#matter of fact get ME some therapy | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

transxfiles · 1 year

Text

lost phineas and ferb episode where perry is called to investigate what dr doofenshmirtz is up to because carl the intern got ahold of some intel that doof has been seen speaking to lawyers and looking up the endangered species act at internet cafes and as major monogram says, "something fishy is going on"

meanwhile phineas and ferb's subplot of "i know what we're gonna do today!" is that isabella needs her environmentalist fireside girls badge so they start researching which species are in urgent need of help in the tri-state area so that they can use new cloning and gene therapy technologies to bring at-risk animals back from extinction

(yes there is a c-plot where buford and baljeet argue the ethics of this idea, i don't have time to explain it all for you rn)

we cut back to🎵doofenshmirtz evil incorporated🎵where we see perry carefully maneuvering around doofenshmirtz's lab scared he might fall into a trap but he hasn't set off a single booby trap and it's clear something is off

he runs into doofenshmirtz and goes to kick him in the gut action movie style but doof steps back one overly confident and says, "nuh uh uh, you see perry the platypus, you are TRAPPED! by the danville section of the endangered species act of 1973!"

doof goes on to explain his tragic backstory: "you see, perry the platypus, when i was a child my parents did not show up for my own birth! but you know that already, yadda yadda yadda they did not love me and then they loved roger more, ANYways i was raised by ocelots! i had a lovely foster mother who took me in and made me one of the pride, and so you see, perry the platypus, i am still legally considered an ocelot. did you know that there are only 50 recorded ocelots still alive in the continental united states? very sad for me as a member of a near-extinct species. it would be immoral for you to hurt someone critically endangered... in fact, you have made many attempts on my life this summer"

[montage of doof's security camera footage of their battles]

"which is why i have decided to bring you... TO COURT!" we cut back to phineas and ferb's back yard where they've decided to start cloning ocelots in their kiddie pool

candace storms outside enraged and says, "phineas and ferb are you cloning ocelots in my duckie momo kiddie pool!?"

ferb's one line of the episode is "well, i guess it's more of a kitty pool, now"

candace storms away saying, "i'm going to tell mom!" and isabella turns to phineas and says, "oh, does your mom have experience in wildlife conservation?"

we cut back to the doof and perry plotline where the two are now in the danville hall of justice and we learn that doof has spent his monthly alimony check on a defense lawyer and perry turns and sees the lawyer and then vanessa helping her organize her briefcase and perry chitters at her and vanessa shrugs and says, "i'm thinking about going into legal defense. sorry perry."

the rest of the doof and perry b-plot is spent in court and perry is about to ask for a public defense lawyer when carl runs into the room and explains that he's owca's official legal defense and perry looks at him like, "uhhh is that even allowed?"

it doesn't matter because apparently the judge is out sick today but because it's danville roger's the judge now because he's the mayor and everyone loves him.

the court case continues.

meanwhile phineas and ferb have successfully cloned multiple ocelots from the original ocelot dna they had on hand and isabella asks phineas if these clones will experience health problems like premature aging, phineas casually explains that ferb figured out the problem while they were experimenting with stem cell harvesting.

back in the courtroom, doof's ocelot foster mother has been brought to the stand along with an ocelot to english translator. doof gets emotional seeing her after so long. she says that he was one of her favorite child and he was as strong a hunter as anyone else in the family. it's incredibly sweet. the jury's in tears.

meanwhile, isabella has established connections with a group in texas who are going to release the ocelots back into their natural habitat and, using the cloned ocelots to prevent inbreeding, help establish an ocelot breeding program. the group explains that they are going to send a helicopter to retrieve the cloned ocelots from danville and bring them to texas soon.

isabella gets her fireside girls badge.

candace manages to get mom to see the backyard only after the ocelots have been helicoptered off to coastal texas, their primary habitat.

mom makes it into the backyard as phineas stares wistfully over the fence and says, "if you love something, you have to let it go." candace goes, "look mom look look look!" and points at the ducky momo kiddie pool, devoid of cloned ocelots, where baljeet and buford are now chilling out, having settled their philosophical debate about the ethics of animal cloning.

back in the courtroom drama, doof looks like he's about to win when an attendant walks into the courtroom and whispers something in roger's ear.

roger looks up, grinning, and says, "good news, everyone! my attendant here has just enlightened me that ocelots are no longer considered critically endangered!"

this settles the case, with perry being decreed not guilty and the entire affair being called off. the courtroom cheers, roger walks over to doof and personally congratulates him on his species' return from the brink of extinction.

doof shouts, "curse you endangered species classification system!" at the ceiling of the danville hall of justice.

perry arrives back home just in time for mom to say, "who wants pie?"

the end.

#cricket.chatterbox #phineas and ferb #pnf #dr doofenshmirtz #perry the platypus #phineas flynn #ferb fletcher #greatest hits

41K notes · View notes

trans-axolotl · 3 months

Text

idk i think a lot of people sort of build up schizo-spec diagnoses in their head as this example of a "clearly biomedical disease that is the scariest possible example of mental illness that is always a crisis no matter what." and i'm not going to sit here and say that schizoaffective is always pleasant to live with, or pretend that it's something that I can manage perfectly-it does cause me distress a lot of the time, and makes some things very difficult. but for me, psychosis is by far not the most difficult symptom i have to deal with, compared to some of the other things that have brought me distress. And yet it's always the symptom that is reacted to with the most fear, confusion, and disgust by other people. I hate it when people generalize psychosis as always and inherently and forever a crisis, and ignore the fact that everyone who experiences psychosis is going to have their own experiences, perspectives on how it impacts them, and that treating psychosis as a super scary, inherently dangerous symptom is incredibly stigmatizing and prevents us from receiving support and care from our communities.

idk. i just really wish people would realize that for some people, psychosis can sometimes be a neutral or even positive experience (i've had some incredibly lovely psychosis experiences), and that by positioning psychosis as a "super scary disease that has no quality of life" and only offering carceral solutions, it perpetuates a pattern where we get continually pushed into harmful treatments. Instead of a situation where our autonomy is respected, where we're offered a wide variety of treatments from meds to therapies to peer support like Hearing Voices Network to material community based support and where we're allowed to define our own experience of psychosis based on how it actually affects us. like, i don't want to deny that psychosis is often distressing for many of us--but I do think we have the responsibility to evaluate where we've learned about psychosis, what societal messages we've internalized about psychosis, what kinds of knowledge about psychosis do we not have access to, and just actually think in depth about how our biases impact how we communicate about psychosis.

#personal #psychosis #schizo spec #psych abolition #mad liberation #antipsych

4K notes · View notes

jrwiyuri · 1 year

Text

Do u ever look at a ficitonal story and be like “man I’m ngl in the long run I just don’t think anyone will be ok ever.” That’s how I feel about d&daddies

#stupid snake talk #like me personally if I had to be any part of that main quest to save the world I think I would just kill myself!!#wtf do u mean I have to grapple the end of the world & my parents being awful ppl AND some old fuck manipulating me / or my friends #brother my ass is getting OUT OF HERE!!#I’ll see u in heaven or hell.. idc either way my ass does NOT have to deal with that shit #I love happy endings and like I mean realistically this will maybe hopefully possibly maybe have one #but also I’m thinking realistically and like #how do u grapple with the trauma u go through as a 12 y/o #especially if ur scary and like u know u were manipulated after the fact #you fucking cut ur friends dad in half and all the other fucked you did to try and save the world and do what’s rights #was in vain and didn’t even matter because you were lied to #and everyone else knew it and now you feel so stupid and like a complete failure and awful person cause you had genuine people who do love #& care about u there the entire time but you pushed them away and instead clinged onto smth that was toxic and awful #and refused to listen to anyone else #(I don’t actually blame her but I’m putting out the inherent guilt you’d probably feel for unknowingly doing all of this..)#like idk man if I was scary I think I would just be depressed for the rest of my whole entire life #I mean if I was ANY of them I’d do that.. but especially her #like damn girl idk if therapy can fix u tbh.. ur fucked for like me thinks!!!

