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thetempleofthemasaigoddess · 3 months

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Gentleman caller

Sanji x reader. NSFW!!

This fic was inspired by Usopp visiting Kaya at her mansion at night. One Piece of course is not that sort of story, but... what if things were allowed to get a little more spicy?

TAGGING @holymusicalmothman @b7717 @mcereal @aamon47 Thanks for asking!!

*****

"Are you sure you don't want a glass of warm milk before you go to bed, miss?"

"I am sure, Kyla." you answer politely. The truth is you haven't drunk a glass of milk to help you fall asleep since you were ten (that is, almost half your life) but your governess keeps asking, every single night, and every single night you answer no; still, you know she does it out of worry and affection for you, which you sincerely appreciate "I think I'll go now; will you tell my father good-night for me, when he returns?"

Kyla promises she will, and returns to the kitchen to clean up after dinner, while you walk out of the villa's large dining room, cross a long corridor and climb the stairs to the upper floor, finally reaching your bedroom.

Except for Kyla in the kitchen you are alone, since the cook and the gardener, who do not reside in the villa, already left, and your father is as usual busy with a business dinner. You don't feel lonely exactly, since that state of affairs has been going on since your mother died when you were still too young to remember her, but it does feel a little weird to live in such a large place, no less than twelve bedrooms on the first floor alone and at least six other rooms that have been closed for years since you literally don't know how to occupy them, when it's only the two of you... a waste of space, even though you and your father often host parties and receive many guests.

And the most important of those visitors by far is going to arrive soon, a person your father has no idea has already visited so many times before...

You take off your shoes, and spend a few minutes in the en-suite bathroom refreshing yourself before closing the bedroom's door behind you. You sigh, happy and excited, as you let yourself fall on the bed, observing the room you have slept in since you were maybe six and that you will soon leave: the desk cluttered with paper models, scarps of fabric and sewing tools; the two mannequins wearing your latest creations, a green cocktail dress and a simpler but elegant light blue men's shirt; the bookstore full of sewing manuals, fashion catalogs and the biographies of your favourite designers; the large poster on a wall, depicting a famous, elegantly dressed model... and the glass door that, only a few minutes after you have retired to your room, starts being hit by tiny pebbles, picked from the garden below.

Your guest is here. You happily stand from the bed, glance quickly to the full length mirror on the wall to make sure your hair is combed and in order, and reach the glass door to quickly step onto the balcony.

Standing in the garden under you like a suitor ready to serenade you, more handsome than a fairy-tale hero and beaming as if about to see all his dreams come true, is him. The former assistant cook of your family, your best friend in the world, your...

"Sanji!" you call out to him, voice barely rising above a whisper as you wave your hand at him, a greeting he returns in kind, clearly happy to see you, hidden among the trunks of the centuries-old trees; the night is particularly dark, heavy clouds covering the crescent moon and most of the stars, but his smile is brighter than any other source of light.

"Are you alone?" Sanji asks urgently as he glances all around him; no one has reason to visit the garden at this hour and the balcony is oriented towards the back of the villa, far from the main entrance through which your father would come in, but you both know how imperative it is to keep your rendez-vous secrets.

"I am; my dad hasn't returned yet and Kyla is in the kitchen. You can come up."

When you decided you would meet in secret at night, five years ago, you had offered to find a rope for him to climb, but Sanji never needed it. Tonight, as usual, you look on as he nimbly climbs the tree closest to the villa's wall, clinging to the huge trunk and then to the largest branches until he's jumping above the balcony and directly in your arms.

You embrace each other, your profiles standing out against the light filtering from the room, and for a full minute neither feels the need to talk. Sanji's arms hold you close by the waist, his lips pressed against your temple in a chaste kiss; you lose yourself in his scent, the costly perfume you bought for him because you knew he liked but couldn't afford it and and that never fails to make you shiver, as you enjoy the sensation of his slim but strong body pressed against yours.

"Do you have it?" you ask after a while, pulling away just enough to look at him in the eyes; you thought about nothing else for days, more nervous than if it had been your own future career at stake "The answer from the school. Did you receive it?"

"I have."

"... and?!"

Sanji, as usual neatly dressed in one of the dark suits he wears at work, smiles at you, his fingers brushing against your face; a small backpack hangs from his shoulder. "Can we go inside before we talk?" he proposes "I have something for you as well."

Knowing he brought you a treat from the restaurant he works at makes you happy, but nothing beats the simple, pure pleasure of his company. Wordlessly you take his hand to lead him inside, leaving the now empty balcony behind.

*****

Your friendship with Sanji began exactly one decade ago; you were the only daughter of a powerful politician, living alone with him at the villa and whose pathological shyness had left her virtually friendless, him a newly orphaned boy your father had decided to hire as assistant to the cook, so that he could support himself. One afternoon, you visited the kitchen to ask for a snack, since you were starving and dinner was still hours away; the cook told you that he was sorry but your father, already then worried for your weight, had strictly forbidden him from feeding you between meals. You noticed Sanji, busy scrubbing a large pot in the sink, but he seemed so focused on his job you decided not to disturb him to introduce yourself.

You left, disappointed but unwilling to insist, out of respect for both your father and the cook who was just following orders, but a few minutes later, as you studied in the library, he joined you, a nervous smile on his face and a salami sandwich in his hands.

"Please don't tell anyone, especially not your dad." he told you as he put it in your hands "I hope you liked it, I put some mayonnaise on it because I saw the cook used it to prepare your school lunch yesterday."

You did (and still do) like mayonnaise on your sandwiches, and in that moment you were doubly astonished: that he heard your request for a snack even though he had looked so engrossed in the cookware to wash, and that he had decided to risk your father's wrath to help you, less than a week after being hired.

"Thank you, I... thank you so much! That was very kind of you." you told him, for once forgetting your shyness "My name is (name). What's yours?"

"I'm Sanji. And don't worry; I'm sure your dad means well, but no one should starve, especially not at our age. Don't tell anyone, ok? I know he forbade the cook from feeding you snacks, and i'm not supposed to visit the family's wing of the villa without a valid reason."

You obviously kept his secret, and from that day on, you and Sanji quickly became inseparable, spending together all your free time from school and work; he secretly fed you every time your father's concern about your weight made the cook limit your meals, and you used your allowance to buy him cooking books he studied to pursue his dream of becoming a famous chef. Apart from your father, you had never loved anyone like him; Sanji was the other half of your soul, an acerbic but steadfast feeling that made you sure you would never feel alone, as long as he were by your side, and you would not have left him for all the treasures, and the good food, in the world.

Your father, who was happy you had finally made a friend and didn't mind you had chosen the kitchen boy and not one of your school mates, who belonged to the city's most affluent and prominent families, never had anything against it... at least until you were both fourteen, when he suddenly decided it was inappropriate for the two of you to spend so much time together; as a sign of peace, he found Sanji a more prestigious job in a famous restaurant at the other side of the city. That, in your father's opinion, would have meant the end of your friendship, but it obviously didn't: and after all, with all the sandwiches and portions of dessert he had snuck you, hadn't your friendship been based on secrecy since the very beginning?

For five years Sanji has spent with you almost every evening he is free from the restaurant; he climbs the trees next to your balcony and you let him in, and sometimes you spend the whole night talking, or leave together to visit a bar or go dancing. Is it dangerous, should your father discover what you are up to? Undoubtedly so, especially since you know he only worries about you, whether it is about the food you eat or the places you visit in a large and dangerous city; but you are an adult, more than old enough to decide how to live your life, and Sanji is always ready to protect you when someone bothers you in a club, and he would never feed you something that could seriously endanger your health. You don't know why exactly your father has suddenly decided you mustn't be friends with him anymore, but you are determined not to lose him, especially now that your relationship has started evolving beyond mere friendship... and your own dreams risk separating you forever.

*****

"So? What did the school say?" you insist as Sanji closes the glass door behind the two of you; your heart is pounding, wishing with every fiber of your being you could change the decision the commission must have taken days ago "Did you get in?"

For years Sanji has dreamed of attending the most prestigious cooking school in the country, the Baratie Culinary Arts Academy in the capital; this year he has finally reached the required age to enroll, but the entrance examination, that your friend has taken two weeks ago, is notoriously difficult, especially for who, like Sanji, also has to apply for a scholarship. Your friend was meant to receive the results of his exam today, and you had decided you would also share your own secret with him... and then, hopefully, you would both have something to celebrate.

"I'll tell you in a minute."

"Sanji, please... I haven't thought about anything else all day!" you complain, fearing your friend's reticence is due to shame for his failure; Sanji, busy emptying his backpack on your desk, smiles, before rubbing the back of his head.

"The truth is... I haven't opened the letter yet." he admits "I hoped we could do it together... mainly because I don't have the courage to do it by myself."

There is nothing wrong with wanting a friend close when one is both scared and excited for something, but in that moment your heart breaks for Sanji: he has lost his parents, had to take care of himself since he was still a child, and while he has a good job and could try again next year, being refused admission to the Baratie would break his heart.

You wait patiently as Sanji quickly sets the table for the two of you: cutlery, napkins, glasses, a bottle of water and his latest effort in the kitchen: two portions of a delicious chocolate cake, bigger than what your father would allow you to eat but still relatively small, since your friend does care about your health.

"This looks delicious, Sanji!" you exclaim, as always happy to taste your friend's latest creations "But wait..."

You walk to the small fridge next to the door, almost hidden under a pile of scraps of fabric left over from your latest creation and that you will find a use for one day, and retrieve a small but expensive bottle of champagne that you have bought in the afternoon.

"I thought we could use it to celebrate; I have also taken two flutes from the kitchen." you explain.

"I still don't know if I got in, (name)."

"I'm sure you did. And if the chefs at the Baratie can't see, and taste, how extraordinarily talented you are, it's their loss." you point out "You wanna open it?"

A minute later you are sitting face to face at your desk, cake and champagne ready to be enjoyed, the white envelope Sanji took from his backpack in your hands.

"Shall I?" you ask softly; your friend, who has never looked so pale and so young, nods.

"Please."

You both hold your breath as you open the envelope and then unfold the single sheet of paper inside. You make sure Sanji cannot see your face as you read...

"So? What... what does it say?"

"Sanji, I'm so sorry..."

"Oh, God..." your friend, heartbroken, stares at you for a moment before slumping on his chair, face hidden in his hands "I can't believe it... I was so sure..."

"I'm sorry because you have some very difficult years ahead..."

"... what?"

"Of course. Nights spent studying, sharing a room with six other people, waking up extra-early to go to class... Really, I don't envy you..."

Finally you look at him, beaming, while Sanji's eyes grow bigger as he slowly catches the meaning of your words.

"You mean...?"

"You got in! And you got the scholarship as well. Oh, Sanji, I'm so proud of you! I knew you could do it!"

You stand and embrace, laughing with shared delight. "I can't believe it." Sanji murmurs, still as he looks at the admission letter, signed by Zeff, a famous chef who is the Baratie's headmaster "There were so many people at the exam, and at one point I was so nervous I spilled a bowl of vinaigrette on my apron..."

"As I said, an important school like the Baratie, with so many experienced chefs, couldn't not recognize your talent." you point out, happier than you remember ever being "Classes start in a month, you'll have to give your notice at the restaurant."

"Yeah..."

Sanji takes your hands in his, kissing them devotedly. "I could have never done it without you." he murmurs, with the sort of gaze and inflection that, years after your first kiss, still makes you shiver "All the books you have bought me... and it was you who convinced me to apply. I owe you so much, (name)."

"You would have done the same for me; and we both know the two of us are beyond this sort of talk. I am so happy for you, truly; I know you will become a great chef."

Sanji smiles, circling your waist with his arm as he uses his free hand to pick one of the flutes from the desk. "Shall we celebrate, then?"

"Actually..."

"Actually?"

"Actually, I also have something to tell you." you admit, a new, excited smile opening on your face "You know that important fashion school in the capital, the one many of my favourite designers attended?"

Fashion has always been your greatest passion; you have designed clothes since you were a child, and thanks to a family friend who owns a large tailor shop you have learnt the basics of the trade, how to cut fabric, sew and tailor an item of clothing. Your father, who approves of your interests, has offered to introduce you to some fashion designers his friends or associates are acquainted to, but you are determined to accept no recommendations and take no shortcuts; just like Sanji, and any person who has to work hard to realize their dreams, you will pursue your education, earn an apprenticeship at a fashion house, and in time, hopefully, open your own and make a name for yourself as a designer. It will take you years and fashion is a famously difficult field to break into, but you are determined to give your all, so that whatever the future may bring you will be free from regret, and live doing what you love.

"Of course; the Nefertari Vivi Fashion Institute." Sanji promptly answers; miss Vivi is one of your idols, a ground-breaking designer who has revolutionized the fashion world and then focused on teaching, establishing one of the best-reputed educational institutions of the field "So what?"

You smile, still excited almost a week after receiving your own letter, that you asked your father to open for you.

Sanji gapes. "You are kidding."

"I am not!"

Your friend laughs. "And you didn't tell me anything!" he exclaims, and you apologize, telling him you didn't want to disappoint both of them in the not unlikely event you were not admitted.

"But you were?"

You still can't believe it yourself. "I was! There was no exam; I only had to send miss Vivi some of my creations, and a few days ago I received the acceptance letter."

"(name), that's amazing!"

"I know! I can't wait to begin. I also apply for a scholarship, but unfortunately I didn't get it."

Sanji asks whether you plan on asking your father to pay for your classes, but you shake your head: you need to learn to take care of yourself, living alone once you'll move to the capital and earning money to support yourself. To this end, you have contacted a friend who lives in the capital and owns a bookstore: she has accepted to hire you, and you have sold your jewels to pay your tuition fees.

"(name), you didn't!" Sanji exclaims, flabbergasted "Those were your mom's things..."

"I know." you sigh, still feeling saddened and a bit guilty even though you know you did the right thing "But this is my future we are talking about, the opportunity to build a career, and a life for myself, without my father taking care of me or using my family's money to buy whatever I need or want. I want to earn my keep, Sanji; I want to prove I can take care of myself, and that I am more than a spoiled little girl."

Sanji softly points out that no one who knows you could ever think that; he smiles, his handsome face expressing a joy too great and deep for words, as he takes you in his arms once more. "So we are both moving to the capital to study." he mentions "And pursue our dreams. Which means we'll both be very busy..."

"... but we won't have to hide our relationship anymore." you happily finish for him, having already reflected on the matter; you plan on living in a student residence, since their rooms are cheaper than other types of accommodation, and guests are usually not admitted, but at least you will be able to meet in the open, having dates like any other couple instead of having to hide like a married man with his mistress, lest your father learns about your relationship "I can't wait! In a month we'll both be living in the capital, studying with the best in our fields, and nothing will stop us from being together. I... I don't think I've ever been so happy!"

"Me neither." Sanji agrees, one of the flutes in his hand once more "Shall we drink to our future? And then enjoy the cake?"

You agree, but you barely have had the time to clink your glasses together when a sudden noise reaches your ears: an unexpected, but otherwise innocuous noise, at least for who, unlike the two of you, has nothing to hide...

A soft but firm knocking on the door.

Sanji looks at you, suddenly tense; you turn your eyes to the door, wishing to be able to see beyond it. "Yes?"

"(name), it's dad. May I come in?"

The flute almost slips from Sanji's fingers; terrified as if a whole army were standing at the other side of the door, ready to barge in and tear both to pieces, you both nonetheless act quickly, having prepared for such an occurrence since your first nocturnal meeting. Your friend quickly retrieves the flutes and the champagne bottle, while you do the same with the cake plates and the other things placed on your desk; a moment later, Sanji has slipped under your bed, a dusty and uncomfortable hiding spot where nonetheless he'll be safe from your father.

I hope.

"(name)? Is everything all right?"

"Just a moment, dad! I'm coming!" you answer, hoping you sound less nervous, almost terrified, than you feel; you quickly glance all around you, making sure no trace of Sanji's presence is visible, and finally go open the door.

"Hello, dad. How was dinner?" you ask, approaching to kiss him on the cheek; even though he interrupted you and Sanji, you're happy he came to say good-night to you before retiring to his own bedroom.

"Pretty good, even though the lemon cake was not up the restaurant's usual standard. Are you ok?"

"Yes, of course; I was... preparing to go to bed." you answer vaguely, before something in your peripheral vision makes you tense; it is Sanji's backpack, placed where your friend had left it less than half an hour ago: on the bed, perfectly visible.

Shit. SHIT. Shitshitshitshit...

You move a step to the right, so as to prevent your father from noticing the backpack; it is not as compromising as if he had found Sanji's tie, or his shoes, but he could notice the backpack is a men's model, and inside he could find your friend's personal documents, five years after he had forbidden you from having further contact with him. Don't look at it. Don't see it. Please please please...!

Thank God your father, a clever and perceptive man, seems unconcerned with out-of-place objects in your room. "I was thinking tomorrow we could go buy a new suitcase for you; you need a large one, since you'll have to bring most of your things when you'll move to the capital. I hope you'll allow me to pay for that at least."

You smile, grateful for the offer and even more for the intention. "Of course, dad. Thank you."

He smiles, taking your hands in his. "I am so proud of you." he murmurs "I have always known you had a great talent for fashion, but being admitted to such a prestigious school... You'll become the greatest designer of your generation, I'm sure."

"Dad..."

"Please, let me be happy for you. You know I'm always there if you need something, right? I know you have found a job, and you are smart and mature enough to take care of yourself, but if you ever need money, or you want to come home, you can do it; no judgement. Oh, I wish your mom could see you..."

You bite your lip, suddenly unable to talk; a lump of emotion blocks your throat. You are happy, and grateful, that your father supports your desire to move to the capital and attend the Nefertari Institute, especially since he's so protective and you know he wished you would one day follow his footsteps and go into politics, and while you can't wait to start your classes and enjoy life in a big city, the thought of leaving him, and the house where you were born, fills you with sadness... and guilt.

"I... I will never thank you enough for everything you have done for me." you murmur, stepping closer to him to hug your father "And I'm sorry if... if I ever made it hard for you, especially after mom died. I love you very much, dad. I'll be back often to visit, I promise; and I'll miss you so much."

"I'll miss you too, my darling girl." your father answers; he's moved as well, but better than you at hiding it "But I'm so proud you're beginning your life in the world. And I hope you'll let me visit you as well."

"Of course! Every time you can."

"Good. Now, we should both go to sleep. I'll see you in the morning."

He kisses you on the forehead, and soon after he's closing the room's door behind him. You are still staring at it when, a minute later, Sanji joins you, resting his hands on your shoulders.

"Are you all right?" he asks softly; he has known you long enough to perceive what you are feeling, the love for your father and the guilt for the relationship you are carrying out behind his back, the efforts you are making to build a life for yourself away from his protective but constrictive influence and the way you'll miss him terribly and feel guilty for leaving as soon as you could.

"Yeah, just... I was just thinking."

You sigh, turning to face Sanji, desperately trying to return to the carefree joy of five minutes ago, and drive away the melancholia filling your heart. After all, it is normal for children to find their way in life away from their family, and your father is still young, dedicated to his job and career, and has many friends and a new partner he is very close to; he'll be all right, and whatever loneliness and melancholy he will feel, you know he will accept it.

"Your father is a good man." Sanji points out as you both retrieve your drinks and plates from the wardrobe you had hidden them in "He didn't even know me, but he gave me a job when I was alone in the world, and then he found me an even more prestigious one at the restaurant; every berry I ever earned I owe it to him. I'll never forget all the help he gave me."

You smile, happy to hear your friend talk well about your father. "You still have a good opinion of him even if he forbade us from being friends?"

