his mug.
I’d hold back this tear
But it’s Christmas day
Baby please come home
Baby please come home
Michael Buble finally finished his pining, and were immediately assaulted by Elvis pleading with Santa to bring his baby back to him.
Fuck… you could just not catch a break tonight.
The fuckboy next to you was unusually silent, leaving you stewing in your own thoughts like some sort of asshole without distracting you. How absolutely inconsiderate of him.
Finally an overtly religious Christmas classic started playing, tacky, respectable Christmas music that wasn’t constantly reminding you that your boyfriend was halfway across the country and your family was on a different continent.
Actually... a few songs passed (which you’d begun humming along to) before Cronus spoke again.
“Why doesn’t anyone like me?”
His voice was soft as he stared longingly into the other room, past the set of french glass doors where the rest of the party was; silhouettes of people mingling and muffled laughter. “I… I know people don’t like me, I just don’t get why. I try so, so hard… and I just can’t figure out what people want. I….” He trailed off.
You watched him for a moment, but he never stopped gazing through the glass.
“Do you want an honest answer?” Normally, you would revel in the chance to make an exhaustive list of his many flaws, but the expression on his face was so different from what you were used to, and the warmth of Bing Crosby’s voice made you pause.
And you think you may have finally figured out what Cronus was about.
He looked at you with big violet eyes, chewing on his bottom lip, then nodded.
And everything about him hit just a little too close to home.
“Well,” You took a deep breath, “I… I think I get you now. Where you’re coming from at least… because I’ve been there before. And I guess I want to help you.” And began to explain to him exactly why he was such an unlikable bastard starting with the callous way he treated his friends, blatant attempts at manipulation, his casual use of what you’re pretty sure are slurs, or at least really rude words, how there’s nothing genuine about how he presents himself, finishing on a softer note with the overwhelming amount of body spray and cologne he wore.
And to his credit, he just sat there and listened (though his fins drooped more and more with each new bullet point).
You did your best to be as constructive as possible, but the increasingly dejected look on his face left you feeling… less satisfied than how you would have imagined a moment like this would feel. When you finished, you couldn’t help but reach down and take his hand in your own, threading your fingers together.
He was cold to the touch, skin smooth besides a few thin ridges along the sides of his fingers. He stiffened for a moment before relaxing just a bit, squeezing your hand back tight enough to almost be uncomfortable.
You sat like that for a little while, hand in hand
You took another sip of your eggnog, starting to get a little sick of the taste.
Cronus’ eyes were glassy as though he was blinking back tears, and you felt kind of bad. It was definitely something that he had to hear, and you’d tried to do it as tactfully as possible… but you were very drunk, and you weren’t great with words or comforting or emotions even when you weren’t.
Fuck… you’re pretty sure you heard him sniffle a little.
“If I’m really so awful, why’d you even come over here?” His voice wavered a little, but didn’t crack, staring down into his hot toddy (that you had so painstakingly prepared and was probably delicious as hell and not at all disgusting like Cronus kept insisting).
You took a moment, breathing deeply and giving his hand a squeeze.
“Because no one deserves to be alone on Christmas.” He finally looked back at you again, violet eyes locking with your own… damn even when he was a wreck he was pretty. You wished you were half that pretty when you were having an existential crisis.
And before you even realized what you were doing, you had brought his hand to your lips to place a chaste kiss to his knuckles.
It couldn’t have lasted for more than half a second, but you had never seen anyone look so incredibly flustered in their life. His eyes went wide, almost round like egg yolks with little purple gems in them, a deep violet flush on his cheeks, fins flicking. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water (you would have laughed if you hadn’t been too drunk to realize the appropriateness of the analogy), but all that came out was a shaky exhale.
Cronus looked away and buried his face in his forearm, a very alien clicking sound coming from his throat, a small smile playing on his lips.
“You know I really thought we had a good black rapport…. I thought you hated me….” He mumbled after a minute with a little drunk giggle.
Well he wasn’t wrong… you definitely hated him. Or at least… you hated everything he represented. Or… you thought you did. “Well, I mean you definitely weren’t my favorite person in the world…. But hate’s a little harsh.” (To say out loud.)
He snorted. “Oh I was definitely waxin’ pitch for ya. I thought that’s why you gave me this gross drink.”