1 note · View note

tenpintsof-sundrop · 1 month

Note

Hii !! From the smut prompts (stop rolling your eyes, I know Im predicatable!) could I request "Accidentally Sending Nudes", "Sexting" and... a secret third thing (the choice is yours, go hogwild) for Jason x Fat Fem Reader? I'm leaning more towards sub!reader but shes def a little shit about it :3

Thank you in advance if you write it !! 🌼

See, this is why it pays to send in a request with me, because even if I don't answer it right away, I keep requests in my inbox for months and come back to them later!!! (This is from December 2023)

(Also this request is just plain fun) (because Star knows exactly what buttons to push to get me lmao)

DC Titans Requests - OPEN

How would Jason react to you accidentally sending him a nude?

(Jason Todd x Fem!Thick!Reader)

Warnings: set specifically in the Titans!verse - set during season 3/mentions of season 3 plot points; spoilers for major plot points of Titans (including character deaths on the show); this is kind of enemies to lovers? (enemies to fwb, I guess); the reader uses she/her pronouns and has a vagina; the reader is described as being fat/plus sized; passing mentions of Gar x reader (I couldn't help myself); dubious consent - because of the nature of the trope, Jason sees the reader naked without her explicit consent, and he decides to keep the picture without her consent - but it does spark a consensual sexual relationship between them; passing mention of using nudes for blackmail (that does not happen); this isn't really proofread; (generally, I consider this post to be a fucking mess because it was written in Tumblr but I was still trying to have fun with it lmao.)

...

Jason is minding his own business when it happens.

(For once in life, he is fully, completely, minding his own business.)

He's back in Gotham and he hasn't seen you in months - and if asked, he would say that he hasn't thought about you. He doesn't have time to think about you because he's been too busy with this therapy bullshit, training, trying to get back his title of Robin. Trying to get back in the cape. (And trying to get back in Bruce's good graces.)

But that's not exactly true. He's thought about you a lot.

(Most of those times have been with his hand around his cock, but again - he won't admit that.)

There is an occasional time that you cross his mind and it's because he's wondering genuinely how you're doing - wondering if you're well, how your training is going, wondering if you're doing okay under the Dickhead's reign. But he can't ever pluck up the courage to text you and simply ask. Because that would be admitting that he cares, and that would make him look like a weak little prick.

And that's why he's so damn surprised when you text him first.

He hasn't heard from you since he left the Tower (well, since he stormed away from Donna's funeral in what you called a 'toddler fit' - something that ended in a rather vicious text argument between the two of you). In fact, the last thing in the text history between the two of you is you calling him a 'giant, petty, whiny baby who can't deal with his own emotions'.

(You had no clue what had happened between him and Rose, so that did inform a lot of your opinion on the matter.) (And that was probably the reason why Rose still had all of her teeth after you had seen her at the funeral.)

But all of that was aside from the point.

The point being - Jason found himself smiling when your contact name popped up on his phone.

He has you in his phone as 'Pretty Girl' - along with a contact picture of you sticking your tongue out at him in response to having his phone shoved in your face with the knowledge that he was taking a picture of you. (That tongue always makes him think certain things, so even though you intended for it to be some rude thing to ruin the picture, it makes it so much better for him.)

(1) new photo

That instantly catches Jason's attention.

Perhaps you were sending him a picture just to flip him off, or sending him a picture of a dumpster to ask him if it reminded him of home - a common joke you used to make when he still lived at the Tower.

Jason grabbed his phone and opened the message, expecting another tired joke, and-

Holy fuck.

The last thing he was expecting - your naked body. Your gorgeous naked body.

(He likely would have expected a nuclear blast or for the Joker to clean up his act and actually become a decent, sane citizen before he expected this to happen.)

Jason brought his phone closer to his face, making the picture full screen in order to examine it better - he needed to make sure that he wasn't hallucinating, or that this wasn't some weird dream. But fuck, he definitely wouldn't be able to dream up this.

You were so perfect - so fucking perfect in a way that was so very real.

The picture was a fucking stunning side profile of your body - rolling curves, lacy underwear that could clearly barely contain your impressive hips with sweet little stretch marks jutting out from the fabric (jagged little marks across the softness of your skin that made Jason want to act up) - soft fat for him to grab onto, and the perfect teardrop shape of your breast, now bared to his eye in a way that he had only dreamt of before. Something that he had stared at through the oversized tee shirts you wore to bed without a bra, just wondering what you looked like underneath.

And fuck, this was so much better than anything he could have dreamt up.

Jason's cock began to harden almost instantly, and laying in bed, he reached over to his nightstand for some lube, ready to milk that picture for all it was worth, when-

His phone buzzed again.

Pretty Girl: 'Delete that.'

Jason hadn't even considered that you had sent it to him by mistake. He had been far too busy enjoying to even consider the intention or the psychology behind it.

So, he took his hand off the waistband of his sweats and texted back the first thing that came to mind.

'No.'

(He didn't hear your annoyed growl on the other end, frustrated at his downright typical Jason behaviour.)

'It's not my fault you made a dumbass mistake. Besides, it's the least I get after all the nagging from you.'

Then, something else came to mind as the bubbles popped up, meaning you were busy formulating a reply - an annoyed one, no doubt.

'Who did you mean to send it to anyway? Who are you fucking whose name starts with J that's not me?'

(You hesitated.)

Pretty Girl: 'I didn't type in J.'

'???'

Pretty Girl: 'I typed in G. And it turns out the first contact that popped up was Giant Baby. That's you.'

Jason felt annoyed and insulted on all levels. The fact that you were going to Tiger Boy for dick instead of him, and the fact that you had used such a mocking contact name for him. But when he realised that such a pathetic string of events had caused him to accidentally see you naked, he couldn't be too upset.

'I'm still keeping the picture 😈'

Pretty Girl: 'You're such an asshole' Pretty Girl: ... Pretty Girl: 'You owe me one'

'Fine, I'll owe you one'

Jason shrugged it off, thinking he had won, until -

Pretty Girl: 'No, you owe me a cock.'

This made Jason's stomach jump. You couldn't possibly mean-?

Pretty Girl: ... Pretty Girl: 'You owe me a picture of your dick. You know - an eye for an eye type stuff.'

Jason wanted to ask questions - what did you plan to do with the picture? Should he shave his balls first? Did you want more than one?

But his cock got even harder at you asking for a picture, at you demanding to see his cock, and he couldn't properly think - he couldn't even reason that you might later blackmail him with the picture.

No, instead, he found himself ripping down his pants and turning on the bedside lamp for good lighting, pumping himself up to peak rigid hardness and grasping the base of his cock in hand. And then, without hesitation, he snapped a picture for you. He made sure to get his abs in the photo - a collection of his best assets, with his pants pulled down to mid-thigh, showing off his tight stomach, the deep V leading down to his dick, and his thick seven inch cock in hand surrounded by some well-kept dark pubic hair.