"Well, I shouldn't resent him for that, since we never stopped seeing each other. And he only wanted to protect you, which I can understand."

You blink. "... sorry? What are you talking about?"

"Right, I... I never told you, did I?"

Sanji rubs the back of his neck, suddenly bashful. "You never wondered why your dad was suddenly against us being friends?"

You had. "Well... I thought it was because we weren't children anymore... and you a boy and I a girl..."

"Exactly, but... there was something else. When I was fourteen, I... I wrote you a letter; there was something important I needed to tell you, but I couldn't find the courage to do it in person. I left it on your pillow one day while you were in school, but your father found it... and read it."

You wait for Sanji to elaborate, but he seems focused on staring at the floor, avoiding your gaze. "It was... something inappropriate for a father to read...?"

"Nothing vulgar, if that is what you are wondering; but... it did say I wanted us to be more than friends, and this is what your father opposed, not that I was an orphan without money and prospectives, but because he thought you were too young for that sort of relationship. So... so he asked me to leave things between us as they were, and when I refused, he decided it was better to separate us, and he found me a job at the other side of town, forbidding me from contacting you again, at least until you were of age."

He looks at you, tense since he has no idea how you could react, but the truth is you don't know either. "He sent you away because he didn't want us to date?" you recapitulate in the end, flabbergasted "What would have been so wrong about that? Lots of girls get a boyfriend at fourteen, and he knew you, he knew you would treat me well..."

"Well, he's always been protective of you. Sorry, maybe I should have told you before..."

"It's ok." you reassure him, even though you are not completely sure of it yourself; you understand your father's reasons, and appreciate he didn't simply kick Sanji out in the street, but at the same time you can't believe all of it was to stop your best friend, a boy he knew posed no danger, from confessing his feelings "I... I'm so sorry, Sanji..."

"Well, it wasn't so bad; and as I said, I really don't have a reason to complain, since we did end up becoming more than friends. I felt guilty lying to your dad... but I couldn't give up on you."

He smiles, as he picks one of the flutes up from your desk again. "Now, can we please have a toast to our future?"

You do, happily enjoying your late-night snack; you delicately clink your glasses together before taking a sip, and then feed each other cake, your knees touching under the desk.

Silence has fallen on the room, and on the two of you, as usual when you are with Sanji a comfortable, peaceful silence that you don't feel the need to fill with small talk; you smile at each other, both happy and excited at the future opening in front of you... a future that you will face together as you have always done, finding strength and support in each other.

"Does chef Zeff teaches any class at the Baratie?" you ask after a while; you know the extent of Sanji's admiration for the principal of the cooking school, and it would be amazing for him to learn personally from his idol.

"Not for first-year students; but I heard that he sometimes gives one-on-one classes, if he finds a particularly talented pupil."

"... which means he'll leave all his other classes to tutor you exclusively, as soon as he tastes your True Bluefin sauté... or your salami sandwich."

Sanji smiles; he knows how much faith you have in his cooking abilities, and he never stops being grateful for it. "You're exagerrating."

"I'm not." you very seriously protest, as you clean your dish from any crumble of cake; you know watching your diet means taking care of your health, but you would happily eat three more! "A month and he'll let you skip a year or two, I promise."

"Well, if you are so sure..."

A few minutes later Sanji is putting the dirty plates and cutlery away in his backpack, while you observe the sky out of the glass door, leaning with one shoulder against the wall.

"Once we both live in the capital we won't have to hide anymore, but we'll be so busy with school..." you consider "I'm afraid we won't have a lot of time to spend together."

"Still, it will be an improvement from what we have now. And all the city's school dormitories are in the same campus, which means we can visit each other every time we want."

You nod, still pensive, and a moment later Sanji's arms are circling your waist, his chest pressed against your back.

"It's going to be all right." he murmurs, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear in a way that makes you shiver in such a pleasant way "We are going to be all right, I promise, no matter how busy we are."

"Oh, I know; believe me, I'm not doubting my feelings, or yours. We have waited for so long to be able to live our relationship in the open, and I can't wait to be able to see you every day, even for five minutes between classes or to cram together at night. It's just..."

You turn in his embrace, almost apologetic as you smile at him. "I feel so happy, as if all my dreams were coming true: attending a great school, not having to hide what we share. It is almost too good to be true; and I'm almost afraid to wake up and find out it really was just a dream."

Sanji is too kind to make fun of your fears; he considers them as he holds you close, equally aware that no matter how steadfast your feelings for each other are and even though both of you have rightfully earned admission in the schools of your dreams, you are both beginning a new chapter in life, and neither knows what future may have in store for you.

Still, it is pointless to worry about tomorrow, and Sanji decides that more than reassure you, he wants to make you forget your fears, even if just for a minute. "You know what I'm thinking about?" he asks after a minute, his tone pensive "That I've been here for at least thirty minutes, and I haven't kissed, or been kissed by, you, even once."

"Ah, that won't do."

"It really won't. So..."

He grins, happy to see you smile as well, and when he lifts your chin with his fingers you obediently close your eyes and offer him your mouth to kiss.

Almost three years have passed since your first time, in this very room, and kissing Sanji still makes your heart tremble; he is sweet but passionate, not aggressive but intense enough to leave no doubt about his feelings, and his intentions. You enjoy the feeling of his mouth on yours for a moment before kissing him back, Sanji's lips hot against yours; you feel him smile, his hands now holding you by the waist while yours gently caress his hair and neck.

"Gods, you taste so good..."

"It's the cake, Sanji."

"No, it's not. You are delicious, (name); absolutely... mesmerizing..."

You keep kissing for a while, as your hands start moving on each other's body; Sanji whispers your name, suddenly breathless, as your mouth descends towards his neck, at first gently pecking at the delicate skin of his throat, and then sucking hard enough to make him moan.

"(name)..." he murmurs again, and you smile, circling his hips with your arms; you nuzzle at his chest, the soft fabric of his shirt so familiar and comforting against your skin, and wish you could stay like this forever.

You feel Sanji's hands move on your hips and back, his fingers brushing against the hem of your skirt.

"I like this one." he murmurs in your ear; he is aware of the effect he has on you and exploits it mercilessly "Is it new?"

"Made it myself." you answer proudly; you had seen the skirt on a fashion magazine, and rather than buying it you had decided to see whether you could recreate it "Does it look good on me?"

"You look absolutely ravishing, my darling..."

And ravish is exactly what Sanji seems intent on doing; a minute later your back is pressed against the wall, with a very handsome, very amorous young chef intent on making you forget your very name.

Sanji's back and shoulder muscles are taut under your hands as they run all over his body, like a beautiful clay statue molded by your touch; you can feel his heart pounding against your chest, the tenseness in his body as he tries to restrain himself in order not to unsettle you, not to take more than what you would be ready to offer. Dear Sanji, you think fondly as you arch your back to press your chest against his and finally, finally feel his hands grab at your buttocks, don't you know at this point you don't even have to ask?

Sanji's jacket is the first item of clothing to go, falling on the closest chair after you helped him take it off; he returns the courtesy freeing you from the heavy sweater you wear, leaving you with a tight camisole, the different colour of your bra visible under it. He smiles, clearly appreciating the view, but a moment later his expression turns serious, almost reverent, as he gazes at you, almost as if he couldn't believe he's really holding you in his arms.

"I love you so much, you know that?" he murmurs, and no matter how many times he has already uttered those words, you know how deeply he means them, how utterly and hopelessly devoted he is to you and to what you hope to build together. To be the object of such an intense ardor is... humbling, since you're not quite sure you deserve it, and you could even feel guilty for it, if your feelings for Sanji were not equally deep and strong. You don't remember a day in which you didn't love him, ever since he risked your father's ire (and, consequently, the job he had just gotten) to feed you, there has always been a special place for him in your heart, a place no one else could ever occupy; Sanji is the other half of you, someone who you don't need in order to live but who you want to share your life with. Without him you could go on; but you know you'll never feel complete ever again.

And to express everything you feel -all the love, the joy that fills your heart when he's by your side and the hopes you cherish for your future together- you are unable to say more than...

"I love you too, Sanji."

... and that is more than a little frustrating.

You know what you share goes beyond physical attraction, but you can't deny it is flattering, and exciting, to know you can have that sort of effect on Sanji, a man attractive and charming enough he would have no troubles attracting a date; you sometimes think about the girls he meets at work, or the clients he could easily flirt with when he has to cover for a waiter at the restaurant, but you know he is being sincere when he swears you're the only one he cares about, and that he has never betrayed your trust. On the other hand, you are not good with words and Sanji doesn't care for expensive gifts, which makes you fear, sometimes, you could do more to prove how much you care for him, and how committed you are to your relationship; the truth is, you love him so much, a feeling deeper and more encompassing than anything you thought you would be able to feel, that you lack the words to express it, and any declaration, no matter how grandiose or romantic, would fall short of your actual feelings.

Then, you suddenly realize, maybe you shouldn't tell him; after all, like your father always says, actions do speak louder than words...

Sanji's stares, eyes wide open, as he sees you take off your camisole. A moment later, he hurries to unbutton your shirt, and you move to help him, and somehow, maybe because you're in a hurry or because your hands are shaking, you tear off a button.

"Oh, Gods..." you stutter, embarrassment filling you "I'm so sorry, I... I'll sew it back on, I promise..."

Sanji shakes his head, as if to say you needn't worry; he is a sight to behold, short of breath, his usually pale complexion turned pink with excitement - with lust. He looks at you, he looks at your hands still holding the two panels of his shirt, and orders:

"Tear it off."

"... what?"

"Rip it off me. (name), please, I want you to undress me."

"Are... are you sure?" you ask again; the idea is more than a little exciting, but the experienced seamstress and future fashion designer in you hesitates at the thought of ruining a perfectly serviceable item of clothing.

Sanji grins, desire and affection filling his brown eyes. "Yeah, sure; it's an old one. Please, darling..."

"As you wish..."

A sound of tearing and ripping fills the room, and a moment later Sanji's shirt, now missing every single of its buttons and irreparably damaged, lies on the floor, while he's naked from the waist up - and Gods, just looking at him is enough to make you forget any hesitancy you may have... including the ones regarding the presence of your father, in his bedroom at the other hand of the corridor.

He smiles, more than aware of the effect he's having on you, as he shamelessly stares back at your body. "Come here, my beauty." he invites you, and a moment later he has taken you in his arms once again, your hands moving on each other's newly exposed skin.

"Let's move to the bed." you propose in a whisper between kisses, and laugh softly as Sanji hurriedly picks you up, bridal style, to carry you and delicately lay you down on the light blue sheets of your bed. A minute to take off your shoes, and he has joined you; you are kissing again as he makes quick work of your bra's clasp, but Sanji stops to admire you, lying under him, and for a moment he seems unable to speak.

"You are so beautiful." he murmurs; he looks you in the eyes, to gauge your reaction and make sure he's not overstepping, before letting his hand brush against and then close around your breast "My (name)... I've waited for this moment since I was maybe twelve, you know?"

"You could have told me before."

"A gentleman never asks, he waits for the lady to offer."

You smile, shamelessly enjoying the sensuality of his touch, the delicious sensation of Sanji's warm hands caressing and stimulating and gently squeezing the warm flesh of your chest; he sees you jolt when the pad of his thumb finds your nipple, and smiles, and you smile with him.

"Well, this lady is offering." you point out a moment later; you want there to be no doubt or ambiguity about what you want "I want you, Sanji. Will you make love to me?"

Unexpectedly, and while you can see the desire in his eyes as he looks at you, he hesitates. "You know we don't have to do it." he softly points out "You don't... owe me anything; I don't want you to think this is something we need to do in order to make our relationship last, or since we have been together for a while..."

"I know. I... I just want to live this with you; I want you to be my first, as well the last. I want you, and I'm tired of hiding it."

"(name), I..."

"Sanji, please."

That last word, as well as the tone you utter it in, being begged to take you in his arms and make you scream, would make even the most dispassionate man forget himself, and Sanji is far from that. In a whisper, he asks you to lift your hips, and takes both your skirt and panties off; he licks his lips as he looks at you, as if anticipating what he is going to do to you, and delicately lifts your foot in his hands. His first kiss is placed on your ankle, and then the second at the bottom at your calf, and the third a bit above it, and then on your knee and on your thigh until Sanji is lying on the bed between your open legs, and the sensation of his tongue and hips doing magic on the most hidden part of you is so delicious, so lurid and at the same time heavenly, you have to press your hand to your mouth to keep yourself from screaming. You can feel the wave mounting inside you, and you couldn't stop it even if you wanted to, and a minute later your first real orgasm hits you, and you are shaking in Sanji's grasp as he licks you like a man starved, proud and excited by the pleasure he was able to give you.

Your eyes meet above your heaving chest; you are both smiling, breathless. "That was... amazing." you whisper, and Sanji grins as he reaches to kiss you once more, neither bothering about the taste.

"We have just started." he assures you "Will you help me with my clothes, darling?"

He stands from the bed to let you take his trousers off, smiling softly as he sees how your hands shake; a moment later he's finally naked, and you can't help gulping as you gently take his erection in your hand, heavy and hard. You swallow, and instinctively lower your face to it to lick the tip.

Sanji jumps. "Shit..."

"I'm sorry, I thought... that was ok..." you stammer, suddenly alarmed "Did I hurt you?"

"Hurt?" he repeats, completely breathless, as if he had never heard that word before "Quite... quite the opposite. I... (name), I..."

He can't find the words to describe what he wants, but thank God you know it already, and this is miles beyond what you had already experience in, but you must be naturally talented, or perhaps this is one of those things you simply know how to do. You keep Sanji's eyes in yours as you take his erection in your mouth, swallowing it almost to the base and using your lips, your tongue and even (cautiously) your teeth to give him pleasure; he moans, bucking his hips, his hands caressing your hair.

"God... you're so good, baby... you take me so well..."

Emboldened, you wish you could make him climax with your mouth, but Sanji asks you to stop after a while, smiling as he sees you pout. "As much as I love the feeling of your mouth, there is somewhere else I'd rather come." he tell you as he cleans your lips with his fingers "Let me take care of you."

A silent nod is the only answer you feel able to give, and the only one Sanji needed; your hand guides him back on the bed where, a slight and natural awkwardness covered by your kisses, Sanji lies above you, gently caressing your hair as he lifts your leg above his hips.

"I love you." you murmur; you feel barely able to breathe, but those words easily leave your lips, as natural as a breath "Sanji, let me be with you forever."

He smiles, pressing his forehead to yours; he isn't inside you yet, but the intimacy of that moment goes beyond what you could describe in words, the marvelous feeling of being one, a closeness born from love and passion and trust and empathy. You doubt you will ever feel anyone as close as Sanji is in that moment, and that makes you happy.

"Nothing and no one will ever come between us." he murmurs "I promise."

*****

You spend what feels like hours locked in an embrace, exchanging lazy but hot kisses as your hands explore each other's body. Your fondling makes Sanji grow turgid once more, and he has to use your pillow to suffocate his screaming (yes, screaming) as you do get to make him come in your mouth; he gets even a minute later when you both find out that you really enjoy your chest being sucked, which Sanji does until you are a moaning mess, begging for mercy, and he has to gift you your third orgasm, this time using his fingers, to make you calm down.

This night is perfect; this night feels as if it would never end. Unfortunately, this is not the case, and an hour before dawn, after he risked for the second time to fall asleep with his cheek pressed against your chest and your fingers in his hair, Sanji reluctantly abandons the warmth of your bed, and of your body, to get dressed. You both know it can't be helped; if your father discovered him in your bed, even now that you are an adult and about to go live on your own, the consequences would be catastrophic.

"Things will be different once we have moved to the capital." you reassure him as you pick up what is left of his shirt to throw it away "I want my dad to visit, but we can tell him we met again on campus and decided to date; he does like you, and he'll accept I am old enough to have a boyfriend."

"I hope he will." Sanji considers, as he ties his shoes; he hesitates for a moment, and then: "What if I wanted to tell him the truth?"

"You mean...?"

"About us, yes. I could have never given up on you, (name), but I didn't like lying to your father; I owe him so much, and I'd like give his blessing to our relationship. Don't you?"

Nothing would make you happier, even though, you must admit, the prospect of having to confess you have deliberately disobeyed him for five years is not pleasant; you love your father, and the last thing you have ever wanted was to disappoint him, even though there is no price you wouldn't have paid if it meant being with Sanji. You admire the fact your boyfriend wants to be honest with his benefactor, and you need - no, you want to be as brave as he is.

"Then we will tell him."

"Are you sure?"

"I am. It's not going to be pretty, and I know he'll be very angry, but he deserves the truth. We all do." you point out with a sigh; then, seeing Sanji is almost done getting dressed: "Wait..."

You stand as well, and walk to the mannequin wearing the men's shirt, an elegant light blue model with white collar and cuffs. You return to Sanji to offer him the shirt. "Here, wear this."

"... are you sure?"

"Of course, I had planned to give it to you to celebrate your admission to the Baratie. Try it on, let me see how it looks on you."

It looks great, even though it is perhaps more because of Sanji's good looks and physique than anything else; he carefully buttons it, and happily looks at himself in the full-length mirror. "My favourite tie will go perfectly with this."

"I know, why do you think I chose this colour?"

Naked as you are, you don't feel cold, especially as you feel Sanji's gaze lingering on your body as his brown eyes admire the flesh he has lost himself in just two hours ago, but that he's not yet sated by.

Soon, your smile tells him as you return the gaze, committing the beauty of his lithe but strong body to memory, as soon as we have moved to our dormitories, or as soon as my father has to leave for one of his work trips. I want you again too; I think I'll never stop wanting you.

As usual Sanji seems to understand you without the need for words, because he smiles once more and, as soon as he is done admiring himself in the mirror (which you cannot blame him for; the shirt does look amazing on him!) he takes your face in his hands to kiss you once more. "I am so happy." he murmurs "Happy we got to share this moment. I... I do want to be with you forever, but..."

"... but you are happy I was your first, and you mine. I know, Sanji; I feel the same."

You spend a precious minute like this, your foreheads touching, your fingers intertwined, as you breathe in each other's air and savour that new form of intimacy. In this moment, you are not afraid Sanji can doubt your feelings anymore; but in any case, you promise yourself, you'll still make sure he knows how much you love him, every day from now to eternity.

In the end, it's time for your boyfriend to go. He takes his backpack and insists you put your nightgown on, in case one of the neighbours looks out of their windows, before you accompany him on the balcony, where a last kiss sees him climb over the parapet and cautiously reach the tree's closest branches.

"Thanks for the cake! It was really delicious."

Sanji winks at you, mischievousness dancing in his eyes. "I think you thanked me enough already."

"Oh, you are so vulgar..."

Your laugh follows him as Sanji quickly climbs down the tree, finally reaching the ground safe and sound; he looks up at you and waves, and you wave back, and "I'll be back soon; I promise." he says, and you nod as he starts walking away, and remain where you are until Sanji has disappeared, hidden in the murmuring darkness surrounding the villa.

#One Piece #One Piece Live Action #OPLA #Sanji #Vinsmoke Sanji #Black Leg Sanji x reader l #Black Leg Sanji #Sanji x reader #Vinsmoke Sanji x reader #Black Leg Sanji x reader #Taz Skylar #Bellona's stuff

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deathmetalunicorn1 · 11 months

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Hello! I was wondering if you could do a mage (this is a type of powerful wizard) reader with the strawhat crew!

She is believed to be the last of her kind which often makes her a target of the marine and many of the warlords and emperors

Some want her as a weapon others want her as a wife for either themselves or as a wife for a member of their crew.