“It’s delicious, and if you keep insulting my beautiful concoction I’m gonna get mad.”
His laugh was breathy, “No, it’s legitimately disgusting as hell.” The troll chanced a glance at you, cheeks still flushed a bit, a candid, lopsided smile on his face. “’m not even pitch flirting anymore, this is the worst thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.”
#cronus ampora#You know i started writing this fic as like... mindless smut#but then i got more and more invested#like... the smut aint coming for at least another probably 20k words and i hate myself for it#because i wanted to flush out his stupid character#i just want him to get better before being rewarded....#but seriously its getting ridiculous how long this is just so i can write smut#like i even have branching off pieces i want to write#i hate this#but also i love it#i just wish i could write faster#but i get tired easily#i'm gonna try to finish the 22nd page tonight#w34ry words#homestuck#longpost
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Steve x Reader
The satin sheets were cold against my skin as I gazed at the empty spot beside me. My breathing shallow and my eyes swollen from the crying I had been doing the past hour at the reality that I was living in. My fingertips traced the imprint that still seems to stay on the pillow that his head used to lie on every night, his blue eyes gazing at me tenderly as his lips told me they loved me. All that was left of those moments was that imprint that i never dared to fix, clinging onto the last memory I had of our love together. Of our life together. I wracked my brain for an answer to the looming question that haunted my brain. What do I do now?
It all happened so fast. The fight had began over something so small, but quickly grew to something bigger than ourselves. Our insecurities became our worst enemies and it was like we were letting our demons dictate how our relationship went.
“She was just a friend y/n! You know that!” He yelled out. I simply shook my head, my brain not accepting it.
“Sharon is not just a friend Steve and you know that. You both KISSED when you were on the run, that’s not what FRIENDS do. She is constantly trying to take you away from me and you are either blind to it or want it to happen. Which one is it?!” I seethed.
Shaking his head he replied, “I’ve already talked to you about that y/n. We kissed but it meant nothing. You know why me and Sharon are close. I’m not going to push her away just because you’re insecure about it.” Silence.
“She is constantly touching you, taking your time away from me, and making me feel not included in anything we do. I’m a part of the avengers too Steve but she constantly goes out of her way to make me feel unwelcome in MY OWN HOME, with MY OWN FRIENDS AND BOYFRIEND.” I sob.
It was like a switch went off and he yelled back, “Well maybe she’s trying to show you don’t belong! Maybe everyone likes her better than you! What do you want me to tell you, y/n ?!”
What sound does a heart make when it breaks? Nothing. Because when someone’s heart breaks they become the definition of emptiness. All that’s left is a gaping hole the size of Texas in the middle of your chest.
A strangled sob erupts from my slightly parted lips, and tears are now flowing freely. His eyes flash with realization of what was said and soon he was made up of nothing but guilt. He had crossed a line that I never believed he could.
“Y/n...baby...I didn’t-“ I didn’t let him finish, my feet taking me to the door of his room and yanking the door open and slamming it closed behind me. I turned to make my way down the hall , only to come face to face with Sharon. Looking her in the eyes I hissed, “I hope you have had fun destroying our relationship for your entertainment, because you won. I didn’t know caniving bitch was his type but have at it, I’m out. I’m done.” Grabbing at my neck I ripped the necklace I had on that held his dog tags off and placed them in her hand. “Give them back to him or wear them I don’t give a shit. Just do me a favor and keep your faces out of my life. If I see you again it is hands on sight.” I quickly walked off and ran into the nearest elevator, not wanting to hear anything out of her malicious mouth. I just wanted to get out. Get back to my room and wallow in my heartbreak, but a red headed witch stopped me in my path.
“Y/n, are you alright? I couldn’t help but overhear...” Wanda asked hesitantly. I nodded but didn’t open my mouth, too afraid to burst into more tears in the middle of the hallway. Her eyes went to my neck and immediately saw that tags gone. Her arms immediately brought me in for a hug that I didn’t know I needed and the dam broke.
“I’m so sorry y/n. You shouldn’t have to go through this.” I hold her tighter and reply, “it hurts so much Wanda...so much.”