(He was proud of it - and that ego was one of the things that annoyed you most about him.)

He sent it without hesitation and then you began typing several times and stopped once again. Jason's stomach churned with nerves until -

Pretty Girl: 'Fuck you' Pretty Girl: 'I thought it would be smaller'

Jason had no clue how to respond to that, and he was busy racking his brain for some clever reply, when -

Oh. Oh fuck.

(1) new photo

You had sent him another picture. And this time it was definitely on purpose.

It was a view between the plump, beautiful thickness of your thighs - your hand was inside the pretty lace of those panties, and your fingers were visible working on your clit while your needy hole dripped wetness onto the fabric.

So you had liked what you had seen.

Pretty Girl: 'What would you do if you were here right now?'

Jason's brain short-circuited then. He thought of so many things - eating your pussy until you screamed, flipping you onto your stomach and fucking you until you begged him to stop, gripping onto those gorgeous thighs, pinning them to your chest and pounding into your cunt until you finally surrendered and said that you had liked him all along, fucking your smart little mouth to finally shut you up-

Pretty Girl: 'Come on, Jay. Don't disappoint me.'

Oh, he won't.

(Another thing Jason won't admit - he came back to the Tower just for you.)

...

DC Titans Masterlist

#star-mum #my lovely moots #requests #requested #sundrop writes #jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd x plus sized reader #jason todd x y/n #jason todd smut #red hood x reader #red hood x you #red hood x y/n #dc titans #titans #dc titans fanfiction #titans fanfiction #titans x reader

512 notes · View notes

thebearer · 10 months

Note

omg the part in that one blurb where reader makes a joke about being able to skip a meal and then carmy’s just like tf did you just say is so important to me as someone that has a long (and uneasy) history with body image and healthy eating habits

i was wondering if you had blurb/general thoughts/ideas on how carmy would react to the reader having a harder than usual time with body image for whatever reason

maybe they make one too many jokes or little comments about feeling insecure and carmy’s just not having it lol

carmen, with every ounce of love i have in my heart for him, would not be good with handling that. simply because he understands not liking yourself (like the idea of it, he can't fathom why you don't) but he grew up where food was kind of an act of love. he'd never hear an "i'm sorry" ever in his life, but his mom would very much so be the type to say "i have dinner ready for you" and that was as much as an apology as he'd get.

the first time you're kinda not eating, carmen's like trying to joke with you. "the food not good? don't like it?"

and you assure him that's not it. "i just... i'm not really hungry."

carmen's confused bc you've been together all day and you only had an iced coffee in the morning. "no way." he shook his head. "you haven't eaten all day. if you don't like it, baby, it won't hurt my feelings, i promise. nothin' you can say that a chef in new york didn't say, they said worse too. just tell me what you want and-"

"-carmen, it's ok. it's really good, i'm just not really hungry." you smile. "i need to not eat today anyways. my jeans are so tight-"

"-what?" carmen thinks you're joking at first, brows creasing with a small grin. until he sees your face. "you're-you're being serious?"

"well, kinda..." you mutter.

"that's... don't say that." carmen shook his head. "please, don't-don't do that, that's insane."

your face falls at his tone, you know he doesn't mean to be so hard about it, but you can't help but feel worse, like carmen's mad at you. in a way he is, but not out of anger, out of love. out of not wanting you to hurt yourself like that.

"i just... i feel gross, and i'm starting to look it-"

"- i think you look beautiful." carmen mutters. he sounds hurt, genuinely hurt by what you're saying, like you said them to him. "i don't... i don't like that you do that to yourself." he admitted after a moment. he'd been going to therapy, working on channeling his emotions out when he felt them instead of bottling them in, leading him to an anxiety attack.

"i'm sorry." you whisper, unsure of what else to say.

"no, it's not... i don't want you to apologize or- or feel bad, i just... i felt like i should say it." carmen's eyes lifted to yours. "that you don't need to do that."

you can't help the way your chest rushes with heat, anxiously picking up the spoon in front of you. you're not sure what to say, most of the time, most guys kinda brush it off. act like it's nothing or ignore it- some agreeing. no one ever got... hurt by it like this. like you were hurting them too.

maybe it was the guilt. maybe it was the fact that carmen looked so sad. whatever it was, you weren't sure, but you were fucking hungry- and the pasta was good.

you hesitantly took a bite, ignoring carmen's eyes tracking you. "it is really good." you hum, trying to break the obvious tension in the room.

"you don't have to eat it, i-i don't want you to feel pressured to." carmen shook his head. "but i'll make you something else? could i make you something else? whatever you want."

you blushed, looking down. you knew what he meant. he was trying to help in the only way he knew how to, by cooking. "carmen-" you sigh.

"no, it's... it's not good to not eat, ya know?" carmen looked up at you. "you have to eat but-but if you don't want pasta, i get it. i'll make you whatever if that's what you want." he looked at you pointedly. "but don't ever think you need to do anything like that f'me. i think you're perfect no matter what. love you no matter what. you know that, told you i'd still love you even if you were a worm."

you snorted lightly, his reference to the tiktok trend you'd done on him a while ago. "thanks, bear." you mutter, grabbing his hand lightly. "i-i would like, if it's not too much and you have all the stuff, that greek goddess salad sydney was testing the other day? i've been craving it."

"heard." carmen nodded, standing towards the fridge.

"if it's not too much trouble-"

"-c'mon." carmen scoffed, looking at you sweetly. "it'll take me fifteen minutes max. sit down f'me, alright. i got it."

1K notes · View notes

macabresymphonies · 1 month

Text

(minor TMA spoilers and general TMAGP spoilers) Having so much time to think about incidents in TMAGP due to hiatus made me realize that all of them, to some degree, contain the theme of "sealing your own fate" or "consequences of greed/hubris".

You see, while I do not believe that TMA had a consistent theme every statement was based on, the overall messege seemed to be that horrors are inevitable. Once you've been marked you cannot escape, no amount of therapy or running can release you from it. I think Michael Crew is the best example of that:

"The thing that chased me, you see, it was an arcing branch of the Twisting Deceit, taken shape to follow me. (...) And I knew within that book was something that could not only release me from my pursuer, but chain my being to that rush of wind and vertigo forever." Michael Crew in "The Coming Storm"

You cannot escape it once you've been marked, only bind yourself to different one and this marking is, most often than not, nonconsensual. Jane Prentiss would run around and infect random people, Not!Them didn't need anybody to come to them before it was sealed and Peter Lukas also tended to just disappear random people just to feed. The fears were very predatorial and active and the victims were selected based on their own fears and anxieties. This is not to say there weren't victims who failed due to their own curiosity/hubris/greed, but I think it's telling that few of the most greedy/curious people in the series, Mikaele Salesa and Jurgen Leitner, stayed largely uncorrupted by the fears not cause they avoided interacting with them, but simply avoided getting marked by them.