But the last thing the strawhats do is to give up on a friend theres no way in hell that they're gonna let anything happen to you.

Please and thank you if thats alright!

-You yawned as you stretched your back slightly, shifting in your bed before you cuddled Chopper who was slowly waking up himself.

-Greetings were passed as you patted his head, smiling softly, “Thanks for being my nightmare buddy, Chopper.” He just beamed, as you had been being plagued with nightmares of the memories of your country’s destruction so many years ago.

-Your home island had been destroyed in a single night, marines and pirates attacking on both sides, after finding the location, wanting mages to use for their own selfish needs.

-It ended with a Buster Call, due to the mages killing several Celestial Dragons, wiping out everyone on the island, except for you, as your mother managed to trap you in a magic bubble and sent you to the Mermaid Kingdom, where you lived until you were grown enough to leave, after harnessing your abilities.

-As soon as word got out, you immediately became the most desired person in the world, marines and nobles wanting to use you for their own selfish needs, pirates wanting you to join their crew to be a weapon, but a lot of it changed once your bounty poster had been released when you were an adult.

-You were stunning!! Your poster was so highly sought after because of how gorgeous you were! Now everyone wanted you not only for your power and abilities, but for your stunning good looks as well.

-You were in luck however, because you found safety in one of the strongest crews out there, the Straw Hat Pirates. You had met Luffy and the others shortly after Alabasta, joining right after Robin, and without knowing your true power, Luffy invited you to join his crew because he thought it was cool to have a mage in his crew.

-You had all become like family, working together, protecting one another, forming close bonds, and you were willing to risk your life for any one of them.

-Chopper was one you were closest with, mainly because he was helping you with your emotional trauma by being there for you when you have nightmares, becoming your nighttime cuddle buddy.

-This is something Sanji hates however, as he wants to be your cuddle buddy, and everyone in the crew has vetoed everyone except for the girls, Chopper, and Luffy, as you trust him and you know he only has feelings for you like a brother would and you adore him dearly for it and your trust in Luffy will never waver, unless if you leave a piece of cake out for you and tell him not to eat it. You will always return with a second slice of cake for yourself as you knew he would eat the slice you left in front of him.

-Zoro was your grumpy, reluctant big brother whom you loved to tease, but he would tease you back, calling you short and stealing your hat, but you evened the odds with your broom, flying above him so you were taller!

-Nami and Robin were both quite protective of you as well as territorial, not liking when they had to share with the boys of the crew. Nami would always steal you away to go shopping and has learned not to ask for treasure hunting spells, mainly because you don’t know any but she doesn’t want to use you like others would. Robin is definitely like your big sister, guiding, kind, funny, wouldn’t hesitate to tease you but also would never turn down a chance to cuddle with you. Any given day you could be found sleeping on top of Robin in her hammock while she reads and she won’t hesitate to punish others who would wake you up.

-Usopp was initially scared of you, thinking you were like an evil witch from fairy tales, which, to be fair, you did tease him with, before you became very close friends, bonding over plants, you making medicines and potions and him making weapons and he never fails to make you laugh.

-Sanji, just like Robin and Nami, was head over heels for you and treated you differently compared to the men, making sure the three of you had the prettiest of desserts and wouldn’t hesitate to turn himself into a living shield to protect any one of you. You’re the only one of the girls who trusts Sanji enough to give him a lap pillow, for a short while at least.

-Franky was the best big brother you could have asked for, he’s funny, loves your vibe and style, and loves to come up with inventions based on your magic, to make you even more powerful. Franky is one of the few that you can relax completely around, because you know he will keep you safe.

-You adored Brook to pieces, when you first met him your eyes were so sparkly, seeing a walking, talking skeleton, that you almost missed his first words to you, “Beautiful young lady, may I see your panties?” After that one hiccup, you and Brook were almost always together, as he was the only one, besides Chopper, who was light enough to carry on your broom with you, which made you a deadly death-from-above pair.

-You met Jinbei when you were a child, as he had been the one to find you and brought you to the king and queen, so you would be safe, so you were very close to him, even calling him Boss from time to time which always made him grin. Having grown up with Jinbei always close by, he became a fatherly figure to you, and he wouldn’t hesitate to fight anyone to keep you safe.

-You’ve met plenty of other crews, Law’s was your favorite only because you loved Bepo to pieces, finding the fluffy polar bear so cute.

-Those you called allies were glad you were on their side, after showing your immense power, taking out a whole marine fleet by yourself, but even as allies, that didn’t stop several of them, Shanks being one of the worst, from flirting with you and trying to convince you to join their crews, but you knew at least Shanks was mostly joking.

-Your bounty was on par with the strongest in Luffy’s crew, wanted alive only because the World Government wanted you for themselves, to use your power for their own gains.

-However, that just made you all fight harder, you weren’t leaving your crew- your family, and they weren’t going to let anyone take you.

#one piece #luffy #nami #robin #franky #brook #chopper #sanji #zoro #jinbei #usopp

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therealrattlehead · 10 months

Text

Physical (You’re So): A Genji/Ramattra fan fiction

Summary: After a heated argument in the living room, Ramattra and Genji learn what they need to settle their differences once and for all

Rating: Explicit Content

WC: 8,000+, first 2198 words included in post, rest is available on ao3

A/N: Hello! Due to this being my first OW fic, it is a little out of character. However, I hope you still find joy in reading :]

Zenyatta’s house was nothing special to Genji. Maybe it was because he had spent the majority of his time there. The house was on a small piece of private land, not something that Zenyatta was very fond of, but was given as a sort of gift, though Zenyatta prefers not to disclose from whom. Genji’s best guest was the monastery, but he wasn’t even sure of that. The house itself was quite small, only having room for around three people, maybe four if someone was willing to share their room or sleep on the couch. The interior walls of the home were painted a golden yellow, though a few of the corners and other parts of the walls were chipped, revealing the white rock underneath them. Multiple decorations hung on almost every wall of the home: abstract paintings, maps, records, children’s drawings gifted to Zenyatta, anything that could go on the wall.

Of course, this was just the standard living area. Zenyatta’s room itself was quite barren, containing nothing more than a nice twin bed and a dresser that held nothing but bolts, screws, and anything else he’d need to tune himself up. Next to the bed sat a worn-down armchair with a blanket draped across it. The room wasn’t entirely soulless as there were a few pictures of those Zenyatta would consider his closest friends hanging above his bed and sitting on his dresser. Above the door to his room hung a picture of Mondatta in an oval frame. A necklace of large beads framed the picture.

Genji’s room had a little more character to it. Unlike the rest of the house, it was painted in soft, apple green. He had a twin bed just like his Master, which was decorated with a specialized quilt that was gifted to him from Zenyatta. He had a dresser half filled with clothes, the other half filled with tools and other repair needs. On the wall opposite his bed was a sofa, decorated in pillows once again provided by Zenyatta. Between the bed and couch was a rug. He decorated his walls with posters and prints, most of them relating to some kind of media that he enjoyed, from games to movies to TV shows. Of course, just like Zenyatta, pictures of his friends hung along the walls as well.

There was a third bedroom in the house, but it was never one that Genji had taken an interest in. The room belonged to Ramattra, Zenyatta’s long-time compatriot and someone who Genji was not fond of. Ramattra was not as sociable and open as Zenyatta, especially when it came to Genji. He was quiet, closed off, and cold. Though Zenyatta had told Ramattra that living with him meant living with Genji as well, it was almost as if Ramattra had tried to brush aside Genji’s entire existence. Hell, he could hardly stand to sit in the same room as Genji. If Zenyatta wasn’t in the room with him, Ramattra would immediately get up and move rooms as soon as Genji entered. Genji was aware that Ramattra wasn’t fond of humans, and to an extent he didn’t care, but still, a little part of him felt confused. Genji wasn’t even fully human, so what was it about him that still made Ramattra dislike him? Was it because Genji was at one point fully human, so Ramattra would always see him as such? Or was it because he took Zenyatta’s attention away from him? Whatever the matter was, Genji wanted to get to the bottom of it. Even if he didn’t care, even if it didn��t affect him all that much, there was something about Ramattra that needed to be figured out.

June 20th, 2077

Kumpur, Nepal

11:34 pm

The trio were sitting in the living room. Zenyatta was laying down on the couch, an elbow propped on the armrest and a hand holding his chin. On his other hand was a book, some human classic written many years ago. One Genji and especially Ramattra would take no interest in. Genji was sitting on the floor, the plush rug underneath him cushioning his seat. He was watching TV, catching up on a rerun of some Pachimari show, a special episode made for the start of summer. Ramattra was busy tuning up his staff, a screwdriver digging into the orb that sat in its hold. However, it was becoming obvious that his attention was switching between his staff, the show, and Genji. Genji could feel his cold, unfeeling eyes on him, even if they were covered by the snowy white faceplate he wore. Genji ignored him though. Or well, he tried to. Genji wanted to glance at him, just to see if Ramattra’s attention was truly on him, but he wasn’t wearing his visor. Even the slightest glance to the side could catch the Ravager’s attention. He knew Ramattra had already seen him as nosy, proven by the many times he’s been caught eavesdropping on Ramattra and Zenyatta’s conversations. Though Zenyatta had seen it as enduring, all Ramattra would do was let out a disgruntled groan and walk off. Genji was not in the mood to have Ramattra scoff in his face today.

So, Genji locked his eyes on the screen, letting himself get droned into the happy, go-lucky music of the show and the cute, simple animation style. He didn’t even know what the plot was, but he acted like he did. He would do anything, act like he could understand anything if it just meant that he didn’t have to look at Ramattra. Unfortunately, he couldn’t ignore Ramattra. He couldn’t act like he didn’t notice the growing stares landing on his shoulders, the shadowy claws of Ramattra’s gaze wrapping themselves around his neck, trying their best to turn Genji’s head and make him look at Ramattra. He didn’t even know if Ramattra was looking at him, for all he knows Ramattra could have left the room by now. However, that didn’t seem to stop the phantom claws of Ramattra’s hands from trying to pull Genji’s head to the side.

Genji had no choice but to look…

And Ramattra was staring right at him.

“Are you enjoying your show, Genji?” Ramattra asked, his head tilting downward as if he were trying to make eye contact with Genji. Even with such a simple question, it was obvious that the next phrase to escape Ramattra’s synth was going to be judgemental.

“Hmm? I mean, yes. Yes, I am,” Genji nodded, a somewhat stern tone in his voice as he eyed Ramattra down. He wasn’t going to let the Ravager win this.

“It’s a bit of a silly show, don’t you think?” Ramattra asked, turning his attention back to his staff, though it was obvious he wasn’t going to return to working on it anytime soon. He had Genji’s attention, and God was he gonna use it.

“Well, it was the only thing on.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I looked there was nothing else.”

“Really? Did you look?”

“WHY DO YOU CARE YOU’RE NOT EVEN WATCHING!” Genji hadn’t expected himself to shout, and it was obvious in the way that Ramattra had paused and Zenyatta silently set his book down that neither of them had expected it either.

The three stared at each other, silent yet tense.

“You dare raise your voice at me?” Ramattra asked, his voice quiet yet his tone stern and forceful. He set his staff carefully down on the ground. Zenyatta sat up but remained silent.

“I do not know what you expected me to do. You kept pressing me and I wanted you to stop,” Genji explained. He tried to remain calm, but the tremor in his voice vaguely hinted at the bubbling anger rising in his throat. His face started to feel red hot.

“So, you do that by yelling at me?” Ramattra egged on, leaning forward in his seat.

“I tried to stay calm,” Genji began to lean forward as well.

“Is that why your lip is quivering, little boy?” Ramattra teased. Genji hadn’t even noticed his lip trembling, but hearing it from Ramattra just made him pissed. He planted his hands on the carpet and sprang up. His hands balled into fists at his sides, his whole body shaking as he stared Ramattra down.

“Shut the fuck up! I know what you’re trying to do!” Genji barked, his face red and his temper beyond livid.

“And what on Earth is that?” Ramattra asked, standing up and crossing his arms. He began to walk toward Genji. Zenyatta stood up, taking a small step forward, just one more step away from being between the two.

“Ramattra…,” Zenyatta started, but Ramattra and Genji ignored him. They were too focused on each other.

“Don’t play stupid. You’re trying to make me look bad in front of Zenyatta. You wanted to make me angry, just to toy with me. If you want me out of the house just say it,” Genji snarled, taking another step closer to Ramattra.

“Tell me why the hell I’d care to do that?” Ramattra asked, his synth reaching lower, more gravelly tones. The display on his forehead flared a bright red and Genji was sure that if he was any closer, he’d be able to feel Ramattra’s cooling system pushing hot steam out of Ramattra’s body.

“I don’t know! It’s probably just because you can’t fucking deal with anyone else having his attention you big fucking Ravager baby-!” Before Genji could get any more words out of his mouth, a large, firm hand gripped the sides of Genji’s face, squeezing his mouth shut. He let out a harsh groan as he felt Ramattra’s hand squeeze his face.

“SHUT YOUR MOUTH, FILTHY HUMAN!”

“Experience tranquility!” Genji had never heard the monk become so panicked, even though his voice still had the same quiet, soothing tone. Before he could even blink, Zenyatta was between the two of them. Within another blink, Zenyatta had entered transcendence. The force of it shoved the two back. Ramattra stumbled back while Genji nearly fell back on the floor. Instead, he simply just hit the floor with his knees. He felt a wave of calmness wash over him, though his current hatred for Ramattra was still trying to boil through to his skin.

“Look at what you’ve brought into this house, brother! Look at the filthy and vile creature you’ve managed to drag in! I expected better from you, Zenyatta,” Ramattra growled, a large hand now pointing an accusatory finger at Genji. Zenyatta exited his transcendence. His arms extended outward, trying to create more space between the two of them.

“The only filthy fucking thing he dragged in was you,” Genji protested, pointing a finger back at Ramattra.

“Nothing I have dragged into this home is filthy. I brought the two of you here for a reason. Do not let me kick you out for a reason. Now, go to your rooms and do not speak to each other until the morning,” Zenyatta snapped. Genji had never heard the monk become so fed up, especially not when it had come to him. Zenyatta was usually calm, patient, and tranquil, seldom letting anyone or anything pound on his nerves. He knew it was the same with Ramattra, having listened in on many of their heated, late-night conversations, much to the two’s chagrin. Maybe it was just the weeks’ worth of silent conflict finally bubbling to the surface, but that didn’t stop shame from rolling over Genji. Even if it wasn’t obvious, Genji knew Ramattra felt shame as well.

Slowly, Zenyatta set down his arms, settling them to his sides, and once again the three were still and looking at each other. The moment felt like it was never going to end. The air fell stale and the room went silent. Genji just remembered the TV was playing, too drawn into the argument to even focus on it. It took what felt like another eternity for Ramattra to look at the two, scoff, and stomp to his room. The door slammed behind him.

“Are you alright?” Zenyatta held out a hand, offering to help Genji off of the ground. Genji grabbed his hand, slowly bringing himself up. Zenyatta held out another hand, helping to steady Genji as he settled himself.

“I’m fine, I just don’t understand what his problem is with me,” Genji muttered. He stood up fully, allowing Zenyatta to take his hands off him. Zenyatta reached towards the coffee table in the middle of the room, grabbed the remote off it, and shut the TV off. He then held Genji’s hands in his own hands.

“Do not focus on him, my student. He has been through a lot, he doesn’t yet understand the effect of his words. He is, as humans call it, of little empathy. Please, just go to your room and we will conclude this in the morning,” Zenyatta explained, rubbing over the smoothness of Genji’s knuckles with his thumbs. Even though his face plate was static, Genji could tell his eyes were trying to plead with him.

Genji could only nod, “Yes, sensei. Goodnight, sensei.”

“Goodnight, my Genji.”

A/N: Once again, you can find the full fic on Ao3 :]

#overwatch #overwatch fanfiction #fanfic #genji shimada #ramattra #ramji #smut #overwatch smut #ao3 writer #read on ao3 #ao3 link

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jimmy-valmer-official · 7 months

Note

Hi I am a really old man...I donot know how to use "TUMBLR"...but can u writ e astory about how "JIMMY VALMER" get KIDNAPPED by "NATHAN" and then there is...Epic fight Battle scene

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Lmao sure! Tbh the only way I could envision this happening was if there were like, some sort of hero/villain dynamic, so… superhero au!

i dunno if i’d call this fight scene “epic,” but it’s certainly something…

posting it here too v

————————————————————

The sound of a clock ticked on softly, the gentle tick’s of the second hand merging into each other, the pacing not quite right.

Or maybe Jimmy was just too dazed to process it right, only half awake as he laid on what he could only assume was hard tile in the middle of a cold bedroom, yawning and scrubbing his eyes with the edge of his palm. He had been unconscious just a few minutes prior, and now he was struggling to keep his eyes open to figure out where he was.

He could feel the familiar weight of his headphones attached securely to his head, and in his foggy awareness, he clumsily reached up to touch them with his fingers. He racked his sluggish mind and tried to figure out what he could have possibly been doing before this that required him to be in uniform, but nothing immediately came to mind.

He blinked a few times, and just then, a shadow cast over his face and a familiar voice called his name from above him. It admittedly startled him a bit.

“Oh, you woke up.” His voice was on the slower side, as if every word was deliberately being planned out, and his words were pronounced in a way that was just slightly off. It was deeply familiar, and for a fraction of a second, Jimmy was reminded of summer camp. “I was kind of hoping you were dead.”

His vision focused gradually, and as it did, he finally recognized the person standing above him. His uneasiness fizzled out in a matter of seconds. “Oh… Nathan? Is that you?”

“Who else would it be?”

Jimmy squinted at him for a moment and then slowly propped himself up on his elbow before sitting up, a confused expression settling on his face as he looked around. The bedroom was… simple, really. There was a small bed in one corner and some miscellaneous movie posters with rugged looking people on them scattered around the walls. A few pieces of trash were on the ground.

But it certainly wasn’t his bedroom. It must have been Nathan’s— the posters fit him rather well, after all. And, well, Nathan was standing right there.

Why was he at Nathan’s house, anyway…?

“Why’d- why- why did you… What's going on?” He asked. “I don’t remember coming over.”

“Well of course you don’t,” Nathan said with annoyance, stepping back a little and giving him an odd look. “I had to drag you over here myself. It was hard with so many people around.” He looked away, distantly watching the ceiling. “I had to sneak around in the alleyways... It was dirty work. But I managed.”

Jimmy tilted his head after a moment, confused. “Why?”

“What?”

“Why?” He repeated, wondering if Nathan hadn’t heard him correctly. “If you wanted to hang out, th- then you could’ve just asked. I’m free on Fridays.”

For some reason, Nathan seemed to ripple at this, scowling slightly. “What? No, that’s not what I meant! I don’t want to hang out with you! I— Ugh…”

He pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled. “I took you to my house because I want to eliminate you. You’ve ruined my life enough times already, and I am so… fucking tired of it.”

“Um…” Jimmy scratched his head, trying to decipher the meaning of his words. “I don’t quite follow.”

“I’m going to kill you, Jimmy,” he said bluntly.

A beat of silence passed, and then Jimmy slightly smiled at him. “Oh, yeah? Wow, thu- thh… that’s pretty funny, Nathan. I didn’t know you liked jokes.”

Nathan gritted his teeth with frustration. “Damn it, this isn’t a joke! Ugh, you’re just as stupid as Mimsy… I hate you so much.”

“Your acting is fantastic,” Jimmy responded passively. “Have you ever considered joining th- the theater department?”

Nathan shot him a sharp glare that lasted a lot longer than necessary, and then he wiped his hands on his shirt and turned towards his closet. “I’m not about to deal with this right now. Just shut up and let me grab my murder weapon.”