I don’t know how long we stood there but it was enough that my tears began to dry and i was able to somewhat collect myself. We pull apart and she brushed my (y/h/c) hair from my face and gives me a gentle smile. “Why don’t you go and sleep, rest. Whatever you need to do to help yourself, do it. Okay? Its important you take care of yourself okay?” I nod and give her one last hug before confining myself to my room, not planning on coming out anytime soon.
It’s been a solid week since I have been anywhere other than the kitchen and my room. F.R.I.D.A.Y. Had my room under mandatory constant lockdown so only I, Wanda, or Natasha could come in. Steve hadn’t tried to come by , and as much as I didn’t want him ...it still hurt that he hadn’t tried. It was two weeks later that I decided I needed to get back into the gym. I quickly threw on a sports bra and a pair of workout pants before slipping on my running shoes and heading down to the training room. Luckily it was empty, so believe me when I say I took advantage. With my headphones in and playing some hype music, I took on the punching bag. A few minutes later I hear a quiet , “need a sparring partner?” I jump, turning to find Bucky standing with a small gym towel over his right shoulder and gym bag in hand. I was unsure, but only because he was Steve’s best friend. But then again, he was my teammate too, who was I to make our friendship uncomfortable because of it? But Steve’s words haunted my brain since they left my brain.
“Maybe everyone likes her better than you!”
“Uh, yeah sure!”
We quickly fell into a rhythm, neither trying to take each other down just yet. This was more like feeling each other out. A way of communication.
“I’m sorry.” Punch.
Dodge. “About what?” A swift kick.
Dodge, quick return. “You know what. Steve.”
Duck, jab. “Oh. It’s okay.”
With that he stops completely, sweat covering our skin.
“No, y/n it’s not okay.” I nod and the words he said that night flooded my brain again and I found the question leaving my lips before i could catch it.
“Do you guys really like her better Bucky? I’ve been too afraid to ask anybody else but it’s been bugging me...” I ask timidly. Almost afraid of his answer.
He frowns and replies, “who the heck told you that, doll?”
I sigh. “Steve.”
His eyes became angry. “I’m going to beat that kid up, so help me god.” He lets out an angry breath but begins again, “y/n, in no world will any of us think Sharon is better or prefer her. Ever. You’re our girl. I’m sure Steve said that because he was angry but that’s not a good excuse and it was uncalled for.” I nodded but stayed silent until I felt his hand hold mine.
“You’re family y/n.” My heart felt like it was going to burst with how much love I was feeling. I smiled softly and brought him in for a hug.
“Thank you Bucky. So much.”
The next few days passed slowly, my days consisting of the gym, eating, and binging Netflix with my new found confidant Bucky. It was nice having him around, almost like having Steve...but not him.
“Have you thought about talking to him, doll?” He asked. I hummed in response, debating his question.
I shrug, “yes and no. I know I need to, but the hurt part of me is petty and wants to be away from him. Plus, I did leave him with Sharon and I know she probably pounced as soon as I walked away.” Bucky rolls his eyes and groans. That’s one other thing we had in common, our dislike for the ever annoying Sharon Carter.
“She is an absolute nuisance, y/n. I don’t know how we have put up with her this long. I am hell bent on telling fury to return her to shield already, doll. I really am.” I laugh and slap his chest playfully. It was nice to feel normal again, laughing and not feeling existential dread. Letting out a deep sigh I reply, “fine, I’ll go talk to him later tonight okay? After dinner.” He nods and grabs my hands in his, physically doing his best to make me feel secure.
“Holler at me and I’ll come running okay? Anything you need. I’m sure Nat feels the same, she’s been seething since it all happened...and don’t even make me speak on Wanda. That woman is another force when it comes to you.” I smile warmly at the thought of Wanda being so protective of me, it was nice. Maybe it was because we both had a rough beginning, and having people not exactly accept our powers easily was another possible reason. She was the scarlet witch and I was storm trooper. Corny name, I know, but I could control the weather and Tony had come up with the nickname. Nobody liked that I could create a storm when I was angry, and no one liked how she could manipulate their heads. It always felt like we were lost sisters.
“Family protects family.” I mumble with a smile, for which he returns. Letting me know that yes, I was indeed part of the family and there was no getting rid of me.