Now we come to protocol and every incident so far has the main subject of that incident actively engage with the horror and have one or multiple points at which they could stop and leave, but they do not. Daria went to the tattoo shop on her own accord, Harriet wanted her husband back no matter what and even Dr Webber was described to be able to leave the garden whenever he wanted, but, due to hiding from authorities, chose to stay until it was too late for him. Every incident so far seems to have this theme of consent, characters detailing very clearly that consent was given to engage with the abnormality:

"Ah well that’s a tricky one. Sort of? In many ways he stabbed himself on me. By the time he saw the needles we were already very close. Close enough to smell his sweat and cheap aftershave. In fact, he barely had time to be afraid before we embraced. He’s terrified now of course…" Needles in "Introductions"

"The young man's interview was not exceptional as he had no experience in charity work, no driving license nor any demonstrable experience in retail. He claimed however, to know the Hilltop Centre better than anyone and as he was the only applicant in the role I elected to give him a try." Dianne Margolis in "Give and Take"

"I hesitated a moment but before I could consider her strangeness a particularly high tide of color swept down the corridor toward me. I panicked, and before I realized what I was doing I had darted inside the lift and slammed the close-door button." Terrance Stevens in "Running on Empty"

It does not matter some of these are under duress or deception, all of them contain some type of action "confirming" consent. Mind you I do not believe all the victims of of these horrors confirm consent in some way, like people who get killed by Bonzo probably didn't agree to it (though considering he's most likely a hitman, some degree of "you agreed to this by overstepping your boundaries" philosophy could be applied), but subjects of the incident very much pay for consequences of their own actions.

That brings us to OIRA itself, and how every character so far seems to actively dig themselves deeper by their own accord, Gwen wants position of power, Colin wants to figure out the system, Sam wants to know why he wasn't chosen and Alice is in it for the money (for her brother which still counts as consent). This is literally said directly to us in episode 1:

"If you hate working here so completely, you are perfectly within your rights to resign. No one is forcing you to stay here." Lena to Gwen in "First Shift"

All of this, all this horror is happening due to their own accord, curiosity, obligation, greed for knowledge or just for the money, it does not matter, the choice is there, but they delve deeper anyway. We will see how long it holds up, but I will be on the look out for this theme in the future.

#the magnus protocol #the magnus archives #tmagp spoilers #tmagp #tma #magnus pod #alice dyer #samama khalid #colin becher #tmagp theory #tmagp analysis #lena kelley #gwen bouchard #michael crew

243 notes · View notes

cuubism · 1 month

Text

Physical therapy au part 7. (abuse cw)

Dream wakes to find his face still smushed against Hob’s chest, and freezes, expecting an instinctive rush of panic at being suddenly so close to another person.

But it doesn’t come. He still only feels… relaxed. Hob is warm against him, still asleep, his arm wrapped loosely around Dream’s shoulders. And it’s… good? It’s nice. To wake up and feel calm. To not feel as though he needs to remove himself from the situation as quickly as possible.

Hob stirs beside him, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Surprise flashes across his face as he turns to look at Dream, but it quickly softens. “Hey, you.”

“Hello.”

Hob pets Dream’s hair, pushing it behind his ear, even though his own, longer hair is far more disheveled. “Sleep alright?”

“Yes.” He didn’t even dream. It was welcome, he needed the peace.

Hob kisses him lightly on the lips. “Good. You want coffee? Tea? Breakfast?”

Dream considers him blearily, then shakes his head in amusement. “Do you usually bound up out of bed with such immediate enthusiasm and zest for life?”

Hob bites his lower lip in thought. “Um. Sometimes?”

“Then you will have to forgive the fact that it takes me significantly longer to become alive again in the morning.”

Though Dream also has not had much reason to want to get out of bed, not until lately.

Hob laughs. “Alright. You sort yourself out. I’ll get something started.”

He gives Dream another light kiss, and ruffles his hair, then rolls out of bed and heads off with a truly unreasonable amount of vim. Dream just smiles to himself as he lays back in bed.

It will be good to have a few minutes to think. Or perhaps he’ll just go back to sleep for a while. He doesn’t think Hob will be upset. And what a relieving feeling that is.

—

Once Hob’s put coffee on and gotten out ingredients for breakfast, he finds himself turning to Dream’s painting, propped on top of the bookshelf. It’s so beautiful. So charming. Of course Hob wants to hang it on his wall. It might embarrass Dream a little bit, but he will know how much Hob appreciates this painting.

He’s not great at waiting, and he has time to kill while Dream's getting ready—hopefully a lot of time, the poor thing looks like he needs more beauty sleep—so he grabs his toolkit and goes about finding a spot on the wall to hang the painting. He's found a decently-placed stud behind the drywall and is about to start hammering a few nails in--he's not using some flimsy method and risking the painting falling--when the bedroom door opens. Not long after, he hears Dream come out into the hall.

"Hob?" he calls. "Do you have any--"

He freezes in the entryway.

Hob turns to face him properly. "Hm? Any what?"

But Dream is standing stock still, every muscle in his body frozen, staring at him.

Hob looks between him and the painting, which is now leaning against the wall at his feet. Is he that bothered by Hob hanging the painting? He doesn't actually have to put it up, he just thought--

But. No. Dream is staring at him.

"Something the matter?" Hob asks, walking over to him. Maybe he's regretting staying over, maybe he wasn't ready--

Dream goes, impossibly, more tense, freezing like he might be able to go invisible if he just doesn't move. Like a prey animal.

Hob's properly starting to panic now, and still doesn't know what he's done, but he raises his hands in surrender.

Dream finally unlocks, but not to explain or come towards him. No, his gaze darts from Hob's face to his hands and then he bolts, scrambles backwards and disappears into Hob's bedroom, door slamming shut behind him.

Heart pattering, still having no idea he's done, Hob lets his hands fall--

--and realizes he's still holding that hammer.

He drops it with a start. That-- that must have done it, mustn't it? It’s the only thing he can think of.

But... why?

He goes over to the bedroom door and knocks softly. "...Dream?"

No response.

He knocks again, louder. "Dream?"

No reply, but he can hear Dream’s shaky breathing, like he’s sitting with his back against the door.

Hob sits down on the floor, leaning his head against the door. His heart squeezes with guilt for upsetting Dream, even if logically he knows that he didn't do anything wrong, just caught him at a bad angle that he didn't know was there.

At least he stayed by the door. He could have run into the bathroom or gone as far away from Hob as possible but he didn’t. That’s something.

“Dream,” he calls, knocks lightly on the door to show he’s still there. “Just breathe, sweetheart, it’s alright, yeah?”

This isn’t his area, he’s a physical therapist, not a mental health one. But he’s trying his best.

“Not going to hurt you,” he goes on. He knows Dream knows that, but he clearly doesn’t remember it now. “I promise. You’re safe. It’s alright.”

He still doesn’t get a response, so he stays where he is. Speaks softly to him through the door. Maybe it’ll help. He wishes he just knew the right thing to say, but it’s not that easy. Maybe one day he will just know.

For now, he just keeps talking.

Dream runs. He runs and runs, tripping over himself. He-- he can't feel his hand-- no, that isn't right, he can feel it, but it's tingly and wrong and his fingers are all twisted and won't listen to him and each movement is a scream of pain pain pain all the way up his arm, and--

Why would he do that? Why would he--?

He's out on the street. When did he get here? He doesn't remember leaving, only the rush of adrenaline and panic that had propelled him-- his heart is still pounding-- the certainty that no matter how much his lover had argued and justified look I'm sorry, that was too far, but you get it don't you? you get why I had to? that Dream was about to get his head bashed in next-- he had dropped the hammer but Dream could no longer see his hands without it--

Dream, don't be stupid-- no, you can't leave-- hands on him-- no, he's free now, he's walking, he has his phone in his pocket but he can't reach it because his only usable hand is clutching his art portfolio, he doesn't want to look at the mangled wreck of the other one.

He has his art. Most of it. Some of it. Whatever had been stored in easy reach. He had recent pieces still drying he'd had to leave behind. He'd only had a moment to grab things and run, the briefest of moments when his once-lover had hesitated with regret over what he'd done.