“Murder weapon…?” Jimmy watched him carefully, and the sense of ease in his body flickered like a dying candle. “What do you mean? You wuh- you weren’t actually being serious, were you?”

Nathan glanced back at him as he wrapped his fingers around the closet handle. “Are you an idiot? Of course I was being serious. I’m going to kill you.”

Realization struck Jimmy like an electric shock as the dots connected in his head. His jaw dropped. “Hold on. Nathan, are you a bad guy…?”

“I’ve been a bad guy this whole time!” Nathan turned to him fully, his voice slightly raised now. “What part of that did you not understand?”

Jimmy frowned, thinking back to all of his previous encounters with him. It just didn’t make any sense. “…Really? I thought we were friends… R- really?”

“… I hate you so much.”

“Huh…” He glanced down, a little disappointed now. How had he not noticed before that Nathan disliked him? He could’ve sworn that he was just really competitive…

He scanned the room once more. Well… he didn’t really feel like dying today. He finally remembered what he had been doing before he got here— him and a few of the other heroes were searching for a gang of thieves, and then they got caught up in a fight with them in a parking lot. Jimmy remembered getting thrown into a wall, and then… well, he wasn’t sure what happened afterwards. Where had Nathan even come from?

And… Wait…

“…Hey, wh- where are my crutches?”

Nathan scoffed and turned back around, getting back on task and pulling open his closet. “Oh, those are long gone already. I threw them into a lake on the wau here.”

“You what?”

Silence.

Jimmy stared at Nathan for a long moment as he shuffled through a worn out looking box under some hung up clothing. He pushed things around for quite a while until he stopped, huffed, and then straightened up empty-handed. “Damn it… where is it?”

Jimmy was still stuck on the fact that his crutches were at the bottom of some lake.

“Hey, Nathan, come here for a second,” he said after a minute, and then his blank countenance became friendly. “It was a n- nh… it was a knife, wasn't it?”

To his relief, Nathan looked at him again, wide-eyed, and hesitated. “How the fuck did you know?”

“It’s right over here, next to me. You m- might’ve dropped it.”

Though he seemed distrustful at first, Nathan reluctantly separated from his closet and slowly walked over to him again. When he was close enough, he leaned over slightly to look at the empty spot at Jimmy’s side. “Where?”

And then Jimmy lurched forward, grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, and punched him square in the jaw.

Nathan cursed, staggering backwards for a moment from the impact as his hand shot up to grab his chin. Jimmy retracted his fist and glared at him, propping himself up slightly with his other arm.

“What the hell??” Nathan hissed after stumbling around for a few long seconds.

“You deserved that!” Jimmy exclaimed. “Do you have any idea how much those co—”

Before he could finish his sentence, Nathan ran forward and practically barreled into him in a furious retaliation, crouching a bit to push him over with his momentum. Jimmy startled as he crashed into the ground, his back painfully slamming onto the solid floor. Nathan’s knees pressed into his legs as he clambered on top of him and grabbed him by the shoulders.

“That fucking hurt!” He said angrily, and before Jimmy could respond, he punched him back, slamming his fist into his cheek.

And he punched hard.

Jimmy was only dazed for a second or two, and then the adrenaline kicked in.

Before Nathan could attack him again, Jimmy reached up and pushed against his chest with as much force as he could muster, successfully shoving him off. Nathan landed on his chest beside him, and Jimmy swiftly got off of his back and crawled over to him. Nathan tried to lift himself up with shaky arms, and when Jimmy tried to push him back down with his own body weight, pressing his hand against his back to try and get him on the ground again, Nathan twisted slightly and tightly grabbed his wrist.

They wrestled with each other for a good minute or so, pushing at each other and occasionally trying to land hits on each other. At some point, Jimmy’s headphones were knocked off of his head, and they clattered against the ground beside them. They both managed to get a few nasty punches in, but neither of them dared to call it quits.

But when the abrupt sound of the window opening cut through the air, they froze, the sounds of their scuffle instantly halting. They both looked towards the window in a perfectly preserved position of violence— Nathan’s hand was clutching Jimmy’s sleeve and his nose was bleeding, and Jimmy’s fist poised just inches away from Nathan’s face.

The intruders, unsurprisingly, were none other than three of Jimmy’s trusted teammates, Mysterion, Mosquito, and Human Kite, each in their respective uniforms; they all took in the picture in front of them with evident surprise, staring for a long time, seemingly frozen as well.

Nathan was the first to break the awkwars silence, letting go of Jimmy in an instant and quickly pulling away from him. Jimmy landed flat on his stomach with a quiet ‘oof’ as a result. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”

With that, the others snapped out of their trance and quickly bustled into the room. Human Kite lingered behind as Mysterion quickly went and stood between Jimmy and Nathan, facing the latter with his hands slightly raised as if prepared to take action if Nathan were to try to fight him. But Nathan only stood there with a somewhat cautious yet annoyed expression, backing away slightly in reluctant surrender.

Mosquito urgently scurried over to Jimmy and gently lifted him to help him sit up, resting a hand on his back and shoulder to support him. “Woah, hey, are you alright, Ji— Fastpass?”

Right. They were supposed to be undercover. Nathan knew who Jimmy was, but he didn’t know the identity of any of the other heroes. Jimmy had almost forgotten that.

“Y- yeah,” he muttered, rubbing his cheek. He could feel his adrenaline rush quickly receding, but his heart was still pounding. “I’m fine...”

“What the fuck happened?” Human Kite asked from the back, looking from Jimmy to Nathan and then back again. “We were all fighting together and then you just disappeared, dude. We were really worried.”

“Yeah, we only found you because you had your headphones’ signal on,” Mosquito said. One of his wings twitched behind him, fueled solely by nerves. “But it cut off a few minutes before we got here. Thank god Mysterion’s memory is so reliable, bzzt.”

Mysterion’s tone was much more serious than the other two’s, almost threateningly so. “I’m guessing this guy abducted you since you were both fighting, right?” He kept his attention fixated on Nathan. “I can take care of him if you want. It’ll be easy.”

Jimmy couldn’t see Mysterion’s expression, but he could tell by the shift from agitation to slight uneasiness on Nathan’s face that it wasn’t a pleasant one. Although Jimmy was still upset with him, something in his gut twisted, and a pang of sympathy shot through him.

He locked eyes with Nathan for a single moment, but the silent message that passed between them was far too complicated to understand.

The smartest thing to do would be to tell Mysterion to have at it, but…

Maybe a part of him still saw him as a friend, or maybe he just felt bad for him. But for whatever reason, Jimmy slouched slightly and his gaze drifted away from Nathan as he shook his head.

“N- no, Mysterion, it’s okay. I came here on my own to settle… pu- personal matters with him. Leave him alone.”

Mysterion looked at him and his stance faltered. “Wait, what? Are you sure?”

Jimmy nodded. A mixture of utter confusion, relief, and something much more ambiguous settled on Nathan’s features, and it filled Jimmy with an odd sense of satisfaction.

His heart stopped pounding so fast. Everything seemed to settle.

A powerful sense of fatigue settled in his aching body, and he leaned a bit more into Mosquito with a huff. In response to the added weight, Mosquito jumped slightly and quickly scrambled to get a better hold on him.

“Jesus…” Jimmy began. “Who- who knew that f- fuh- fucking people up would be so taxing.”

Human Kite approached him and crouched down in front of him, looking him over carefully, likely checking his injuries. “Well yeah, what did you expect?” He asked sarcastically. His gaze lingered on a spot on the side of Jimmy’s face that Nathan had punched with a notable amount of vigor.

Human Kite lifted a finger and gently pressed on it, and Jimmy stiffened with discomfort, ducking his head away. The other hummed thoughtfully. “We’ll have to patch you up at the base. Come on, we should go… Or, uh. Huh.”

He looked around for a moment, clearly puzzled.

“Where are your crutches?”

Mysterion watched him curiously now, Nathan awkwardly looking up at the ceiling again. Mosquito buzzed quietly behind him.

Jimmy hesitated, and then he awkwardly laughed.

“Broke ‘em.”

#jimmy valmer #south park #sp #fanfic #phanfic tag #superhero au #fastpass

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peninkwrites · 2 years

Text

The First Night - Ch 7 of 9

Tubbo made this choice a long time ago. He didn't know Quackity would be there to help him pick up the pieces.

(CW: gun violence, character death, referenced abuse, alcoholism, and blood)

crossposted to ao3

Ch 1

Ch 6

Ch 8

Mafia AU masterpost

~ Tubbo ~

Tubbo can’t think of the last time he’d stepped foot into his father’s bedroom. It’d been years, now, surely. The air within is almost muggy, the stench of old alcohol and filth like a film across the space, thick animal furs covering the floors and heavy maroon curtains around a massive four poster bed in the middle. The room is dark as Tubbo enters, slowly, carefully, the dim light from the hallway glistens against the crystal lining the far wall. Most of those bottles are empty, left above the bar as new shipments remained beside Schlatt’s bed and within his reach. Tubbo can feel his heart pounding in his throat.

“Schlatt?” Tubbo speaks, barely above a whisper. Schlatt. Not dad or even the mere formality of father. Tubbo can’t quite remember the last time he’d spoken with him directly, but it had been Boss or Sir or Schlatt if he was feeling bold, had been for years now.

No reply. The room isn’t silent, though. Schlatt’s breathing is labored and almost wheezing, clearly audible from across the room. Tubbo steps forward. He doesn’t know why he’s afraid. This man is fucking weak. On death’s doorstep, as it were.

Tubbo is beside the bed. He pulls back the curtain surrounding it and stares down at the gaunt, miserable face of the man who had threatened everything he cared for.

Actually, Tubbo can remember the last time he had spoken to his father, he just hadn’t done much of the talking. Days ago, maybe longer. Tubbo remembers. He can’t even remember the cause of the threat, but that part doesn’t really matter. It was his hand on his shoulder, way too tight, tight enough to bruise, leaning in to whisper from a mouth which reeked of booze:

“You know I’d do it, so don’t be scared of them, be fucking scared of me. You’re such a fucking baby thinking that someone’s gonna hurt us, you better grow up or I’m gonna hurt you. If you fucking annoy me, I could put a bullet in your head. If not yours, I’d track down those stupid little friends of yours. Maybe I’d break some bones first, if I felt like it. Or burn ‘em all up in that stupid bitch’s little bakery, huh? Easy to make that an accident. It’d burn real quick with all the shit she’s got in her basement. Come on, don’t look at me like that. Does that make you nervous, huh? You got a problem with me putting a gun to your head? What the fuck are you gonna do about it, huh? You gonna cry? My finger isn’t even on the trigger, for fucks sake, come on. Please, if I wanted to kill you, I would’ve done it by now. Am I killing you right now? Come on, shake your head, no I am not killing you right now, so there’s nothin’ to cry about! Attaboy. But you know me, I’m fickle. Gotta keep you on your toes. Not like it’d be much of a loss to the family, y’know?”

That stupid fucking laugh, harsh and sharp and splintered by that awful wet cough. It’s blurrier now in his memory, Tubbo can’t remember if anyone else had been there, either way, no one tried to stop him. When Schlatt did stop, Tubbo had had to stay there, while whatever fucking meeting was meant to happen took place. He hadn’t felt like he was in his own body. The moment he could leave he had gone back to his own room, and almost procedurally, had wedged a chair under the door, gone into the bathroom, vomited until there was nothing left, and had spent the rest of the day tucked between the sink and the tub, trying to make himself smaller. Tubbo’s shoulder where Schlatt had held him had ached for days.

Schlatt had turned the safety off. He’d never done that before. Tubbo hadn’t cried in a long time, but that time Schlatt turned the safety off and Tubbo had thought maybe it was for real this time. So yeah, he’d fucking cried the last time he’d spoken to his father and the last time his father had put a gun to his head. Tubbo doesn't want to be afraid anymore.

Schlatt looks no less vile in sleep. A diseased wetness remaining in his beard from his lips, his hair thinner now, greasy. Tubbo could smell the alcohol from the hallway, but this close it’s pungent enough to make him want to gag. Tubbo keeps his eyes locked on that man’s miserable face in the darkness as he reaches over him and takes a pillow from the other side of the bed. Tubbo almost drops it, as Schlatt, perfectly timed to terrify, lets out one horrible, choked cough like for a moment he’d stopped breathing. Good.

Tubbo gives himself no more time to think. He presses the pillow down over Schlatt’s face with all of his weight.

At first it’s easy. Schlatt doesn’t even react, and Tubbo almost wonders if he’s so far gone he won’t even struggle against his own suffocation. Then Schlatt wakes up.

He is a dying, miserable drunk, but somehow he still packs a punch. Schlatt thrashes underneath him, clawing at his face, grabbing onto his arms, his fist swinging wildly and managing to catch Tubbo in the jaw, Tubbo’s teeth clattering together painfully, Schlatt’s filthy nails catch his other cheek and it stings as he breaks the skin and Tubbo can only press down harder, but he’s starting to stumble back and Schlatt is starting to sit up and oh fuck he can’t do this he can’t do it he’s not strong enough and Schlatt is going to fucking kill him–

Tubbo does not need to think it through. He only needs to act. He lets go of the pillow, reaches into his holster, presses the barrel against cloth, and for the first time since having a gun, Tubbo pulls the trigger.

The struggling ceases and the sudden loss of resistance sends Tubbo stumbling forward, pressing down on the pillow as blood soaks into it. Tubbo jolts back. Schlatt’s hand hangs off the bed, the pillow obscures his face so he might as well be headless as blood pours down the blankets, running down his arm, and hitting the wooden floors, a dark pool spreading, the blood flow slowed by the lack of a beating heart to pump it. Tubbo remains on the floor, staring at him. Waiting for Schlatt to move. He doesn’t.

Quackity had remained on the steps, waiting, until he heard a gunshot. Quackity jumps to his feet, the sluggish guard does too, his gun at the ready. Tubbo could need his help, but Quackity knows this will need to be handled too.

“Hey, you wanna keep your life? Keep your job? Go home right now. Tell no one you heard or saw shit, do you understand me?” Quackity snaps.

The man hesitates for a moment, but it’s not like he cares if Schlatt lives or dies. No one does. Not anymore. He leaves.

Quackity runs upstairs, reaching for his own gun, just in case.

He sees Tubbo on the ground. He sees Schlatt’s body. He sees blood look almost black in the darkness.

“Tubbo?”

Tubbo doesn’t react. He’s still holding the gun.

Quackity had known where this was headed, he had pieced it together easily enough, all of Tubbo’s anger boiling over at some point Quackity had realized what Tubbo’s plans were for the night of his eighteenth birthday. First he had been annoyed. Tubbo could’ve at least consulted him; about when was the right time and if this was more trouble than it was worth, if this goes wrong they’re all fucking dead, and Quackity had at one point cared for Schlatt but not anymore, so the ache in his chest is not and cannot be grief.�� It’s just concern for Tubbo. So he will not argue or scold him for doing this without him, instead he will kneel beside him and take his hand.

“You hurt?” Quackity asks softly. He doesn’t know why he’s whispering. He and Tubbo are now the only living people left in the house.

Tubbo shakes his head.

Quackity sighs, gently taking the gun from Tubbo’s hand, almost having to pry it from his fingers. Not that Tubbo is trying to keep ahold of it, it’s more like he cannot relax his hand enough to let go. “Come on.” Tubbo doesn’t move. His hands feel sticky with blood. He doesn’t know if he can move. Quackity takes his hand, unflinching at the blood it passes along, and pulls Tubbo to his feet. Tubbo stands, but he’s still just staring at the body across from him. “Come on, Tubbo. He’s not going anywhere,” Quackity keeps a gentle hand on his shoulder and steers him out into the hall.

Tubbo doesn’t resist as Quackity heads down the hallway to his room. Quackity pulls him into the bathroom, turning on the light. Tubbo still doesn’t respond. Quackity pushes him gently so he’ll sit on the edge of the tub. Quackity takes the hand towel by the sink, the only sound is the water running in a silent house. Quackity kneels down in front of him and takes his right hand first.

“Quackity…” Tubbo begins hoarsely.

“It’s okay, man. You’re good,” Quackity cleans the blood from his right hand and moves on to the left.

“Quackity, what papers?”

“What?” Quackity pauses, puzzled.

“What– What were you getting from his– from the office?”

Quackity smiles, maybe too sharply. “I wasn’t getting anything, Tubbo.”

“Oh.”

Quackity finishes washing the blood from his hands, he stands, wringing out the towel, before returning, taking a clean corner and wiping the blood from Tubbo’s face. Tubbo didn’t realize he’d gotten blood on his face. It stings. It’s his blood, not Schlatt’s. From where the man had scratched him across the cheek.

“He hit you anywhere else?” Quackity asks. “Didn’t get ahold of his knife, did he?”

“His..?” Tubbo is struggling to stay focused. His voice is so small. Tubbo hasn’t seemed this young in a long time.

“The knife. He keeps it under his pillow,” Quackity scowls, familiar with the notion.

Tubbo feels a flicker of horror that’s quickly buried in the haze. “No.”

“Well, that’s something, I guess,” Quackity sighs, wringing out the towel over the sink again. He doesn’t look at his reflection. “I gotta… I gotta make some calls. Take care of the body and shit. The pillow was a good idea, Tubbo. He definitely could’ve died in his sleep. Gunshots… that complicates it a bit.” Tubbo is a smart kid. Quackity knows this choice was well calculated and well measured, even if he’s annoyed that Tubbo didn’t check with him first. No matter how careful Tubbo had been, in the moment, calculations don’t mean anything. Better to have Tubbo shoot him and make things messier than fail to finish the job.

“Please don’t leave.”

Quackity stops, holding onto the edge of the sink, trying to ground himself. He still doesn’t look at his reflection. He doesn’t know what he’s doing here. Quackity is not a fucking babysitter, his job was not to clean up after a scared little boy who thinks he’s ready to be a mob boss. He was Schlatt’s lawyer. That was his job in all of this. Nothing more, nothing less. He has every fucking right to walk out of here, knowing there’s no one left alive to stop him. He and Karl have been waiting for this, Quackity saving up for that building on the West side, Karl ready to follow him anywhere. He should be making plans for a casino, not wiping the tears of some snot nosed brat who could’ve just gotten them all killed.

“I won’t, Tubbo.”

#my writing #mafia au #violence cw #alcoholism cw #ask to tag #quackity and tubbo are so :(#c!Tubbo #Tubbo #c!quackity #quackity #cabinetduo

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princess-mei · 2 years

Text

Can I Handle the Seasons of My Life? 💖 [The Charmed Ones]

In which Ting-Ting and Su accompany Mei to the train station...[takes place: July 9, 2022]

@princess-ting-ting, @princess-su

[tw -- saying goodbyes :)]

MEI: “Has anyone seen my phone?!” Mei asked, calling down from the second floor landing.

In her hand was one of her bags. The house was a flurry of activity. Her flight was in London tonight at midnight, but she needed to catch the train out of Swynlake in about fifteen minutes.

The sun was just beginning to set on her last day in Swynlake. She had procrastinated packing, of course, and had spent most of the day doing so as a revolving door of friends came and left to wish her goodbye and good luck. Ting-Ting and MuHou had been on her about packing, but she kept getting distracted! She had walked the floors of this house a thousand times at this point, it felt like. Drifting in and out of rooms, looking around it and trying to gather all the pieces of her life that were scattered about. Her favorite mug from the cupboard, her favorite blanket from the back of the couch…

All of her bedroom.