I didn’t look at him once during dinner, and I didn’t say a word as I slowly chewed my food. Looking up from my plate I made eye contact with Tony, who sat across from me. His eyes flashed to his right, back to me, then back to his right. I let my eyes find their mark, an empty chair at the end of the table. Right by Steve. Where Sharon would sit. Where she should be sitting. My eyes find Tony again and I shrug, it wasn’t my business to know where that bitch was. I grip my glass and lift it to my lips, letting the wine fall onto my tongue and down my throat, warming my insides as it went down.
The atmosphere was so thick I don’t think Thor’s storm breaker could even dent it. Placing my glass back on the table I clear my throat to catch attention. “I’m going to head to bed after I wash my dishes. Goodnight guys, love you.” The team all mutter goodnights and sweet I love yous as I go wash my dishes...well except for Steve.
“Hey.” I jump, my dish falling from my grasp and into the sink, shattering on impact.
“Fuck!” Seeing Steve’s face go red I quickly apologize, “Sorry! Language I know.” I reach into the sink to grab the broken pieces and throw them into the trash. All while managing to slice my hand.
I wince as the glass cuts me and hurriedly cover it with paper towels to stop the bleeding. His eyes widen and he reaches for me to help.
“I’m so sorry for startling you. Let me help.” He uncovers the cut and takes my right hand to lead me back to the sink and run it under cold water. Silence fills the kitchen, so quiet you could hear a pin drop as he shut off the water.
Biting his lip he sighed. I lost count on how many times he opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. The struggle was evident on his face, making me laugh. “Just say what you came to say Steve.”
“Right.” He rubs his face in frustration and pushes his hair back before finally meeting my eyes.
“I’m sorry y/n. I’m sorry I said what i said. I didn’t mean it, I never would have wanted to make you feel like you didn’t belong I was just very upset. I made a lot of wrong moves and prioritized someone else over the love of my life.” I frown at his words.
“You always said Peggy was the love of your life.” I said with questioning tone. His fingers brush my hair back from my face and cup my chin softly.
“Y/F/N Y/L/N , you are without a doubt the love of my life. Peggy is my past, you are my future and forever.”
Pulling away from his grasp I scoff and reply, “Well what about Sharon then?”
“I told her to go back to sheild offices. I gave her the wrong impression and she mistook my intentions. That’s why she wasn’t at dinner tonight. She’s 100% out of the picture, never again.”
Contemplating his words, I stood there in silence and let it all sink in. As my thoughts run around in my head, one suddenly comes to the forefront.
I gasp, “I gave her your dog tags!” He smiles and reaches into his pocket before pulling out the necklace that once adorned my neck. He steps to be behind me and places the necklace back on my neck and clasps it closed. His lips kissed my shoulder as he whispered, “please never take those off again.” Tears gather in my eyes as everything that has happened the past few weeks comes to mind.
“You hurt me Stevie. You hurt me so bad.” A tear falls down my cheek and I can see his eyes fill up as well.
He sniffles. “I know baby. I’m so sorry. I can’t ever take back what happened, but I can make up for it and love you the best I can. I need you back, please baby. Please y/n.” My right hand goes to caress his cheek and I lay my forehead against his. Tears are flowing down both our faces.
“I love you so much Steve. Please don’t hurt me again. I won’t be able to take it.” He lets out a laugh.
“Oh thank god baby, thank you so much. I love you. God, I love you.” His lips are on mine and suddenly it’s as if the planets are aligned, the puzzle pieces put together, and the sun had risen. This was my person; this was my love. My hand fell from his face as we pulled apart, my eyes grazing his face.
“Oh no Steve!” He frowns at me and looks at me with concern. “What?”
I laugh, “you have my blood on your face!” He chucked and wiped at his face before wrapping his arm Arounf my waist.
“Come on sweetheart let’s go get you stitched up.” I giggle and follow his lead.
“ I love you Steve.” He grins and just the sight of it lets me know that this is it. No more hurt, no more doubts. This is my person, I am his and we are going to make it through every mission and every fight. He is home, he is salvation, he is everything. As I am to him.
“I love you too, y/n. Always.”
#steve rogers x y/n#steve rodgers fic#steve rogers imagine#steve rodgers imagine#steve rogers#steve rodgers x reader#james buchanan barnes#bucky barnes imagine#bucky barnes#bucky barnes x reader#marvel fic#marvel imagine#marvel fanfiction#marvel#marvel fanfic#tony stark
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