He doesn't know where he's meant to go now.

"Dream, honey..."

Death's voice. Had he gone to her flat? He doesn't remember. But no, this is the hospital waiting room--he doesn't remember how he got here. Perhaps his sister brought him. His hand is agony, but it's not even bleeding. Shouldn't it be bleeding?

Wait. Where is his art portfolio?

He spins around in his chair, but he doesn't see it-- he can't-- this is the only thing he has-- "Death, where--?"

"Shh, relax, we left your things at my flat, remember?"

He doesn't. He doesn't remember. He doesn’t remember getting here. He only remembers the pain. The fear. The threat, the—

“Dream, love, can you hear me?”

Death��s voice again? But no, she’s gone, and he’s sitting on the floor, his back to the door, and that’s Hob talking on the other side.

Hob.

He looks at his hand, flexes his fingers, curls it into a fist. He’s fine. He’s fine. It’s been months. His hand is healed now. Partly thanks to Hob.

“Dream?” Hob calls again.

Finally, Dream finds his voice. "Please don't come in."

He needs— he needs to compose himself, he doesn’t want to be seen like this—

“Not coming in,” Hob promises.

Dream pauses. Is that what he wants? Or is it what he used to want?

He swipes the tears away, moves away from the door, and reaches up to open it.

Hob is sitting on the floor, also right by the door. He looks at Dream with wide eyes, then moves forward tentatively. When Dream doesn’t move away, Hob pulls him into a hug.

Dream sobs, pressing his face into Hob’s shoulder. The tears he’d tried to quell come flooding back.

“Shhh,” Hob soothes, stroking his hair. “It’s okay, love. I have you.”

“I am being ridiculous,” Dream whispers.

“Nah. You’re alright. Don’t worry about it.” He kisses the side of Dream’s head. “Promise you. It’s okay.”

“You won’t hurt me,” Dream says, still quiet. He’s not certain if he’s convincing himself, or if he’s trying to convince Hob that he isn’t afraid of him.

“I won’t,” Hob agrees.

“I know that,” Dream says.

“I know. I know. You're okay.” He squeezes Dream tight, rocks him lightly. “Do you want to get up? I don't know about you, but my ass is suffering sitting on the floor. And you haven’t even gotten to have breakfast or anything.”

Dream manages a small laugh. “No. And I'm sure whatever you made is delicious."

"Didn't finish it yet. Can still be fresh. Come on."

He helps Dream up, and Dream clings to his side, feeling wobbly. He stays stuck against Hob as he cooks, feeling excessively clingy, but unable to help himself. He watches Hob's hands, now blessedly hammer-free. He wonders if Hob would have taken the hammer to his ex-boyfriend's head had he been there in that moment. He doesn't know if that's a healthy fantasy to indulge in. But it tastes delicious.

He's still thinking about it when Hob sits him down and makes him eat some eggs and toast. It's only once he's finished that Hob asks, "What happened?"

Dream still has not told Hob the entire story of what happened, so of course Hob does not know what he inadvertently set off. It feels shameful to say. He should not be afraid of Hob. Isn't. Nor should he let himself be caught by old memories.

Nevertheless, he clears his throat, and relays in halting detail the story of that day. It still frightens him to think about. His home then had never exactly been a comforting or peaceful space but he had never been hurt. And then a switch had flipped and everything changed.

When he's finished, Hob looks ill. Runs his hand stressfully through his hair, looking over at where the painting is propped against the wall. "I figured it must have been the hammer but I didn't know why," he says--mostly to himself, Dream thinks.

Then he takes Dream's hands on the table. "That's one of the worst things I've ever heard, I'm so sorry."

Dream looks down at their joined hands. "It's in the past." It's not, though. Not really.

"Even so." He kisses Dream's hands, clasps them tight. Then pulls him to his feet. "Come on. We'll watch some TV or something, decompress. Unless you wanted to talk about it more right now?"

Dream is too tired for any more talking at the moment. Telling that wretched tale has taken everything out of him. "Not particularly."

So Hob just leads him over to the couch. On the way, he stops and sets the painting back on top of the shelf. Dream wouldn't be surprised if Hob waited until he was gone before trying to hang it up again. The thought puts a lump in his throat.

He lies down on the couch and lays his head in Hob's lap, and doesn't pay any attention to the movie Hob puts on as background noise. He's exhausted, and thinks he might go back to sleep--but after several minutes of Hob petting his hair, he finds himself tearing up again instead.

He hasn't cried much, since. It always felt like that would mean accepting the full reality of the situation. Now, he can't help it, but it feels... not good, quite, but perhaps... relieving. Perhaps he's allowed to be upset about it. For so long he had felt like it was all his fault, like he should have known something something terrible would happen, should have picked up on it. But perhaps he's allowed to feel hurt regardless of whether he could have done something better.

Hob doesn't say anything, just lets him cry, stroking his hair. This isn't particularly how Dream wanted this date to go. He was hoping it would be nice and normal. But he'd rather be sad with Hob than be alone.

As long as Hob just lets him stay here, then perhaps it will be alright.

Hob doesn't pay much attention to the film, he's too focused on Dream. He keeps methodically stroking his hair, thinking. He feels sick over everything Dream's told him. He's wishing he hit Dream's ex with a bat instead of just punching him. It probably wouldn't have been the smartest move, but it's tempting anyway.

When the movie's almost finished, and Dream seems to have calmed down, he finally manages to ask the question that's been stuck in his head since Dream told the story of fleeing his home.

“Dream?” he says. “How much of your things were you actually able to take with you when you left your old flat?”

Dream turns to look up at him. He's still lying across Hob's lap. “Not very much. The clothes I was wearing. My phone and wallet—fortunately, for replacing all of that would have been nightmarish. And I grabbed my art portfolio as well.”

“Nothing else?”

Dream shakes his head. “I still have my keys, assuming he has not changed the locks, but I have not been back. Most of it is replaceable, anyway.”

Most of it, Hob thinks. Except things like gifts, and sentimental items, and documents. And his art.

“Is some of your art still there?”

Hesitantly, Dream nods. “Works in progress. Larger pieces that I could not carry. And sketchbooks, and the like.” He pauses, then says more firmly, as if convincing himself. “It is not worth going back.”

It might not be worth going back for Dream. But Hob’s not afraid of his piece of shit ex.

He’s getting the fucking art.

#angst!#physical therapy fic #dreamling #my writing #cw abuse

229 notes · View notes

cupid-styles · 8 months

Text

lace (grumpy!h)

in which Harry is grumpy and mean to Y/N, who's just shy and trying to get through the day, and they're both teaching assistants for the same class.

word count: 4.9k

content warnings/author's notes: h being a dick, grumpy h x soft girl trope <;3 part two will be posted a week from today!

masterlist | talk to me |

part two | part three

Y/N thinks Harry hates her.

Which is kind of silly, really, because they didn't even know each other prior to being assigned as teaching assistants to the same literary seminar. They roam in two completely different circles and never would have crossed paths if not for the fact that Y/N is an English major and Harry got an A- in the course last year.

Y/N's initially really excited that Professor Donnolly asked her to be one of her TAs. At their first one-on-one meeting together, she lets Y/N know that there will be one other TA this semester since it's such a large class, but this isn't concerning to her. She's quiet and introverted and an expert at keeping to herself, and she's far more focused on helping students in the seminar and building up her resume.