Well, not all of it. Her bed was staying. Some of the posters on the wall. Her vanity. The fuzzy pink rug which was extremely comfy to lay on. This would still be her room. Just as she was sure she still had a room in San Francisco at her parents’ house. These pieces of her left like time capsules of the people she had been. She wondered who she would be in Ingary…

“Seriously, I can’t find it anywhere! Someone call it!”

TING-TING: Mei was packing.

Mei was packing, because she was leaving.

Mei was leaving, because she was 20 years old now, and she’d fully Emerged as a sorceress, and she was starting her own life.

And Ting was happy for her. Of course she was. She was so happy her heart swelled so much that it squeezed against her ribcage and then shattered into dozens of little pieces. She’d collect them, later. After Mei left and she went upstairs to clean up her room and closed the door for the last time.

Not the last time. That was silly. Mei would be back. Mei would visit — probably frequently and without much warning. And then the three of them would have movie nights and Key would rest her head in Mei’s lap and it would be like nothing changed.

Except, it wouldn’t be. Because everything would change.

Ting-Ting was trying not to think about that, though, because there was packing to be done and a phone to find.

“I’m calling it!” she shouted up the stairs, pulling up Mei’s number on her phone. She heard the faint sound of buzzing and stuck her head out of her bedroom, and waved to Su, who was in the living room.

“Su — I think it’s on the couch? In the couch?”

SU: Even though Su wasn’t the one leaving she still felt the Travel Anxiety™ kicking in as she watched Mei’s stuff disappear around the house. And maybe she was a little more worried than she usually would have been for this sort of thing since the last time one of them had left for a trip another had been kidnapped! And said kidnapped sister was going off on her own to a whole new place with no one there to help her.

That wasn’t going to happen this time, though. This time Mei was going to leave and she was going to find a new place to settle and all would be well. All except for how much Su was going to miss her sister.

She was in the kitchen, prepping Mei a snack for the train ride because she felt rather useless otherwise, when Mei yelled down about her phone. Su pulled out hers, ready to call it, but Ting had beat her to the punch. In preparation, she moved to the living room to try and listen for it.

She leaned over the couch at Ting’s instruction, plunging her hand into the depths of the sofa and felt around.

“Got it!” Su grinned, hoisting it above her head from its hiding spot. She went to stand under the stairs to show it to Mei from down below.

MEI: “Oh, good!” Mei said, letting out a breath.

The door to her room clicked shut, the little paper sign covered in pink hearts and swirling cursive “Mei’s Room” that she had made when she was sixteen fluttered like it had every other time she’d ever closed her door. Slamming it when she was upset with Ting-Ting. Slowly turning the latch when she had a boy in her room. Creaking it gently when she was sneaking out. Every time, the paper fluttered. It fluttered now too. Mei looked at it for a moment--felt her heart clench--and then she turned away.

Picking up her suitcase, she lugged it down the stairs, plucking her phone from Su’s hand as she passed her. Ting-Ting came around the bannister and then it was just the three girls--three sisters--three witches--standing in the living room in a circle, looking at one another.

Mei didn’t have anything else to pack. Her sisters would be sending Princess along for her after she got settled somewhere. She only needed the one suitcase. It was charmed to carry everything she needed, which wasn’t much. Her grimoire, her makeup, her clothes, some creature comforts (her stuffed animals), her signed cauldron. She wanted to travel light. So that nothing held her back. So there was an excuse to leave things in this little house that she’d lived in for four years. As if she could leave her imprint here and never be too far away.

After a pause, Mei put her phone in her pocket and grabbed her purse from where it was hanging off the banister.

“Well--that is everything,” Mei said. She didn’t know what else to say. Her heart was beating fast, but she felt strangely calm.

TING-TING: “You know we could come with you to the airport,” said Ting, offering again. “We could make a little day trip out of it — not too late, you know?”

She knew what the answer would be. She knew that stepping on that train alone was a step that Mei needed to take on her own. She knew that if she and Su tagged along, it would defeat the purpose of this journey. They’d go with her to the train station, certainly, and then watch her get on the train and wave to her as it chugged away from the station.

And then, Ting would put her arm around Su’s shoulders and Su would lean into her, and they would pretend they could still see Mei waving from the distance.

This was all stuff that hadn’t happened yet, but Ting-Ting could not stop thinking about it. She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it all night, wondering how she would be able to stay strong and steady as she watched her little sister drift away.

She reached for Mei’s hand now, and then Su’s too, holding them tight. One last moment with the three of them living under the same roof.

She would not hold on for too much longer.

Ting-Ting gave each of their hands a squeeze and then dropped their fingers.

“Well, I guess we can head on over to the train station now,” she said, as cheerfully as she could. “We’re early enough so we can grab something from Hatter’s maybe.”

SU: As Mei came down the stairs Su felt a little stupid for not dragging out the whole lost phone thing. Why couldn’t she have let it stay in the sofa for another few minutes? Or have found it and put it somewhere else? Give them more time? Maybe too much time! Maybe make Mei late for her flight, so late that she wouldn’t go for another day. Another week. Another month.

But that was stupid. She couldn’t have hid the phone forever, and she didn’t want to make her sister any more anxious than she needed to be for her flight. Because she was getting on that flight. There were a million ways Su could have made her stay, but it wouldn’t be right.

Ting-Ting took their hands and like some sort of reflex Su reached for Mei’s other one, completing the triangle between them for that brief moment before Mei was announcing that she had everything. That she was ready to go. Su opened her mouth, wanting to say it wasn’t everything! She had a snack prepped for her in the kitchen!

Only then Ting-Ting suggested they could get something on their way and Su closed her mouth because if they went to Hatter’s that would mean more time together. It was a longer trip to go there then it was for Su to go to the kitchen. So she didn’t say anything, just in case, only smiled and turned to Mei, seeing what she wanted to do.

MEI: “Yeah, sure, Hatter’s sounds good.”

Their hands dropped and she shifted her bag on her shoulder, feeling awkward all of the sudden.

“You’ll be fine,” assured MuHou, who had come up next to them and grabbed Mei’s hand, giving it a little squeeze. Mei dropped down onto her knee to squeeze the familiar in a hug.

“Thanks, MuHou.”

“Be a good girl,” MuHou said when Mei pulled away and stood.

“I always am!” Mei chirped, winking at her and giving her a finger gun.

MuHou just hummed a bit.

Right, time to go now. Mei had the urge to look back at the stairs. She felt a shiver run up her spine, like a breeze had appeared. She looked over her shoulder and in her mind’s eye, she could see Lock, standing there at the bottom of them, his head tilted back, looking to the second floor, a younger—different—version of herself appeared, ran down into his arms. As soon as the apparitions collided, they disappeared.

Mei hoped they stayed here. Stayed happy.

They were also the reason Mei had to leave. She took a deep breath and didn’t look back again as she led the way out of the house.

The sisters talked as they walked, Mei’s suitcase rumbling on the sidewalk behind her. She looked towards Swynlake Secondary, hidden behind the primary, but just visible in the distance. She looked at the bookstore, Town Hall, the garden. They stopped at Hatter’s and Mei remembered pushing all the tables together and laughing with her friends. She remembered dances and late nights with cups of cocoa. They sat at her favorite table with the high backed couch, all three of them squished onto it, Mei in the middle. They talked and they laughed and then it was time to go.

The train platform was quiet. There was no fanfare. This was just a normal, sleepy Saturday in Swynlake. They stood there, waiting for the train to appear in the distance. Mei’s heart was beating fast and she kept rising onto her toes, as if she was going to start sprinting down the platform.

She checked her phone. “Huey says he’s gonna leave soon to pick me up in London,” Mei announced. She was staying with him overnight in Cambridge, until her flight the next day. “So, uh, that’s all set.”

TING-TING: And just like that, it was over.

Their little stop for tea, yes, but also Mei’s time in Swynlake, this chapter of their life that had lasted for almost four years. Their time as three sisters, three Qin girls living under the same roof.

Oh, sure, maybe it should’ve ended earlier, back when Ting-Ting went to college, and even after she moved back. She could’ve moved out, got her own place just around the corner or something. But she didn’t. She didn’t, because Mei and Su still needed her. And they still needed her when they moved to Swynlake.

And now they didn’t. Not in the same way. Ting-Ting was so proud of them.

“Good, good,” said Ting-Ting, because talking about concrete plans was easier than saying goodbye. “Make sure you text us when you get there, okay? And if you need me to Venmo you two for dinner, just let me know. You should get something nice since you’re gonna be traveling so much.”

She looked at Mei now, tilting her head a little. Mei stood up straight, so sure of herself, even though Ting could see reagents fluttering anxiously around her. But Ting knew she would be fine. Mei had once been stubborn and impulsive — heck, she was still stubborn and impulsive, but she’d also grown to be confident, capable, and compassionate.

Ting reached to touch her little sister’s cheek, brushing a piece of her hair behind her ear.

“You’re going to do so great, Mei-mei,” she said. And then she looked at Su, her heart so full she thought she might start crying right now. “I’m so proud of you. Of both of you. Remember to call us, okay?” Her throat closed up a little. She swallowed and started to blink very quickly, in order to stave off any encroaching tears. “You better tell us about all the cute boys you meet.”

SU: For the first time in a very long time, Su tried not to think of what would come next. As they stood in line to order she had looked at her sisters and thought that she could enjoy this time they had together for what it was or she could spend it dreading when it ended, glancing at her phone to catch the time every 5 or so minutes, until she looked up and missed it.

When they sat down, she had her phone tucked up in her pocket and did not look at it once. Only at her sisters and, occasionally, at the door when someone would walk in. She didn’t let herself realize the time until they were stood at the train station, with nothing left to do but wait.

Su didn’t want to make this a big deal! She didn’t want to start crying or getting sappy because, like she kept telling herself, just because Mei was gone didn’t mean it was for forever, that they would never see one another again. It would be hard, sure, but it wasn’t the end. Just an end. So there was no need for a grand sweeping speech or pull a big stunt because while Mei taking these steps for herself was an achievement, her leaving them was not something that Su wanted to emphasize. She wasn’t leaving them fully, how could she? They were sisters. They would be together, in some shape and form, forever. No matter how far or how angry or how much time had passed, they always would be.

Then Ting-Ting had to go and make her very precariously set up wall crumble in a pile at her feet. She tried looking away, getting frustrated with her emotions for being so loud without her permission, but it was useless. What was done was done and Su was watery eyed.

And, well, since she’d already screwed that part up she figured it was too late to play it cool anyway. Su surged forward to wrap Mei in a hug, squeezing for a moment until she relaxed again, just holding her sister close until they saw one another again.

“Good luck!” she said, then pulled away smiling to stand beside Ting-Ting. “Not that you’ll need it.”

MEI: Mei nodded at all Ting-Ting’s advice and she was remembering Rome. Packing for Rome. Leaving for Rome. Ting-Ting had dropped her off at the school and said all these very similar things and Mei had rolled her eyes and glanced impatiently over her shoulder, looking for her friends, feeling embarrassed. She’d barely hugged her sister goodbye before flouncing off into the crowd of teenagers.

Now, she listened patiently, because she knew this was how Ting-Ting cared. She cared meticulously and wholly. And she wanted Mei to be safe. Mei took her words and held them close to her heart, knowing this would be the last lecture like this that she would get for a long time.

She felt the tears in her throat. She had told herself she wouldn’t cry. Or, at least, she’d wait until she was on the train.

The hug from Su didn’t surprise her either. She was grateful for it. Mei squeezed her little sister back, pressing a kiss to her hair and trying not to cry. She had never been a nagging older sister like Ting-Ting (love you Ting!), but she suddenly felt the urge.

“Thanks,” she said when Su pulled away, since she didn’t know what else to say. She was not good at nagging. “You can always change your mind about things. Don’t let anyone else tell you how to live your life,” she told Su, squeezing her hand and then looked at Ting-Ting.

“I’ll tell you about all the cut boys, but you gotta make some moves on your cute boy.” She put her hands on her hips and then sighed and drew Ting-Ting into a hug. “Thanks for everything, Jie-jie.” She murmured this soft enough for only her to hear.

Mei leaned back just enough to grab Su by the arm and pull her into the hug too, squeezing them both tightly.

The train horn sounded in the distance, announcing its arrival. Mei squeezed her sisters just a little tighter.

“Well—this is it!“

TING-TING: This was it indeed.

Ting was crying now, because it was silly to pretend that she wasn’t. She wrapped her arms around her little sisters and held them both close. One last time. One last time before everything changed.

She couldn’t stop it. She couldn’t hold them too tight. All she could do was hope that she’d taught them well enough that they would be fine without her. All she could do was hope that she’d love them well enough that they would come back.

The train rumbled into the station and Ting squeezed her eyes shut, knowing that this moment would pass all too quickly, but hoping nonetheless that it would last forever.

It didn’t.

She let go of Mei, brushing her cheek once more, and then nodded towards the train.

“You better get on so you can get a good seat by the window,” she said. And then she looped an arm around Su’s shoulder. “We’ll wave at you till we can’t anymore.”

Ting leaned a bit on Su, pulling her closer. Part of it was because she knew Su was crying and she wanted Su to have someone to lean on. But part of it was also — well, Ting needed someone too.

SU: Su gave a little nod at Mei’s advice because she knew it was true, Mei had proved that much. She had forged her own path and Su would only be so lucky as to be as brave as both her older sisters to do the same for herself.

She allowed herself to be pulled back into another hug, content in her sisters’ arms despite what she knew was to come next. Letting Mei go from that last felt like the hardest thing Su’d ever had to do, and yet the act of it was so easy.

“Love you,” she blubbered, knowing she was being very unhelpful but unable to stop herself either. She was upset! She was devastated! She was beyond happy! And, really, what could she expect? Only her sisters had been able to make her feel so many emotions all at one time and in such an intense way.

Her arm came around Ting-Ting’s middle, stepping closer until their sides were pressed up against one another because it was true, Su needed something to keep her there. She glanced up at their oldest sister for a moment before resting her head against her shoulder to watch Mei board, free hand waving, as promised.

“She’ll be fine,” she said, for both their sakes. Su sighed, getting out the wobbly emotions. “Let’s just hope she didn’t forget anything.”

MEI: This was it.

Mei just had to take a step back, then another, turn--and board the train. Her feet felt stuck to the platform. The train breezed passed, rustling the strands of her hair wildly around her face. She needed to move.

Hey, what are you waiting for? That was Lock’s voice in her head. It was so clear, she almost jumped. Her eyes closed briefly and she took a deep breath. The made-up Lock voice in her head was right: what was she waiting for? Everything she wanted was on that train--was out over the horizon. She wasn’t going to get what she needed from Swynlake anymore.

Mei didn't need anyone but herself and maybe that sounded selfish, or bad, but Mei didn't see it that way. She had been given that freedom and she had embraced it. Ting-Ting had helped her realize that she could do this by herself. That she didn't need anyone, but that didn't mean she didn't care and that she wouldn't miss them or want to be with them. The part that wanted to stay was the sister. The rest of her was telling her to go.

This had always been the plan: to get out of Swynlake. Ever since she’d first step foot in this town, she had been waiting to leave it again.

There was no reason to hesitate. Not even her sisters’ tears.

“Okay! Love you!” She smiled brightly, to reassure them. To push her own tears back. “I’ll see you both soon, I promise!” Mei forced herself to turn and make her way to the door, stepping on. She hurried into a window seat, throwing her stuff and skinning her knee as she pressed herself against the window, waving to Ting-Ting and Su as the bell chimed, signaling the closing of the doors. She waved as the train lurched and started to move down the tracks. Until she couldn’t see Ting-Ting or Su anymore.

And then, Mei turned and sat down properly in her seat. She glanced around at the strangers on the train with her. None of them paid her any mind, except for one elderly woman who smiled at her. Mei smiled back and took a breath. It suddenly felt as if a weight had been lifted off of her chest and, much to her surprise, she didn’t cry.

She sat in her seat, watching the English countryside pass her by and felt her heart accelerating, as if it was a bird taking off in flight…

#swyntingting #swynsu #ming #mei su soup #the charmed ones

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reigne-604 · 7 months

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WEEK 9 - Draft Poster Presentation (Left Side Elements)

20 Elements/Objects

1.Baybayin 'Palangga' - Baybayin is a pre-colonial script from the Philippines historically used for writing and communication, it serves as a cultural heritage symbol and source Filipino pride. This reads ‘Palangga’ which translates to ‘Beloved’, one of many nicknames my grandparents have called me since forever.

2. Rosary - Born into a Catholic household, in times of joy and sorrow, the rosary is a constant, offering solace and a profound reminder of our Catholic heritage and the importance of faith in my family’s life.

3. Luggage - Leaving my home country was akin to zipping up that suitcase, a bittersweet moment of closure, with each zip echoing the finality of a chapter’s end and the promise of a new adventure waiting to be unpacked.

4. Goko Film Camera - My film camera is a time capsule for my memories. It brings a unique, deliberate mindfulness to preserving moments in a world of digital convenience. Each click of the shutter captures a piece of my history, it’s a tangible link to my past, preserving my life’s essence in a way no digital device can.

5. Star Bracelet - The star bracelet my mom gave me is a precious keepsake that holds immense significance in my life. It’s not just a piece of jewelry; it’s a symbol of her love and the countless times she’s been there for me, like a guiding star in my journey.

6. Dream Catcher - During my childhood, the dream catcher above my bed was a source of wonder and comfort. I believed in its ability to ward off nightmares and found solace in its delicate twine web and gentle feathers. It was a tangible link between my imagination and the mysterious realm of dreams, a treasured reminder of the power of belief.

7. Three Stars and a Sun - The three iconic shapes in the Philippine flag. My culture and heritage is something I truly am proud of, I cherish my experiences and will always refer to Philippines as my home.

8. Passports - My passport is my humble reminder of being a first gen immigrant. It represents not only my identity but also the hopes and dreams of my family who left their homeland for a new beginning. My passport is a tangible symbol of resilience.

9. Plane Ticket - The thrill of new adventures, diverse cultures, and breathtaking landscapes fills me with a profound sense of joy.

10. Philippine Jeepney - The filipino jeepney has truely been part of my most vivid memories, from falling asleep in it on the way to school to riding it on the way to the airport where I had to part ways from my loved ones to immigrate to NZ.

11. Grandma - Maming has been my number one supporter for as long as I can remember. From the earliest days when she cheered me on at school ceremonies & games to the more recent milestones like graduation and career achievements, her pride in me has never wavered, she has been a guiding light.

12. Headphones -Music is an escape for me, it’s there when I need to focus, cheer up or extinguish my emotions. My Bose Headphones are always with me wherever I go, it feeds into my creativity and helps me visualise my ideas.

13. Fridge Magnets - Being fortunate enough to travel to different countries, growing up in a family full of memory hoarders, we always make sure to buy a fridge magnet suitable to the place where we are to bring souvenir back home.

14. Record Player - In our family, the record player is significant as we come together to share our love for music. It’s not just a source of creativity but a bond that unites us, these are memories that I can cherish forever.

15. Dog Tag - My dog is my best friend, I wouldn’t know what I would do without my Bucky.

16. Journal - A journal is a treasured tool for self-reflection. Its blank pages become a sanctuary for my thoughts, dreams, and emotions, where I can pour out my innermost self.

17. Sea Shell - Being born in an area near the water and still being close to water to this day, I find the ocean as my comfort place especially going to the beach to cool down or to past time. I’ve also grown up to collect shells from beaches that I have visited.

18. Before the coffee gets cold - Written by Toshikazu Kawaguchi, It underscores the importance of seizing the present moment & expressing one’s feelings.

19. Backpack - Backpack is an essential companion, reliably holding all my important essentials close at hand. Beyond its practicality, my backpack symbolizes independence, self-sufficiency, and readiness to tackle whatever challenges come my way.

20. Acoustic Guitar - Coming from a family full of music enthusiasts, I am fortunate enough to own a guitar and learn songs along with compose my own for my own enjoyment. It feeds into my creativity.

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moorheadthanyoucanhandle · 1 year

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WHILE STREAMERS WATCHED THEIR FLICKS BY NIGHT...

Merry Christmas Eve Eve everybody! The Phoenix Film Critics Society...

...of which Your Humble Narrator is proud to be a founding member, recently announced our 2022 Award winners. As always, some of the winners--like Best Actor--reflect my voting, others don't, but there are a lot of movies worth seeing on the list.

A few other odds and ends...

Cash on Demand--Last week I was shown this 1961 gem I had never caught up with, a no-kidding Christmas movie from Hammer Films! It's available on DVD; I highly recommend. Peter Cushing plays a joyless bank manager, cold and critical toward his employees, who gets his Christmas Eve ruined when a suave bounder (Andre Morell) tells him that his cohorts are holding Cushing's wife and son hostage while he plunders the vault at the provincial branch. Cushing, unsurprisingly, is great--despicable at first, gradually shading into sympathy as his desperation rises--and Morell is sensational, in maybe the best role he ever had, as the sinister yet curiously charismatic thief.

Richard Vernon nicely leads the small ensemble that plays the branch employees. It's a gripping, imaginative caper, though of course it's just one more variation on the Scrooge story, with the robber serving as a felonious Ghost of Christmas Present.

Something From Tiffany's--Two guys, played by Ray Nicholson (Jack's kid) and Kendrick Sampson, buy jewelry at the title shop as Christmas presents for their respective lady friends (Zoey Deutsch and Shay Mitchell). One's a pair of earrings; the other's an engagement ring. A mishap mixes up the gift bags, and wackiness ensues. I was recently pointed toward this romcom, streaming on Prime. It's very undemanding, but it's inventive, Zoey Deutsch makes a sweet heroine and her costars, including the great Rose Abdoo as the Tiffany's clerk, are pleasant company. And it seems like it's a cut above most of the Hallmark Christmas movies.

American Murderer--A stalwart FBI man played by Ryan Phillippe searches for fugitive Jason David Brown, who was on the Ten Most Wanted List at the same time as Osama bin Laden and Whitey Bulger for killing an armored car guard here in Phoenix in November of 2004. As Phillippe talks to Brown's family and acquaintances we get his story in flashback (it's often different from what they're telling the agent). I'm late to the party on this true-crime drama released earlier this year, written and directed by Matthew Gentile and available on various streaming platforms. Don't let the poster fool you into dismissing this as a routine action flick; it's an absorbing feature debut for Gentile, a tense, believable piece of work, full of disturbing scenes that feel like something you'd witness as a passerby. Soap actor Tom Pelphrey plays Brown as a tightly-wound obsequious hustler, sort of a coked-up Eddie Haskell. Though he worms his way into the house and bed of his single-mom neighbor (Idina Menzel) and plays video games with her son, and though he can still get over on his own siblings, his Mom (Jacki Weaver) has long since recognized him for the callous creep he is. But even he isn't prepared for the psychic weight of murder, and Gentile gets across this internal horror impressively. It's worth checking out, maybe after Christmas.

#american murderer #something from tiffany's #cash on demand #phoenix film critics society #matthew gentile #kendrick sampson #zoey deutch #peter cushing #hammer films #jacki weaver

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exploratorysurgery · 1 year

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chapter 6 babeyyy (sapphic vampire story)

I didn’t realize how much I missed their apartment until I stepped back in there.

“Hey sluts, I’m home. I brought Flora.” Ramon shouts. I nearly snort when I hear Leonora groan. I assume Leonora has been done with her clownery for years.

Wait. Did she just call me Flora? My very own nickname from the one I love. I’m probably the exact shade as the kool-aid man. Ramon Neri makes my heart hurt. I just love her so much. Everytime I’m with her my heart grows three sizes. The way she loves life is just so contagious. I would sell my soul for her.

“It’s only fair that I call you me by a nickname too. You can call me Mona.”

“I,” Leonora says swaying into the room, “Call her Moan to piss her off.” Ramon sticks her tongue out at them while flipping her off.

They are still glaring at each other when Liliaine heads into the room. He immediately picks up the tension and slaps Ramon on the back of her neck.

“Hey!” They say in perfect unison. Honestly at this point, you could easily convince me that they are twins.

Liliaine just smirks and says “Help our guest, why don’t ya?” Before I could even deny the help, Ramon had already grabbed my bag and my hand.

She leads me into this large closet. When I say a large closet I mean a tiny ass room with a water bed. There’s a dim light bulb flickering up above the bed. The walls are bare and you can see where screws used to be. But it's home. It’s my home. I think the only time I was this happy was when I met Tré Cool.

Ramon helps me unpack. I mean, really all we do is tape up my posters. All my clothes are going to stay in the bag. Cause, like, there’s no dresser. It’s a little less depressing once I take my guitar out

She’s mangled but she’s still a beaut. It’s a 50’s stratocaster. I named her Frankie. Anyone could see the poor shape it’s in. There are scratches everywhere and the body’s chipped. I’m pretty sure there is glitter on there, don’t know how but there is. The stickers have been ripped but she holds a lot of memories. Somehow, a goddamn miracle that’s how it's playable. Some of the strings have snapped but the neck is still in one piece.

Ramon is in awe. She cried out “You have a 50’s stratocaster?! Holy shit, she’s an absolute darling. Can’t say she’s as clean as a whistle though.” Ramon examines the guitar until she sees the large chip missing in the body and the snapped strings. She holds it to her chest protectively and threatens “You don’t deserve it. Look at the poor thing; it has a chip the size of Texas in it!”

I put my hands up defensively. “In my defense, your honor, it was for the aesthetic.” She glares at me as if I killed her puppy.

Liliaine waltzes into the room and gasps. If you had no context you would assume that I murdered someone. “The poor child! It looks like someone put it through a meat grinder.”

Ramon nods aggressively. “You should’ve seen me after the show. You would wish I had the same treatment as Frankie.”

Once again I realize that probably didn’t help my case, but in fact made it worse. Now they stare at me in horror. I start scratching my neck. I should’ve shut my mouth. Now look at them, they think I’m insane. The only friends you could have had are now lost because you proved to them you have the self preservation as a toddler learning to walk. They now think they have to supervise you. I panic to myself. I’m never going to forget this in a bad way.

But instead of being ridiculed or lectured, Ramon laughs. Her beautiful dorky laugh. She’s the best person in the world. I love her more than anything. I love her more than Frankie, more than music itself. I love the way her hair always falls perfectly into place. I love how she only wears intense amounts of eyeliner and glitter. I love her. I can’t believe I’ve fallen, it’s only been two days. Yet here we are laughing like we’re high on my makeshift bed. If only I could kiss her. I have a hundred problems but marrying Ramon could solve 73. God, I’m so in love.

“How good are you?” Liliaine questioned. It wasn’t meant in a degrading way.

“What do you mean by that? Like how would you gauge it?” I ask trying not to sound stupid.

“Like what are you working on or your personal hardest song to play? For example, I’m working on the guitar solo in Master of Puppets and I think my hardest song is,” He takes a second to think. He must be great at guitar. “Aviator of feat.”

“Rad. I’m learning Our Lady of Sorrows and Battery is the hardest I can play.”

“That’s impressive! I tried being a guitarist but I got kicked out because I couldn’t play House of the Rising Sun.” Ramon chimed. I laugh at the thought of her struggling to play one of the easiest riffs. I bet they would find a way to look effortless while failing horribly. “But I can sing.” She continues.

“Yeah, as good as a three year old in the school choir.” Lilliane retorts.

Ramon, like a child, sticks her tongue out at Liliaine. God I love her.

“Then you wouldn’t have me as lead” Ramon retorts.

“Are you guys in a band or something?” I ask.

“Yeah, we are actually. We’re called The Famous Living Dead. Yours truly,” Ramon flutters her eyelashes. “Is lead singer, the rat of a sibling is bassist, and Lilliane is, as you know, our guitarist.”

The name sounds familiar. I can’t put a finger on it though.

“‘Spite the name, we aren't that popular nor dead. Our biggest fans are the drunks who sing incoherently, hoping it sounds like the lyrics.” Liliane snorts.

“When do you play next, I’ll come.” I really want to see Ramon sing. I’ll bet my life on her having a beautiful voice. “Wait, I thought vampires were classified as ‘dead’ or ‘not alive’?” I ask while doing air quotations.

Liliane freezes. Ramon immediately whispers something in his ear. He relaxes a little but not fully. I understand. I know a secret that could ruin his life.

“We could show you know! I could get us to practice live with you.” Ramon says changing the subject

Liliane whips his head around so fast I think he got whiplash. “What.” He quickly turns to me, ”Give us a second please.” His voice dripped with anger and confusion. Liliane was whisper-yelling at Ramon who just deflected everything with ‘yeah and’.

Eventually, they settled on fine. Ramon yelled for Leonora to get ready for band practice. Which required a quick recap of what they discussed.

After what felt like millions of years, they were ready. I felt like bouncing off the walls. I’m so excited. I love concerts. I love the way everyone here understands you and how you can get lost in the music. You sometimes get live demos or a little story.

“What should we start with?” Lilliane asks.

Leonora jumps up a little bit and says “Enchantment.”

They all smile and nod. They begin to play, and holy motherfucking shit. They are great. It’s loud, it’s crunchy, it’s fast, and it’s my new favorite band. The song is angry and slutty. It’s an overall mood. As the song ends I find myself yearning for more. I’m pretty sure I’m grinning like an idiot because Ramon looks so happy.

So they play more and more. By the time they’re too tired to play another song, I have already sworn my devotion to them. The slutty vampire tones absolutely vibe with me. I would kill to be in their band. The music sounded like it was missing a part. Like there was supposed to be another melody. Maybe they lost a member.

Ramon looked sweaty as hell. She poured every ounce of her soul into that performance. She screamed, danced, and cried all in the span of two hours. Everything was so emotional and I loved it.

Even when sweaty, Ramon was still stunning. Her hair was perfectly plastered on her face. Her make was glittery and smeared. Ramon was panting and looked halfway to death yet her eyes sparkled like the stars. I love her and I know she doesn’t love me the same. She’s dead, I’m alive.

#queer writers #writeblr #writers on tumblr #queer vampires #vampire #vampirism #gay idiots #sapphic #yearning #wlw yearning #guitar abuse #mentions a mcr song title once #its our lady of sorrows #sorry for the wait

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unbiddenser · 1 year

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“Eventually something you love is going to be taken away. And then you will fall to the floor crying. And then, however much later, it is finally happening to you: you're falling to the floor crying thinking, “I am falling to the floor crying," but there's an element of the ridiculous to it - you knew it would happen and, even worse, while you're on the floor crying you look at the place where the wall meets the floor and you realize you didn't paint it very well.”

— Richard Siken

This is so inexplicably special to me.

I moved out of my childhood bedroom, my childhood home, in April of this year. The room where I sobbed against the back of the door, where there was countless splotches of nail polish and acrylic paint, the room where I made my dad duct tape the two holes in my ceiling because I watched a spider come out of one once. That room sheltered me through everything. I remember setting up my soccer trophies against the south wall, leaving in the middle of the night to walk in the snow, sleepily watching my friend scribble on my closet wall, I remember so much of it; it is almost all I remember. When I was really young my first bed was a bunk bed, one that sometimes my older sister would drag her mattress onto so we could stay together, even when we were just strangers. In middle school I moved my bed into my closet and painted the window trim with shitty paint from craft warehouse. There was a nail in the north wall that hung a framed photo of one of my soccer teams, in high school I covered it with a Godzilla poster.

When they finally started to replace the carpet with wood I was out of town and asked my dad to cut one of the stained pieces and save it. I didn't think he would, I was ready to grieve a complete loss of such a big story but he saved one that was in the northeast quadrant of the room. When my bed was still in the closet it landed just at the foot, it was purple slime previously owned by a middle school friend one grade younger than me. That was back when my house was the house to go to, the old group was there probably for my 13th birthday, I think it was dropped on the floor the morning after. There were many other stains, I only memorized some. a black splotch of something like paint water from the one time my elementary school friend came over and we stuck colored pencils in warm water to use as eyeliner, the pearlescent orange nail polish that I think was a bit smaller than I can recall, the purple slime stain, the grand half circle of syrup right in the center of the room from a hasty morning in freshman year when I dropped my dish of maple syrup. That carpet sounded like bubble wrap whenever I vacuumed, I believe wholeheartedly it was from when the bathroom flooded and my sister had a broken arm.

In high school I tried what I could to make that room feel like it was mine. When school went online in sophomore year, before distance learning was a thing and they ended up telling us in June that all the work we did since April meant nothing and that they were just gonna go off of our grades from the previous semester, I started painting it. I had the chance and the thought to do it before then but I kept the walls white so I didn't feel committed to some tacky color theme. I chose five colors and started painting blobs on the south wall, it took me a million years to get each color on. I remember working on it during one of the journalism class calls. It wasn't even finished by the time I moved out. I had attempted to do second coats of maybe one or two of the colors in the months after the first layer was up but I never went back and cleaned the lines. and you could still see all the tack holes where my calendar had always lived above the light switch.

What I’m really trying to say throughout this grieving is that at 18 years old I fell to the grey stuck together fake wood floor and I watched on my way down the white of the door and all the trim that had once been a rich brown, I watched as the memories reeled of what used to be on the walls of what used to be in place of my bed of my dresser of my mirror, I watched the last spot I could remember of it being my mothers room that I had foolishly taken down a light and broken the glass, I watched as so many younger versions of myself navigated covered floors and masses of dirty clothes and blankets and art supplies and sentimental items that all got thrown away eventually, I watched as I saw myself back against the east wall between the closet and the door listening to my father and my sister scream at each other I watched as I with tears covering my body and drowning me pulled on the door stopper to watch the spring fly left to right.

I thought I knew how horribly I would grieve that room, MY room, I would comment to my friend how hard it would be to get the nail polish adhered photos off the north, west, and east walls. I thought I could imagine painting over the south wall and I thought I could say goodbye to all of it and to my cat sitting on the corner of the bed. I thought I knew what it would feel like to delicately say goodbye to that extension of my body, I thought I knew so much more about how I felt about those stupid four and a half walls and the vent cover that was bent out of place and the TV connection cable I tried to get through with craft scissors, I thought I knew so much more about how I felt about the leftover evidence of a child lock on the window so I wouldn't fall out the screen with how terribly I wanted to push my head outside and sense everything. I thought I would be able to recreate it at least with some semblance of what I lived with in that room.

I got rid of my belongings the second weekend of July. I got rid of that room faster than anyone on this earth could imagine. My friend from high school, the only other driver, helped me haul shit away and sat as I threw countless items away to goodwill. She helped lug the two boxes up the stairs to the foot of my bed where they still sit, somewhat emptied. I let her tear everything off the walls, only asked that she salvage what she could from the haphazard use of clear nail polish. I felt next to nothing about it then. I was on a time limit, I was on autopilot, I was going out of town directly after. I thought too much about my cats. I filmed a before and after but i’m afraid that for once I was disgustingly avoidant of giving details.

I find excuses to go back every now and then. I step in and the only things I can think are how grossly empty and hilariously inhuman that room feels and oh they replaced the overhead light.

I wish I could go back and look more at my shitty paint job. I wish I could tell myself that no matter if you knew this would happen eventually you still fall to that cold floor sobbing harder than you did when your sister went to the hospital that first time. I wish I could tell that inconsolable kid against the wall playing with the door stopper that one day he would sit there one last time. I would tell that kid that that door stopper will get thrown out and live at some landfill until it gets disintegrated and dies with your tears.

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st-louis · 2 years

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CARTER HART: STONE COLD WEIRDO

he is red/green colorblind

carter grew up idolizing carey price and well-documentedly has a life-size poster of carey ABOVE HIS BED

he also used to wear carey’s habs jersey for good luck at practices and has two or three signed pictures

originally played forward but switched over at age 9

unfortunately you need to see this story in full:

look at this:

at age 10 wrote on a blank piece of paper: i am going to make the whl.

carter got his start learning how to play goalie in john stevenson’s goalie school in edmonton (and went there for 11 years); stevenson would later become his sports psychologist

stevenson would not work with kids who were “not focused” but found carter “so focused, it’s scary”

he used to get picked on by other kids because he would say things like “i’m going to be better than carey price”

he was unbothered: “mom, i’m going to be who i am”

he was superstitious even at a young age; he was winning more games when his mom was there than his dad and said “dad are you sure you should come? maybe mom should come.”

in sixth grade told his teacher he was going to make the nhl

when he got cut from his midget triple a team, shauna hart asked if he wanted to try again next year. he said no, he was going to get drafted in the whl. then:

selected 158th overall in the 2013 whl bantam draft and signed with the everett silvertips

his first whl game was a 26 save shutout against the thunderbirds

his first year he told his coach he was going to be the starting goalie by christmas and they were like “is that a little cocky?” “well, you told me to list my goals.” he was the starting goalie by christmas.

finished his rookie season with an 18–5–2–3 record and the lowest gaa (2.29) and second-highest sv% (.915) in the whl

literally one of the best goalies in the whl ever

while in everett, his billet dad, parker fowlds, made sure that carter learned he had to be friends with the other guys on the team instead of just locking himself in his room listening to music

parker refuses to say whether or not any of his billets are his favorites but i feel like carter desperately wants to be told he’s parker’s favorite

parker made him the same breakfast every day for three seasons (eggs scrambled, chocolate milk and a couple of pieces of toast)

carter: “he’s like my grandpa. he IS my grandpa.”

carter and parker have facetime dates once a week

bought his first guitar for $150 in his last year of juniors

his juniors coach, himself a former goalie, describes him: “and the reason i say that is he’s charming in a really weird way and i’m an ex-goalie and i wear the weirdness label with pride.”

big on visualizing his goals (‘when i win the vezina’ and ‘when i win the stanley cup’...)

his dad: “carter gets a little stubborn sometimes. he doesn’t like to take advice.”

does not know what drawlin’ means, what water ice is, or how schuylkill is pronounced (i’m sure he’s learned by now but)

he did kinda know scrapple

when he was with the phantoms he didn’t watch any nhl games except for phil varone’s debut

practiced mindfulness breathing, listening to a 15-minute track each morning on feeling sensations in one part of the body and moving on from there

can juggle five balls

going into his first professional year did not know how to cook or clean and also hates doing laundry

he wore 31 in lehigh valley (for carey?)

he is a human disaster. he shared an apartment with bunny and was supposed to be responsible for the bills and ended up getting their heat and electricity shut off

literally during his first ahl season nyree the flyers’ nutritionist had to take him shopping to tell him how to eat

in one of his first ahl games, michael haley punched him in the face. carter described it thus: “i kind of shoved the wrong guy. i didn’t know it was him. i just have to worry about what i can control and i can’t let that stuff get to me. i just have to play.” (one of his teammates did drop the gloves for him.)

he wears 79 with the flyers for his young friend connor, a devoted seattle fan and the first person to get a flyers jersey with carter’s training camp number. he kept it so connor wouldn’t have to buy a new jersey.