So, she's generally pretty careless about the whole thing until Harry strolls in on the first day. He's dressed in all black, a tattered band tee decorating his torso, inky tattoos covering his arms, and a coffee in hand. He doesn't even have a backpack with him, which Y/N finds weird — she'd spent the previous night printing out worksheets and contact information for her batch of students, all of which were neatly filed in a folder in her bag.

He plops down next to her at the front of the lecture hall and pulls his phone out. Y/N isn't typically very nosey, but she can't help that as she sits there, anxiously awaiting for the class to begin, she notices just about 20 missed texts lighting up his screen. She doesn't think she receives that many messages in a week.

Because she's shy, she's hesitant to introduce herself, but maybe he doesn't realize there's another TA for the course despite sitting down right next to her. So she clears her throat and nervously picks at a loose string on her knitted cardigan before mustering up the courage to say something.

"Hi," her voice is scratchy since it's the first time she's said anything all morning, aside from ordering an iced vanilla latte at the on-campus cafe, "I'm Y/N. Are you the other TA for this semester?"

Harry peers up at her with a glaring look. His eyes are so piercing that it almost makes her jump under his gaze.

"Yeah, I'm Harry. Please don't continue this conversation, I'm hungover."

Y/N's jaw snaps closed at his bluntness, a warm blush encasing her entire body. She's so embarrassed that it physically hurts — and it's enough of a reason to stay quiet every time she sees Harry, twice a week at the seminar.

Weeks go by and nothing changes, the pair seemingly fine with their lack of verbal communication. Every now and then they'll have to physically interact, whether it be passing papers or the one time Harry held the door open for Y/N when they were leaving the lecture hall. She's surprised he didn't purposely slam it in her face.

She'll admit, it bothers her just a tad, but it's just another facet of her personality — an incessant need to people-please — that she scribbles down in her planner as a reminder to bring up in therapy sometime soon.

On Tuesday after class has ended, she's packing up her things, her back to Harry when Professor Donnolly strolls over to their table, the sound of her pumps clacking against the tiled floor.

"Harry, Y/N, are you two available right now?"

In any other instance, Y/N would find a reason to be busy — her social battery is drained from today's workshopping class, where she went around discussing thesis statements with her assigned group of students — but this TA gig matters to her, especially after she did some online digging on Professor Donnolly and found out she has connections at multiple publishing firms Y/N could only dream of working at. So she sucks it up and bears herself for whatever her presence is needed for, even if it means being around Harry.

"I'm free," Y/N replies and Harry grunts out some form of affirmative answer.

"Great!" Donnolly claps her hands together, "So listen, I'm seriously behind in going through these outlines and they need to be graded and handed back by Thursday's class. Do you guys think you could make a dent in the stack this afternoon? You could use my office while I teach this next lecture."

The thought of sitting in an office alone with Harry sounds absolutely humiliating, but to her surprise, he's the one that agrees to it before she even has a chance to run it through her brain. She zones out while Donnolly hands Harry the keys to her office, providing instructions on where the papers and rubric are, before he's turning on his heel and heading in the direction of the English department. Y/N scrambles and throws her bag over her shoulder, her chunky oxfords squeaking as she rushes to catch up to Harry.

"You don't have to join me," Harry grumbles once she finally reaches him so they're walking side by side, "I'm perfectly capable of grading these outlines by myself."

With a wrinkle in her brow, Y/N hugs her backpack strap closer to her body. "She asked both of us, so I'm helping."

"Yeah, but she doesn't have to know if you duck out to do whatever shit you do in your free time. Volunteering with the elderly or summat."

He mutters the last part under his breath, but Y/N hears it. Pain quickly zips through her stomach but it's gone just as quickly as it entered.

"I don't volunteer with the elderly," is her final comeback, albeit mumbled as they reach Donnolly's office. Harry stuffs the key in the lock and twists the door open before flicking the lights on and zeroing in on the stack of papers on her desk.

"Right, well, you act like a fuckin' church mouse, so apologies if my assumptions are a bit off."

Y/N huffs and drops her bag on the cushiony couch. She doesn't even know Harry, so what gives him the right to talk about her like that?

"You're the one that told me not to talk to you on the first day," Y/N says pointedly, walking over to where he stands with the papers in hand, "I'm only doing what you asked of me. And don't call me a church mouse, you don't know anything about me."

She snatches the folder from him and halves the papers as he cackles from above. She can't help but notice that he towers over her, and it makes her swallow nervously.

"You took that seriously? Jesus, you need to lighten up. Haven't you ever been hungover before?"

Y/N rolls her eyes as she sits down on the couch, folding her legs so her skirt doesn't ride up. She digs in her bag for her favorite red pen, fetching it from her pouch of writing utensils.

"Oh wait, you probably haven't. Because you're a church mouse."

Y/N grits her teeth. She's never had someone care to provoke her this much and it's so annoying. Harry is so annoying!

"Can you please stop?" She says softly, removing the cap from her pen. "You don't have to be mean to me just because you don't like me."

"How do you know whether I like you or not?" Harry scoffs as he sits down at Donnolly's desk, "I don't even know you."

Y/N has to admit, that one hurts. So instead of responding, she swallows the lump forming in her throat and starts to read over Amanda Mai's outline.

Harry doesn't bother her again that day. In fact, he doesn't even say goodbye when he's done.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

The following weeks go similarly.

Donnolly stops them both after class with some ask of grading papers or outlines or otherwise, claiming that she thinks they work well together, which Y/N thinks is some cruel joke from the universe. Every time her and Harry walk the familiar route to her office in silence, she wonders what she did wrong in her life and what bullshit karma she's on the receiving end of.

At a certain point, she wonders if someone has made a voodoo doll of her just to torture her, especially when she thinks Harry's finally skipping one of their grading sessions together, only to find his tongue down some sorority girl's throat. He nearly pushes the girl off of him when he notices Y/N's unintentionally interrupted their makeout session. She holds back a snicker when she hears the girl ask what his problem is as she unlocks the door.

"Gotta go," Harry tells the girl lowly, brushing past her to follow Y/N into the office. The girl garbles out a surprised "what?" just as Harry's shutting the door and plopping down at Donnolly's desk chair.

It's quiet for a moment and Y/N debates saying anything, knowing that however she chooses to approach the situation — whether she ignore the confused, pissed off girl outside or comment on Harry's apparent distaste for her — he'll dole out some rude response.

She rolls her lips into her mouth as she passes him his half of the papers, eventually settling on, "You probably shouldn't bring your girlfriend to your job. It's unprofessional, I think, and you both could've gotten in trouble."

Harry chuckles dryly and Y/N immediately regrets her decision.

"Mind your business, little mouse." he mutters, but not before he utters something out under his breath. "She's not my girlfriend either."

Y/N nods slowly and lowers her eyes to the assignment in front of her. Today, they're working on editing the first drafts of the class' papers, which is guaranteed to take hours. She grimaces as she reads over Ty Baker's introduction, realizing that she has a hefty load of grading ahead of her.

When she pulls out her pencil case from her bag, she hears Harry scoff from across the room. Mentally, she hopes it's due to the poor writing he's reading, but she knows she's wrong.

"Do you always wear shit like that?" he sneers. A hot flush instantly pulverizes her body, making her feel embarrassed and self-conscious within seconds.

She doesn't reply, but of course — of course — Harry continues.

"I mean, seriously, how old are you? 23? 24? And you come to campus in little skirts and cardigans and those stupid Doc Martens. Are you trying to look half your age?"

Y/N swallows harshly, attempting to focus on the words on the page. If she ignores him, he'll stop eventually. Harry thrives on her attempting to fight back.

"Are you even gonna defend yourself?" Harry spits, leaning back in Donnolly's chair, "Kind of pathetic, really—"

Y/N's head snaps up, tears blurring her vision. She sniffles and looks at him, the embarrassment now overwhelming when his face falls, realizing that he's made her cry.

"Please stop," Y/N says in a watery voice, "You're just being mean."

Harry stares her down with low eyes, his raspberry lips slighted parted. She can feel his intimidating gaze even as she tries to redirect her attention back to Ty's draft, attempting to blink the salty tears away. She thinks she's made it through until a shudder racks through her body, a sad and involuntary quiver sounding from her chest.

The room is dead silent so she knows Harry hears it, and she wants nothing more than to dig a hole in the ground and bury herself alive. It would be better than having to face the fact that Harry made her cry over rude comments.

She braces herself for another tongue lashing but instead, he stands from the desk, grabs his things, and rushes out of the room, leaving Y/N sitting on the couch by herself with tear-stained cheeks.

She wonders if she's ever been this embarrassed before in her life.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Y/N spends the weekend wondering if she can ask Donnolly to transfer her to another section.

As she cuddles with her kitten, Ginger, on the couch, binge-watching episode upon episode of Love Island, she contemplates how to approach the situation.

"Ging, what do you think I should do?" she murmurs to the orange cat perched on her thighs, "He's kind of awful and he's so mean to me, I don't understand why. I never see him act that way with anyone else. I don't think I did anything to him."

Ginger meows.

"Okay, meow again if you think I should try to move to Donnolly's other seminar."

The kitten jumps off her legs and traipses to her food bowl. Y/N lets out a sigh and falls to the side face-first into a mess of throw pillows.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

On Tuesday morning, Harry is tired.

He stayed up way too late last night and Jenna wouldn't stop blowing up his phone, wondering where he was over the weekend and asking if he wanted to come over and hookup.

(It was a Monday for Christ's sake, and she clearly couldn't take a hint — if he hadn't replied to her last five texts, why on earth would he want to go and get his dick wet now?

He realizes that he's done worse, so he takes it back.)

He typically spends his weekends ambling through parties and bars with his mates. Jenna is just one of his current and most reliable hookups, and he clearly made a mistake by tonguing her in public last week while he waited for Y/N to unlock Donnolly's office. It had been a spur of the moment rendezvous — Jenna happened to be walking through the English department just as Harry was, and she surged towards him for a kiss that quickly grew to a heated makeout once she stuck her tongue in his mouth.

Harry was weak and rarely one to turn down a midday hookup, but the second he heard Y/N's clunky footsteps (those Doc Marten oxfords she wore were a dead giveaway), he tore apart from Jenna.

Because of their public snog session, he assumes that she thinks their arrangement is something more. And she couldn't be more wrong, because ever since Thursday afternoon, all he's been able to think about is Y/N.

He doesn't even know why. She's quiet and shy and the complete opposite of any girl he's ever been attracted to. She rarely even fights back when he tries to rile her up, which he thought would be fun, but then he went and made her fucking cry last week and now he feels like the worst person to walk the planet.

In hindsight, Harry knows he was a fucking dick to her on Thursday. He doesn't know what it is about her, but it annoys him that she's so shy. She's smart and pretty and sweet and he doesn't know why she doesn't see that, instead opting for quietness and soft smiles and a constant hope that no one will notice her.

Harry very much notices her, and it makes him grumpy.

So on Tuesday morning, he decides that he's going to attempt to make it up to her. He can't promise that he won't be rude, but when he makes his daily stop at his favorite coffee shop, he orders his own drink and hers, an iced vanilla oat milk latte. He hopes that she also didn't grab one before class but figures that at the very least, the effort would be appreciated. Maybe.

And Harry is actually kind of... nervous as he strolls into the lecture hall. He usually arrives a minute or two before class starts but today he's a whopping 10 minutes early, giving tight smiles to the students that wave hello to him. He's surprised that Y/N isn't there yet though he's never been this early before — maybe she likes to get there with five minutes to spare, even if she strikes him as an obsessively early type of person.

His eyebrows furrow when Donnolly enters the room and greets Harry with a grin, setting her things up at the podium. Clearing his throat, he tries to seem as normal as possible as he glances at the clock at the back of the hall.

"Where's Y/N?" he asks, turning to look at Donnolly.

The professor glances down at Harry, who's sitting at the TA table, his leg bouncing. He's clutching his own coffee cup and Y/N's is next to him, but now the plastic cup is beading with condensation and sweating onto the wooden desk.

"She's not feeling well today," Donnolly replies casually, her eyes peering over to the extra coffee on the table, "She said she'll try to make it to grading this afternoon, but I told her that wouldn't be necessary if she needs time to rest."

Harry coughs awkwardly and nods, ignoring the pang of guilt zip through his heart.

Donnolly purses her lips before clearing her throat and typing something on her laptop. "You have her number, right? I haven't had a chance to check on her but I want to make sure she's doing alright. Would you mind?"

"I don't have her number, no."

She hums and nods, "I just emailed it to you."

Harry goes to reply, but Donnolly is already clapping her hands to announce the start of class.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Harry can't stop staring at Y/N's phone number.

At this point, he knows he's being a total and utter weirdo. Donnolly gave it to him to check on her, but instead of texting her, he opens her email and stares at the 10 digits until they blur together. He types it in his phone twice but can't decide on what to say. He knows it doesn't have to be a big deal — he's never been this stressed over having a girl's number before! And besides the fact, this isn't even that kind of deal, it's Y/N.

Silly, stupid Y/N, who he can't stop thinking about, who he feels bad for being mean to, who he wishes came to class today so he could give her her dumb iced latte but instead had to throw out the melted, watered down beverage.

He doesn't text her, but he does the next logical step of looking her up on social media. Of course, her Instagram profile is on private and she hasn't posted on Twitter in five years. He tries to find any public trace of her online only to come up empty, so he groans and leans back against his pillows, pulls up the empty text thread and pastes her number in.

It takes him four rewrites and 10 minutes of agony to finally land on: Hey. Donnolly asked me to see how you're doing.

Harry wants to throw his phone across the room but he resists, instead clutching it tightly in his palm. It buzzes a moment later and he nearly yelps to see her number on his screen.

who is this?

"Oh my god," he grunts, slapping a hand over his forehead, "I didn't even say it was me!"

Grumbling, he quickly types back. It's Harry. She said you weren't feeling well.

He keeps the text thread up and watches as the speech bubble appears, then fades away. It happens three times before she replies.

yea I have a migraine. im fine thanks

Harry swallows. His mouth dries as he tries to figure out how he can continue the conversation but she's really not giving him anything to go off of. He can't say he blames her, though.

Do you need anything?

Again, the three dots pop up on his screen and disappear twice more.

no thank you

This time, he replies quickly: Do you think you'll be able to attend class on Thursday? If not, I can bring you the papers you have left to grade so you don't fall too behind.

He figures that's a decent response — maybe one that warrants more than three words, and he even wonders if it portrays his attempt to patch things up.

if i need anything im capable of doing it myself.

Harry sighs and locks his phone. He definitely deserves this.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

On Thursday, Y/N doesn't show up to class again.

And at this point, Harry is ready to call her up or text her, or even email her to demand some answers. He's not sure what answers he's looking for — she said she had a migraine on Tuesday, but how could she still be dealing with it two days later? — but he's annoyed that she's not here.