got immediately nicknamed cahtah haht by kevin hayes and hated it but then had to get used to it because even av started calling him that

kevin hayes also loves to make fun of his suits (he had three suits and can’t tell the difference between them) and wore his same suit he wears all the time on the ugly suit trip

his teammates love to roast him, including g. “you’re not fucking mike smith out there”

carter’s parents were at his first nhl game (and his first win) and so was parker (carter paid for his plane ticket)

on first road game he wasn’t even expecting to be served dinner on the flight home

described getting called up: “i just love being here”

in that first season both jvr and simmer described him as having ice in his veins

g and ryanne had him over for his first christmas eve with the team and dale weise and his wife had him over for his first christmas day with the team (g and ryanne also had him over for dinner a few times over the year)

he thought about trying to fight devan dubnyk after dubnyk went after laughts but thought he would get his ass kicked because dubnyk’s so big

he’s very much a ‘focus on what you can control’ goalie; see also his silvertips coach telling him to worry only about what you’re doing the next day; see also “i have no future, i have no past, i’m here to make the present last. i’m right here, right now;” see also “the past is the past, you got to live in the present”

conversely, at least one goalie who’s worked with him thought his mental routines were very complex and could be a mental hurdle

during his first game against montreal carey wasn’t starting but carter “looked at him a few times during warmups”

didn’t know you got to keep the hockey night in canada towel

he was the nhl’s second star in the week of 2/4/19

the time he didn’t realize everyone was about to take a faceoff

was told 2/9/19 that he could move out of a hotel and into a residence

somewhat famously he moved into jake voráček’s old apartment. voráček had to convince him to buy a new mattress though

he once came to the rink coughing up a lung and spitting up black gunk and it turned out he was cooking, went to throw his trash away and got locked out, and it was late at night and had to call 911 to get in and everything was on fire

says bad words on the ice but “i can’t say them and you shouldn’t say them either”

he tied jocelyn thibault’s record for the longest string of wins by an under-21-year-old goalie in nhl history (eight)

‘I like playing back-to-back. I like playing every game,’ hart said with a smile.

a little attitude: “have they said we’re automatically out? have they said that? then, exactly.”

bernie parent is a big fan

during his first actual game playing against carey price he was so nervous and so invested in watching carey that he played badly and got pulled

he described it like:

“the one that threw me off was my first time playing against price because he was my favorite goalie growing up. we’re in montreal, i actually ended up getting hurt in the first period and i got pulled. first period, three goals, i don’t know how many shots. that was my first time against price and i think i was overthinking about him too much. i remember just looking down at the other end and seeing him in the other net and i thought, this was crazy. the next time we played him we lost 2-1 but i was stretching beside him and he just tapped me on the pads and said good luck and i was just like – he’s just like you and me, he’s just another human being, and like i said, we’re just here to compete against each other and play the game.

likes to take slappers (shot 72 mph in goalie equipment but claimed he could do 90+ without the gear)

there’s at least one baby named after him

even after his first elimination from playoff contention he still felt you had to play for the pride of the uniform

he’s a big fan of the food network which is ironic because he needs to have his hand held in the kitchen

during the summers he works with the oilers’ goalie coach dustin schwartz

he is still learning to play guitar and boy is his taste awful

other songs he was learning to play: johnny cash’s hurt, green day’s boulevard of broken dreams, three days grace’s time of dying, and the cranberries’ zombie, bullet with butterfly wings by the smashing pumpkins

historically bad at golf

nervous before every game but once he starts playing he’s just in the moment

a big fan of whole foods (eats a lot of chicken and turkey but getting into bison burgers)

three meals he makes on a regular basis: stir fry, turkey tacos, oven baked chicken breasts with asparagus and sweet potato fries

absolutely savage at times: “it was funny. they thought it was a goal. i knew it wasn’t. it was just a guy who jammed my pad over the line.”

jvr described him this way: “it’s funny to hear some of the stuff that’s going on in his brain”

there were a lot of Narratives about carter facing off against carey price in the bubble playoffs. moose had to encourage carter to talk to carey because he was so nervous

bought his guitar and amp to the bubble and kept tk awake all night playing

he had a birthday in the bubble and the team got him ice cream and sang happy birthday to him

he cannot paddleboard

was somewhat notoriously patted on the head by nick suzuki after joel armia scored a very flukey goal and then got in a scrum with him the game after

after winning the series against montreal, carey price told carter good luck, and that he’d be watching him

got out of at least one penalty by smiling at the refs; “i didn’t even notice it bounced into my glove, i didn’t know what to do”

set all kinds of flyers records and some nhl records for his work in the bubble (he had two back to back shutouts, was already in top 10 in flyers goalie playoff wins, etc). unfortunately, couldn’t carry the team past the isles on his back alone.

carey gave him a signed stick that is safe at carter’s parents’ house

after the playoffs he took a week off and then was back in the gym because he felt lazy

he had a really good relationship with moose and asked for the flyers to bring him back

in images taken shortly before a disaster, he said, before the 2020-21 season, “i don’t just want to be another nhl player. i want to be the best.”

anyway the 2020-21 season was really. Bad. he was the worst goalie in the league.

av was a HUGE asshole about it when he was clearly having some mental health issues

he was really lonely and missed the boys

he eventually gave up on cooking and got a meal service

he is known for his monsterfucker masks

notoriously calm and collected but there’s a temper under there

during quarantine he broke a guitar string, tried to learn how to play the guitar and sing at the same time (unsuccessfully), did 500 pushups a day

he’s friends with a lot of rival goalies including mackenzie blackwood and tristan jarry

he and jarry had a bet where the loser had to rent a lamborghini for the other one i don’t know i don’t look at it it’s hideously embarrassing

if he wasn’t a hockey player he’d be a stay at home son

says stuff like “just showing up to practice with my hard hat and lunch pail”

one of the ways he recharged after the terrible season was to visit parker in washington

has a dog, rider

despite the bad season he re-signed for a 3 year contract

he rooted for the habs in the 2020-21 scf

he moved out of his parents’ house in edmonton this offseason and already got a noise complaint in his new compartment

worked more closely with both of his goalie coaches (schwartz and dillabaugh) to try to fix some of the shit that went wrong last season

specifically, they worked on working in traffic, post play, and timing in transition into reverse vertical-horizontal

in the 2021-22 season he switched to TRUE pads and likes them a lot; he is still using a bauer stick because they are light and have a good flex and he likes to have some zip in his passes when he’s playing the puck behind the net. the thing he likes changing the least is the chest plate.

keith yandle says thank you when carter passes him the puck; carter is one of the first goalies to say “you’re welcome”

he made the team canada longlist for the olympics but we all know what happened there

got his first career point (an assist) 10/27/21 (on an atkinson goal)

he REALLY wants a goal

he has a really cute friendship and working relationship with martin jones

“jonesy’s awesome, great goalie, great teammate, works hard. he’s been in the league a while, a veteran guy, been to the cup finals. he’s a great guy to play alongside and i look forward to coming to the rink every day with him and competing alongside him on the ice and pushing each other in practice to be better. i think the three of us–between myself, dilly, and jonesy–we get along really well”

has definitely not hesitated to push guys around or get in scrums this season

grew quite a mustache this november

still getting gently bullied by his teammates

went from having to be told to be friends with his teammates to saying he missed the boys three times

#carter hart #goalies #i'm probably missing something but i got tired #flyers #ANYWAY THIS IS THE FULL VERSION IF YOU RB'D THE OTHER ONE UR MISSING OUT #fave #keep #a.primer

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angelisverba · 3 years

Text

thinkin’ bout you

in which harry owns a flower shop and has a major crush on a girl who comes in to buy flowers every once in a while (and he’s too shy to ask for her number)

word count: 17.3k

paring: florist!h and y/n

warnings: just some pinning and lustful yearning. m for mature...

author’s note: i’ve been working on this forever. not to pick fav’s but i think florist!h comes second to sl23... hes just so.......well, you’ll see!!

* * * * * *

When Harry was given the option to go on a playdate with his car-loving and dirty-nailed schoolmates or spending the weekend at his nan’s house, he would often pick the latter.

He preferred to spend his afternoons frolicking with her Siamese kitty in her wild-flower filled garden, sunbathing in the open grass, or napping on a quilted blanket under the large, round oak tree, with the kitty nestled into his tummy, keeping him warm. When he woke in the arms of his nan as she carried him inside the house for a glass of cool lemonade, he bore a band of pink sunburn over his button nose, and the blue and white striped Mickey shirt was sticking to the areas where his furry friend had provided an extra heat.

So, it was safe to say that from the start, Harry’s tastes weren’t what could be considered ‘average’ or ‘normal’ or ‘straight’ for a heterosexual male of his age in current society.

Not that he ever valued those opinions, but their impressions rang in the back of his loving head when the women who he brought to the comfort of his home made hurtful ‘joking’ comments on how ‘peculiar’ his choice of decor was or giving him prolonged strange looks before shaking their heads and yanking their clothes off so that they landed in a forgotten heap in some unimportant corner of his room.

Granted, he still got a good shag, but it wasn’t enough to fulfill his desires regarding any actions associated with relationships. He wanted someone warm and soft and kind. Someone who wouldn’t judge his home, his music choices, his clothing, or anything else about him. A girlfriend, not a fuck.

Long ago, he’d stopped caring about what others said about him. Adopting this mindset had given him some of the happiest and healthiest moments of his life (albeit occasionally, doubts merged with the ghastly shadows of his loneliness). Business at his flower shop increased as his charm increased with positivity, and a new life within him bloomed like a baby rose bud when he accepted that being single was okay. The ribbons of his bouquets bouncing with an added umf and the mist that landed on his skin when he changed the water in the flower buckets only enhanced the golden hue of his skin.

Harry even took to renovating his home a bit.

Coincidentally, his apartment was located on the floor above his flower stop, and contained a significant amount of singular flowers in vases or bouquets in empty corners to prove it. An array of pastel colors smeared on the once blank walls. Bambi pink in his bedroom, sage green in his kitchen, and a French blue in his living room. The couch was a suede papaya three-seater with black and white checkered pillows, and the coffee table was an emerald-tiled piece standing on top of a geometric lavender carpet, a soft contrast against the dark oak of his floorboards. Harry’s taste in pop-culture, art, and literature was displayed on the frames hanging off his walls. Pictures and posters of his favorite pieces like Matisse’s Blue Nudes and Goldfish and The Dance II. An enhanced, enlarged photo of maraschino cherries and a raven haired pin-up girl. Another glass table by the end of the couch held a silver candlestick and a small statue.

Sometimes, the miniature Greek statue he bought at a thrift store of a man with his nakedness pure and unobscured to the viewers' eyes made his dick bloat against the seams of his pants. If he stared at it for too long, his eyes drawn to the softened cock between thighs that looked so flesh-like even though it was carved out of some clay or ceramic material, his mind would travel to sensual, honey-red places that he hadn’t been in so long. Harry’s imagination explored- as cheesy as it sounds- the sexual aspects of the male genitalia, and therefore his own sexual expeditions and how much he missed giving or receiving a good fuck. More often than not, he ended up with himself in his fist, forehead sparkling with perspiration under the candle lights in his room as his thighs and abdomen clenched with every buck of his yearning hips.

The doorknob of his room was in the shape of an eye, the iris colored a brilliant blue. His king bed- no, frame, just a minimalist white base, pushed up against the wall with two tables on either side, both of them loaded articulately with vintage trinkets and ceramic ring trays shaped like seashells to hold his jewelry. His bedsheets were a stylish combination of pastel colors; lilac comforter, mint and sky pillows. Previously, they had been snow white sheets with strawberry print, but a woman he brought over said they looked like the sheets her five-year-old niece had.

He changed them the week after that.

On the windowsill, a pot in the shape of a white, blue-eyed kitty with vines of string of hearts kissing the floor. A mirror in the shape of a heart with a pink trim besides the lightswitch, above his brown dresser. In the corner, a bookshelf stuffed with books that spilled over the seams, and perpendicular to it, the home of his pet chameleon, Owen (he wanted a cat, but when he went to the pet store and saw the dehydrated creature, he couldn’t leave him there). A 16 x 16 x 30 inch tank filled with a branch that cut across halfway. It was full of all the things he might need, maybe even too much of it, but it didn’t matter because when Harry was home Owen spent most of his time hanging off the collars of his shirts or snuggled in the ruffles of his hooded sweatshirt on his shoulder. The small, color changing friend adored his owner, and only morphed into a mild red color when Harry didn’t feed him more mango.

The renovations occurred in his bathroom; a cherry-red covering the walls because it looked boring before (at least in his opinion). The gold piping of the sink accentuated nicely with the darker color, and the sun seemed brighter when it streamed in through the window above his ceramic claw-footed tub. Owen particularly liked the misty showerhead stall in the corner, and as long as he kept his eyes to himself, Harry didn’t mind it if his green friend wrapped around the showerhead and enjoyed the mimicked tropical atmosphere.

For awhile now, it had been just him and his chameleon (and maybe his mum’s cat if she was going out of town and needed a sitter) but he didn’t mind it.

He got to meet new people everyday within the parameters of H’s Garden, and they all tended to overshare when it came to buying a bouquet. ‘My wife just had our son, want to see a picture?’ or ‘my boyfriend and I have our anniversary on Saturday’ and even ‘my sister had plastic surgery so me and my dad need something that says ‘congrats you look like Kim Kardashain now’ how ‘bout it?’

Stories ranged from sweet, to grotesque, to sad, to funny, and sometimes even evil- Harry didn’t like customers that gave flowers as a ‘fuck you’. He thought it was a waste of beauty and sacrifice. Flowers were living things that had their lives cut short in order to provide momentary satisfaction and life long memories to the receiver, not bitter feelings of revenge. Although it was still business, it pained him that such a pretty arrangement be misused. It was one of the cons of his work. He created what he considered to be masterpieces, and had no control over where they would end up, whether it be as a centerpiece for a candlelit dinner, or in the trash after the apology for a strong argument hadn’t been enough.

However, Harry couldn’t deny that he didn’t love his job, because he did.

When he turned 16, he’d determined that he wanted a peaceful life with a job that wouldn’t bore him. He wanted to be as stress free as possible, with his spirituality as a prominent highlight in his lifestyle. When he turned 18, he had determined that he wanted to be a florist, and began to save up to open his own shop with the occasional help of his friends and sister. He refused to take anything from his mother because he wanted to be the one giving her gifts and money and everything good after all of her sacrifices in raising him. Call him a momma’s boy. Harry loved his mother.

Online seminars and college classes became his best friend, teaching him everything he needed to know about accounting, stocks, and how to keep his business going. He was a businessman first, florist second. During the slow seasons (the start of winter and an awkward half-week between summer and spring) he relied on his investments to triple-ensure that he had enough money to stay afloat.

On his 22nd birthday, as a gift to himself, he signed the lease to the building that housed all of the pretty plants in temporary buckets full of flower food and water, and hired a graphic designer to design the cursive, golden letters that spelled out the name of his shop above the front door.

Now, three years later, he lived as happy as can be.

And he wasn’t lonely anymore.

Well, if you wanted to be technical, his relationship status was still a checkmark over the box labeled ‘single’, but his heart couldn’t be fluttering any harder at the sight of one of his regular customers, and she was there, creeping around in his brain to keep him company.

She was the complete opposite of every girl he’d ever been with. She was sweet, kind, funny, and didn’t judge him for the way he dressed, or his profession. In fact, they bonded over things that previous women had… slyly berated him for. The color of his nails, the lace of his collar, the pattern of his flared pants, and even the sheep on his baby blue sweater vest.

She stole his heart the moment she walked through his door with a soft smile on her face, a sparkling gleam in her warm eyes, and placed it in her pocket the moment she said, “it smells lovely in here!”

Harry, awestruck and blushing because well, she was pretty and wore a shade of purple that somehow made her hair look so soft. Two strands of hair were pinned at the back of her head, essentially keeping the rest of it away from her face save for the few baby wisps that rested gently against her cheeks like a lover’s caress. The stuttering, stumbling cupid’s-bow-struck fool replied with, “thank you. It would be my pleasure to help you with anything you’d like,” and that had been his name, signed on the dotted line of a soul contract. Only she was not the devil. She was an angel.

But even then, it wouldn’t matter. If she was the devil, if she was an angel, something in between or something new entirely he wouldn’t care because he was half gone for her already.

“In that case,” she smiled, and Harry’s heart sang a melody it never had before. It was like the sun beamed from the spaces between her teeth and tickled the fuzzy spot beneath his earlobe. She had the most amazing voice, tranquil and clear and ethereal. “I just moved into a new apartment and wanted the place to feel like home. I thought maybe flowers would give it a little life.”

He vividly remembers that the color of her cheeks changed to that of what is called a ‘blush’, but he didn’t know if it was a trick under the light, or a product of his wistful imagination. Her fingers gently skimmed the petals of a rose from it’s bucket near her hip, and one of the straps of the tote bag on her shoulder disrespectfully dropped away from her shoulder. He wanted to simultaneously rush over and fix it for her, and yell at the inanimate object for not being grateful of the fact that it had the opportunity to cling to her shoulder.

But, before either of these inner-conflicts met a sound resolve, her delicate fingers righted what was once wrong, and Harry cleared his throat, embarrassed because he’d stared for a little too long. He wanted so badly to ask for her name and how she liked her eggs in the morning, but instead he said, “there’s nothing like a bit of something pretty to brighten your day. Did you have something specific in mind?”

He hoped that the meaning of his words wasn’t caught on her, or that would be totally embarrassing and ‘loser’-like.

When she walked out the door with a content smile on her lips, his own heart was beating faster than the flapping of a hummingbird’s tender wings. He was sure that he had never laid eyes on a pair of lips like hers, neither the feeling that blossomed in his chest at the thought that she might be smiling just for him to see and enjoy.

Of course, it was a silly crush. One that clawed and gripped onto his sweaty palms with no sign of letting go. Maybe, Harry thought, it was because he hadn’t wet his wick in so long, and the interaction he’d had with her had sparked irrational, poem-inspiring feelings within the love cavern of his ribs. Because how could he fall head over heels with someone he didn’t even know? Surely, the swarm of hormone-pumped butterflies in his stomach was the beginning of a dead-end infatuation.

Right?

Harry went that entire day, appalled at the apparent angel he had the fortune of being in the presence of in her short fall from the tender heavens. He wondered where she placed the flowers she bought (an arrangement he was particularly proud of, full of lilac, delicate stems of lavender, and puffs of baby’s breath wrapped with a white bow) and where that tiny extension of him was. At the entrance of her home, right below the place she rested her hand against as she tugged her shoes off? At the center of her table? Maybe besides her bed? Where she would see the purple petals and white of him as he wrapped it every time she woke up or went to bed? He hoped- as much as it was a romantic thought- that it wasn’t the last one. He’s been so awkward, so pink. A blush on his cheeks he hadn’t remembered being there since the time he yelped, startled, at the unexpected pain of a tattoo needle, the artist pointedly peeved. Acting like such a boy.

Right before crawling up the steps of his apartment, heart still bleeding with love-blood from the deadly tip of Cupid’s arrows, he made himself a mini version of the bouquet he’d made her, and placed it at the center of his tiled coffee table.

*********

A few days trickled by, and the memory of her face drifted in and out of his mind like a giant sway of fabric slowly billowing in the wind. He was just so… struck by a slab of awe, stunned by her kind of beauty. Natural, the kind that hooks you in it’s purity, like the golden beams streaming in through transparent curtains on a warm spring afternoon.

Her strawberry lips curved elegantly under her nose, and displayed a smile that leaked some sort of heady drug into the air because the air was sweet when he breathed it in. And when he handed the bundle of flowers over to her, the pads of her delicate fingers skimmed the rough ridges of his knuckles. He wondered immediately what kind of moisturizer she used, and if it smelled like honey or lavender or peaches. She smelled sweet. Sweeter than all of the flowers in his colorful soul shop put together. The colors that belong to her, on her person and worn by her, were more captivating than any of the tones that painted the petals on his plants.