When class is over, Donnolly wordlessly hands her keys to him. He flashes her a tight small, dumps the rest of his coffee, and walks the short distance to her office, stewing in his anger. Had he really been that mean? He didn't think so; he knew he was a dick and yeah, he still regrets making her cry, but was it worth missing two days of class? She'll be so behind in grading, what's the point in even being a teaching assistant if she's just going to—

Harry's face wrinkles in confusion when he approaches the small office space, noticing that the lamp is already on, radiating a warm glow from the corner. The door is unlocked, too, which Donnolly never does.

"Go fuckin' figure," he mutters to himself, prepared to have to deal with some sort of English department break-in, when he pushes the door open to find Y/N inside, sprawled out across the blue velvet sofa with her pink cardigan bunched up over her eyes.

He's immediately perplexed, and he wouldn't know it's Y/N if not for those clunky Doc Martens on her feet. Instead of her usual Levi jeans or rotation of mini skirts, she's wearing leggings and a baggy t-shirt over her form, her hair tied up and flopped over her head.

He can't tell if she's awake or not, so he very quietly shuts the door behind him. Her lips part and she takes a deep breath, her hand flying up to her temples with a wince.

"Y/N?" Harry whispers, dropping Donnolly's keys on her desk.

"Leave me alone," she croaks, "Everything hurts, just shut up. Please."

Harry smiles gently as she tacks on a please at the end of her request. Something about her delicate state is very sweet, but it's quickly replaced with concern as he kneels down next to the couch.

"Are you okay?" he asks quietly, fingers itching to move the cardigan covering her face.

"No."

"What's the matter?"

"Migraine."

"Why are you on campus, then?"

"Stop asking me questions."

He does, allowing her to ruminate in the silence as he decides what he should do. It's but a minute or two more before she slowly moves the cardigan down her face, revealing tired, squinty eyes that stare up at Harry.

"I've missed two days of classes and I didn't want to miss anymore. I came to campus this morning and I couldn't even make it through my first one. Donnolly said I could rest in here."

"All from a migraine?" Harry presses, a bemused expression on his face.

"Yes. I get them from stress."

It's the most that she's spoken to him in days and he chalks it up to her disoriented nature. Her hair is a mess and her eyes are bleary, fatigue and pain apparent in her every move.

"Do you want to go home?" he asks. He doesn't know much about migraines, but his sister gets them sometimes and she always complains about his voice being too loud. He tries to keep his questions at minimal volume, teetering just above a whisper.

"Yeah, but I don't have a car and it's too bright outside to walk."

"I can drive you," Harry murmurs without a second thought, "My car is in the building lot."

"Isn't that a faculty lot?"

He rolls his eyes, "Are you really gonna harp on that right now?"

Y/N doesn't reply to this, instead trying her best to sit up, only to be met with a painful recoil. Harry jumps to keep her stable, his hands stretching out to steady her arms and keep her upright.

"Sorry," he quickly mutters, "Don't want you to pass out on me."

She nods, and that's how Harry knows she must be really sick. He scrambles up and digs his car keys out of his pocket, then grabs his sunglasses dangling from his tee-shirt.

"Here, you can wear these."

Y/N doesn't reply and his shoulders droop in concern, carefully reaching forward to place them over her eyes.

"Don't tell me if I look dumb." she mumbles, making him laugh.

"You don't. You look quite sweet, actually."

He ignores the compliment that seems to fall from his lips effortlessly, instead choosing to focus on getting her home safely. Harry grabs her backpack and swings it over his shoulder, "Do you need help getting up?"

With squinted eyes, Y/N looks up at him, nodding once. She looks so sad and it kills him, mumbling out an "alright" as he reaches his hands out to help her stand. Once she's on her feet, she's capable of moving on her own, clutching her soft cardigan in arms. He doesn't want to touch her any more without her permission, especially if she hates him as much as she acts. He may be a dick, but he'd never intentionally try to make her feel uncomfortable when she's in such a vulnerable state.

Together, they walk out of the building and to the parking lot, where Harry's navy sedan is parked. He wants to make a joke about her pointing out that yes, technically he left his car in the faculty lot, but she just looks so exhausted that he doesn't have it in him. Gently, he guides her to the passenger's side and unlocks the car, making sure that she gets in safely. When she does, he rushes around the vehicle, placing her bag in the backseat and starting the car.

"Where do you live, Y/N?" Harry asks quietly. She looks over at him in his black Ray Bans and a small smile quirks at his lips. He knows she would never be caught dead in this style of sunglass, but for the time being, he wants to take a picture on his phone so he never forgets the way she looks.

"On Maple." she grunts out as she tucks her arms into her cardigan. It's the end of summer, slowly crawling towards fall, but the daily temperature is still quite warm. He frowns and lowers the air.

"Do you have a roommate that can take care of you?"

"I live alone."

His frown deepens at this as he pulls out of the parking lot and down the road. Yes, they're in grad school, both fully capable adults, but she has to get lonely living by herself, didn't she? He's never seen her out at bars or parties, and if stress migraines are a persistent thing in her life, how does she typically get through them alone?

Harry lives a few streets over from Maple so he knows how to get there. She makes some grumbly noise to let him know that he's reached their destination, so he parks outside and turns the car off.

"I'll walk you in, if that's alright," Harry says. She pauses as she undoes her seatbelt, taking a moment to glance at him through the dark sunglasses.

"Okay. But only because I need you to carry my bag in and make sure I don't puke on the way to my bed."

"Sure," he murmurs, making quick work to follow her inside. He realizes he must look ridiculous, dressed in all black with her pastel pink bag looped over his shoulder.

Y/N's house is very... Y/N. He's not sure what he expected since he's never really wondered about her living conditions, but the one-bedroom apartment is small and cozy, filled with art and plants and candles. Her favorite colors — or what Harry assumes to be her favorites — are constant threads throughout the home, accents of light pink and forest green dancing through her kitchen on mugs and in her living room on throw blankets and pillows. She has a large vase of sunflowers on her coffee table and a sting forms somewhere in his body, wondering if someone — a romantic someone — gave them to her.

Harry notices a small cat toddle towards her, instantly pawing at her shoes as she kicks them off.

"Not now, Ging," Y/N mumbles, "Love you bunches, but 'm still sick."

"Ging?" Harry asks as he gently places her bag on the velvet green armchair in her living room. He picks the tiny kitten up and strokes the white patch on its head.

"Short for Ginger," she replies, turning to look at him. Her eyebrows raise behind the sunglasses when she sees that Ginger is already in Harry's arms, purring away at his pets. If she wasn't in so much pain, she would roll her eyes at the little traitor. "Um... I'm just gonna go upstairs and change and go to bed."

Harry nods, "Do you need anything?"

If she's being honest, Y/N hates going through migraines alone. She can't do anything by herself and she feels far more isolated and lonely than usual. In college, her roommate, Kelsey, was helpful and understanding, but Kelsey moved across the country after graduation. Besides her parents, Y/N doesn't have anyone else to help her in times of need like this.

"Yeah," she finally sighs, much to both her and Harry's surprise, "Can you... just stick around for a little? It's fine if you have things to do, but migraines give me a lot of anxiety and I... it helps to have someone here. Also, Ginger is lonely."

"Well, if Ginger needs company, then I'm more than happy to stay."

It's the first time he's ever made Y/N smile.

Read part two here :) | Read part three here :)

957 notes · View notes