Owen got a kick out of this whole ordeal, though. Harry’s passionate mood had him divulging in munching and nibbling on things that tasted the way he felt; ambrosial, fresh and pure. It resulted in the purchasing of endless amounts of fruit, with many bites given to the tiny chameleon. Mangoes, strawberries, oranges, grapes, pears (Asian pears, if the store carried them, they were Harry’s favorite), peaches and guavas. The sudden craving for fruit might be explained as just a casual craving, but deep deep down inside, Harry knew that it was because he wanted to replicate the feeling that coursed through his golden veins when she giggled at something she happened to find funny.

He wished that he had caught her name. The girl had paid in cash (and left a five dollar tip Harry fawned over), so he couldn’t have read it on her card, and he was halfway between charming and awkward that he didn’t even think of asking for it until the minute the door closed behind her, bells tinkling in announcement of her exit. He wished for a hundred different things, but he was not the type to live in regret. Not anymore. So after about a week of floundering in her memory, he meditated for an hour, tropical incense on one of his bedside tables, and cleared his mind as best he could.

The next morning, he did the same thing. Woke up with heavy limbs, plopped himself down on his blue mat and stretched in various positions, his white boxers hanging low on his hips. His lips and eyes were sticky with sleep, and the back of his nose ached with cold air that he must’ve breathed in throughout the night after forgetting to close the window (again) but the pleasurable twinge of stretching aches between his joints were the perfect way to start his day. They urged his mind to transform into the still surface of water, clear and collected from any unproductive-pinning thoughts towards a girl he would most likely never see again.

Even his clothes reflected his refreshed mindset.

Harry donned his favorite pair of flared trousers in an earthy brown color, nestled snugly on his slender hips and around his thighs. The tight fit accentuated the way his back tapered into his waist, glutes shapely and sculpted. A maroon sweater vest that had a teddy bear embroidered on the middle of his chest, the small latte-toned stuffed animal seemingly childish, but on him it only directed attention to the spotlight daze of the velvety heart sheltered underneath his breathless plate. Underneath, a mustard long-sleeve shirt with tiny cherries printed on them. Some straight, some tilted or lopsided. His shoulders and biceps were hidden in the floofy bunches of cloth, anonymity given to the true thickness of his ink slathered skin.

He looked like a corduroy dream. A thick milkshake of patterns and colors, but he managed to pull it off.

A tiny gold hoop on his right ear gleamed under the morning sun coming in through the windows and a pearl necklace rested against the downy skin of his throat. Slender fingered tipped with a coat of pure white, with his ring fingers accented in a shimmery pink. Chunky rings adorning the base of his digits; a silver rose, a band of dancing teddy bears (a running theme with him), two gold rings with his initials H and S on one hand, and a simple ruby stud from his graduating class.

He looked good, he knew that he looked good, and was ready to begin a bright, healthy, non-pretty-girl-thought-polluted day. Even the old woman had pinched his cheek whom he had been assisting- a regular-had said he looked like a proper ‘nice boy’ along with ‘when are you going to her a lovely girl to help you run this place, Harry?’. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that he had momentarily sworn off women until his broken sentiments healed, and they had a long way to go.

In the middle of wrapping a smashing set of tulips and fern stems with a cherry red bow, the bells adorning the top of the door frame dinges, announcing the entrance of another pleasant customer and giving passage to a gust of chilly air. Harry looked up to greet the customer with his usual pleasantries of ‘welcome! I’ll be with you in a moment!’, but the words died on his throat in a desperate hussle, just as the little mermaid had given up her voice to meet her gallant prince.

It was his own personal little slice of heaven presented to him on the black and white checkered floors of his shop. Hair loose against her shoulders again, eyes cast downwards to inspect a bucket of fresh daisies that tickled the space above her bare knees. How she could wear a skirt in this biting weather, he didn’t know, and it partially prevented him from continuing his pursuit of admiring her because the first thought his caring mind jumped too was, ‘is she cold? And if so, does she need a sweater? Because I will gladly give her one.’ His second thought, however, was ‘how could someone be that beautiful?’. The third was something along the lines of ‘all my yoga has gone to shit, and I’m okay with that’.

He cleared his throat, tightened the bow around the stems of the flowers in his hands and said, “I’ll be with you in a moment, love!” His head bowed, looking at his work because he wasn’t sure he could afford the medicals for the paralysis that was sure to take over his meek self if they made eye contact so soon. Harry needed a moment of homeostasis, his soul adjusting to her dulcet presence.

The woman he was assisting, Edna, spoke, drawing him out of his daze, but he had been so deeply in thought that he had not heard what she said.

“What was that?” He asked her. He grabbed Kraft paper from the roll by the register to wrap up her arrangement.

“The girl. You like her?” She was smiling at him, wagging a finger the way his nan used to do when she caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. “Don’t lie to me, I recognize that look. I’ve given and received that look many times throughout my life.”

The woman was not wrong. With age, comes wisdom, Harry thought, smiling to himself at being caught. A dimple carves itself into his cheek, nestling onto the space above the corner of his mouth as if he had no choice in the matter. The apples of his cheeks were shadowed with a dusky pink, and the tip of his nose was twitching like a rabbit when it stood on its rear and sniffed the air, only he was coy after just being caught and wanted to avoid the question as much as possible.

“I’ve got no idea what y’talking about,” he chuckled, keeping his voice low so that the intriguing stranger in the store didn’t hear that their topic of discussion was her. He moved over to the register to ring her up, and even slid in a discount he applied to customers he liked.

“Next time I come in,” Edna said, passing Harry her debit card, “I hope to hear that you got her number, dear. Don’t let these opportunities pass you up. Life is short. And who knows? She could be the one.” Harry gave her the card back after charging her, and handed her the flowers, too. All the while Edna was grinning at him, shaking her head like she knew something he didn’t.

“Take care, Edna. And don’t forget to change the water every 2 days with the flower packets I placed at the stems,” he reminded her, sweetly wiggling his red-lacquered nails at her retreating woman as butterflies awakened in his stomach in a furious flood of nerves. The girl was looking around, her hands hovering over the up-turned faces of a bundle of lively sunflowers, browsing and quietly humming to herself as she waited.

There was no backing out of this, even if he wanted to. And he didn’t! He didn’t want to back out. The girl was a customer, and he would have to approach her no matter what. But she was so pretty it was also intimidating. He doesn’t remember ever being this nervous while approaching someone, especially one he harbored feelings for. His heart was pounding so loud, he was sure it was audible.

“Hello,” he wanted so badly to add ‘love’ at the end of his greeting. “Are y’finding everything a’right?” He asked her, his hands wringing themselves, palms moist with sweat from his unyielding need to impress her. The pink tip of his tongue poked out to swipe across his full bottom lip, and soon after that his teeth sunk down into it, nibbling with uncertainty. Harry made sure that he was standing straight, body aligned to face hers because in that psychology course he took once, he learned that it was a subconscious tactic to engage interest and pleasant replies to attempts at wooing another.

At the sound of his voice, the girl jumped, startled at the sudden vibrations of Harry’s husky voice. Her delicate feet, he noticed, skittered on the floor from her tiny jump, and her doe eyes widened, shouldered rising and falling at a quicker pace than before from the new rush of light fear. When she realizes that it’s just him her hand flattered over the base of her neck and her collarbone in attempts to soothe her racing heart.

“M’s sorry,” he whispers, his hand clamping over his mouth, and then lowering to his chin when he speaks again, “didn’t mean to scare y’love.” This time he can’t restrict himself. It comes so naturally, like the endearment was meant for her, and when a flush covers the bridge of her nose his first instinct is to coo at her for looking so cute. The second is a surge of guilt for having scared her to such an extent.

“It’s okay,” she says, a little out of breath. The blush on her face was partly because she was embarrassed at her own reaction, while the other was that she had let herself act so freely and uncoordinated in front of someone that looked like him. Handsome and sweet and eyes so green they refreshed you upon first glance. Like the cool burn of water going into a mouth that had just chewed a stick of minty gum. “I want to buy these flowers.”

God help him. Her voice alone was enough to make him melt. The lilts and melodies of her voice swarming all four of the ventricles in his heart with warmth, and every blood cell that passed contained a glowing heat, buzzing with her energy.

She points to the sunflowers, her gaze lingering on them with longing. A soft smile toying on her mouth, and Harry could see the tendons in her throat stretch as she inhaled to add another thought to her sentence, “Do you sell vases by any chance?” The girl looked at him shyly, her eyelashes almost twinkling as she blinked, and his heart soared, “I had a really nice one in the shape of a big Coca-Cola bottle, and I accidentally knocked it over, so now I have nothing to put them in.”

Harry is incredibly enamoured by subconscious gestures that take over her hands as she speaks, fiddling as if the vase she spoke about was in her hands, all in one piece before it was broken. He’s quiet throughout her tiny ramble, listening and taking note of her enticing antics. She’s looking down at the floor or the flowers or her hands, and when her eyes dance over to his steady gaze, “I’m rambling aren’t I?” she murmurs bashfully.

“No, no it’s a’right. I can look in the back for something if y’like?” He suggested, arrowing a thumb to the ‘back’ he mentioned. “Did y’want anything in particular?”

“Oh, I don’t wanna be a troubling customer!” She squeaked, concerned with becoming a nuisance she didn’t want to be.

“Y’not a bother, love. M’promise. I’ll go look f’you. What color did y’have in mind?” He asked her, tone calm and soothing to reiterate his sentiment. She was not a bother. The only thing about her that bothered him was the fact that he did not know her name, and even that was his own fault for not asking her.

His hands rest on his hips, tattooed cross momentarily hidden by the bunch of his sweater vest as he waits for her to respond, his eyes locked on her mouth, her own tongue subtly licks her lips, adding a sparkly sheen to it that only drove him crazy. Ever the jilted fool, his mind jumps to what it would feel like to kiss her, or what it would feel like if she kissed him in other places. What fruits she tasted like, and what kind of kisser she was. A timid one? With a patient mouth waiting to be broken open with the force of his own? Frugal? Opening her mouth and giving him everything she had to offer.

“Something pink, please. If you have it.” That smile again. One that told a million apologies it didn’t owe, with her eyes pinching at the corners with whatever nonsense culpability she felt. Her voice was sweet, Harry thought, like wind chimes on a summer morning.

Feeling guilty for allowing such dirty thoughts to gallop through his mind when she was so… so pure. Like an angel. Even her way of presenting herself was shy and sweet, yet he was thinking about kissing her. Was that perverted? She was a customer he had seen twice, and his mind was already running wild with luscious assumptions; a sunday topped with a red cherry of sensuality. How awfully dirty of him.

But! But those were not the only thoughts he had. He wanted to ask her what happened to cause her to drop her vase, and where she had bought it. If it was vintage, considering it was a Coca-cola bottle, and if she had any accidents while cleaning up the mess of broken glass. He wanted to hear her thoughts. No, better yet, he just wanted to hear her talk. He wanted to get to know her. To know if she was as nice as she looked.

“‘Course,” he mumbled, his eyes shamefully downcast to the floor. “Be righ’ back.”

Harry stalked off to ‘the back of the store’. Truth was, there was no back of the store containing vases. There was only a small closet with boxes of items he might need around the store, like flower food, rubber bands, and decorative paper for the bouquets. A crate of bottled water for when he got too lazy to climb up the back stairs and into his home.

His home.

Plucking the keys from his pocket, a ring that held a ceramic swan his closest friend Mitch had gifted him with a humble admission of ‘saw this at a thrift store and thought about you, H, I had to buy it’, and five keys: one to the front door of his shop, one to the cash box in the register, one to the mailbox, another to the front door of his apartment, and one to his car. The one to his front door was painted at the head with pastel pink nail polish, so it was easy for him to pick out when he was dead tired after a long day of being on his feet (spunky shoes that he liked to wear sometimes didn’t help ease the ache on his back, and neither did his posture).

The back door that led to the stairs had locks on both the inside and the outside. A deadbolt and chain on matching sides of the door to ensure comfortable sleep at night, and peaceful work time during the day. Not having to worry about curious children opening doors or nosy customers relieved him. It was a little amatuer, but the door made a loud noise when opened because it wasn’t quite level, and he had a tiny key so he could lock it from the outside, too.

A loud shucking noise resonated through the store as he pulled the door open, and then again when he closed it behind him. The delicacy of his dainty yet large hands were nearly comical around the tiny golden pin stud that hung from the chain, almost slipping from his hands with nerves as he slid it in place. Harry didn’t think that she was nosy or anything like that, bit if he was going up to give her a vase of his own personal collection, he didn’t want her to find out and feel even more intrusive that she already did.

He was a huge giver, and upon hearing her say that she broke her flower pot, his mind was already thinking about the perfect one to replace it. It just so happened to be sitting on his shelf with a bundle of dying lavender. Climbing up the stairs (the ache in his thighs was a mere twinge compared to what it was when he first moved here), Harry huffed and thought to himself all the ways he could ask for her name and number.

Listen, I really like y’and would like to have y’number?”

Do y’wanna have my number so we can go out sometime if y’feel like it?”

“Is it alright if I get y’number so we can go out sometime?”

“Hey, love. What’s y’name?”

Nothing’s making sense to him. The pick up lines he had stored in his head for the rare times he would flirt with a girl were slipping from him. None of them seemed worded right to use with her. Too abrupt or too brisk. Not sweet enough. He wanted to treat her gently and to be worthwhile of her time. Plus, it also had to be smooth enough that it made her forget she was paying him for flowers or it would be awkward. He was a twenty-six man for crying out loud, not a twenty-one year old smile at the bar looking for a good time. This wasn’t a ‘good time’. This was… a courting. An inquiry to a relationship. A rose rose in a candlelit room.

Harry opened his front door and moved in a quick jog to a table besides his hi-fi that held a translucent pale pink glass, fat at the base before twirling and widening a few inches at the lip. An image of a nude mermaid puffing out at the front like an engraving. Cuddling it into his breast, he grabbed the lavender, speed walked back to his kitchen where his toe banged against the metal of the trashcan as he pressed on the lever to open it. He hissed fuck under his breath and shucked the dead lavender into the bag before turning back to his door, closing it behind him, but not locking it because he didn’t want to keep her waiting. His feet moved quickly down the stairs, the one hand not holding onto the vase cupping a hand over the side of his hips that held his keys so they didn’t make much noise.

The button on the chain slipped from his fingers a few times from their repeated clamminess, and when he was ready to finally twist the knob, he paused to take a breath and collect himself. Harry ran a hand through his hair, fixed his collar, and dusted off his pants legs. He wanted to look perfect for her.

“Don’t be stupid,” he murmured to himself. He had a good feeling about this. About her. And if he messed this up because he looked bad or said something weird he would kick himself into a muddy ditch.

Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and calmly walked back, “I’ve got the last one,” he said, tapping the tip of the vase with his pointer finger. It was a lie, right through his teeth, but he was happy to tell it in return for the way she was looking at him in that moment. His eyes rounded out as he approached her, like the curves of hearts that made up the heart-eye emoji, or the puppy-dog face. Just another physical display of his growing affinity towards her.

“Oh my god!” She said, “It's so pretty!” The trapped crystals in her irises twinkled with bewilderment at the treasure Harry’s presented her with. She’s got a smile on her face, and he can’t help but think, ‘wow, she looks like a freshly bloomed white lily’.

There’s a vintage print hanging in his corridor, a ‘flower language chart’ with different types of flowers and a sentence beneath them describing the messages they send. For example, red carnations= my heart aches for you. The description beneath white lilies reads ‘my love is pure’.

She asked him if it wasn’t too pricey, and he made up some fake sale he had going on about a hybrid BOGO in which if she bought an arrangement she would get a vase included in her purchase (he added “I’ve got a shipment of new ones coming in an I need the space cleared out before they get here” just to make sure his fib is believable.) And he explains this so shyly. Harry can’t keep his eyes locked on hers because she’s staring at him with an intensity that lets him know she's really listening, and it makes him squirm. The tips of his fingers tap against the vase, and he’s tripping over his tongue, which is ridiculous because he already talks so slow.

“I guess I was right in waiting then,” she said casually, waiting for Harry to finish ringing her up.

His finger froze over the touch screen of the sleek, modern device (he wanted nothing but the best for his store) and listened to the exciting roar of blood through his eardrums at her words. I guess I was right in waiting then? What did that mean? That she was planning on coming back to see him and didn’t? Of course, it could also mean that she was going to buy something else somewhere else, but he couldn’t stop the vine of ripe hope that swelled around his chest. And she looked so apprehensive while saying it. As if she was walking on glass and was looking for cracks as she stepped. As if she was waiting on him to catch on to something.

Harry cleared his throat and looked at her through the corner of his eye, trying to be as discreet as possible as his fingers continued their deliberate work on the screen, “What d’you mean, love?”

“I was going to stop by sooner, but I just got in my head about it,” the girl shrugged, and adjusted the ends of her cardigan so they wrapped around her torso. She had a different bag this time, one of those reusable market bags that was made up of holes, and it was filled with two books and a can of green tea from the vegan store down the street. Harry thinks he can make out one of the titles on one of the spines, which looks suspiciously similar to something that he has on his own shelf.

“Why would y’get in y’own head about coming to m’flower shop, hmm? It’s hardly that intimidating,” he chuckles to play off the dashes of pink and red that are painting themselves across the bridge of his twitching nose, “I don’t bite, either.”

And he hopes that his wistfulness isn’t meddling with his vision because he swears that he can see a matching reaction on her own doll face. “I know! I know, it’s just that I can’t help it sometimes. Talking to other people makes me nervous.”

Harry could coo at her right now. He doesn’t, though. He nods and smiles at her before reading her total out to her, “That I get, too. But y’doing just fine with me, love.”

Waiting patiently as she digs through her bag for cash, he tries to not stare. However, it’s impossible. His eyes had a mind of their own dragging against the forces of his will to feast on her image again. Her hands and the tip of her nose. The base of her neck and gentle swell of her clavicles. The swoops of hair that hung in a curtain from her shoulder as her head tilted in search, and the how her teeth bit down into her lip in concentration. Harry counted the amount of times her eyelashes met her waterline in those few seconds of comfortable silence. Three.

“I thought I had cash on me today,” something in her bag clicks, and she pulls out the rectangular card Harry’s become familiar with, holding it out to him between two deft fingers, painted with red hearts on a white base. “I guess I used my last twenty at the organic food store down the street,” she said.

“It is pretty easy to get lost in there, isn’t it?” He took her card from her, and tried not to make it obvious that he was eager to read her name off of it as he inserted it into the machine. The embossed letters into the plastic read y/n y/l/n, and when he turns back to look at her, he can’t help the smile that spreads across his boyish features.

Y/n.

Y/n, y/n, y/n.

This is what it must feel to be let in on a secret that’s worth millions of dollars. It must, because Harry’s heart is soaring with a closure he didn’t know he needed. Y/n, y/n. Her name tickled him. Stroked him. Lathered him with the honey smoothness of the beeswax shampoo he bought at that fateful organic store. It was a fitting name. Sometimes, one could tell a person ‘you know, I actually thought you were a Amy or a Jessica’, because their looks and style just didn’t match the strength or modesty of their name. But not y/n. It fit her like a glove. There was no other way to make sense of the way Harry’s brain was thinking. The name was her.

“What?” Her lips quirk up into a smile and her eyebrows dip in confusion. Why was he looking at her like that? Did she have something on her face? Here she was, opening up to a cute stranger and she had something on her face? This, she thought to herself, is humiliating. Her finger dusted off non-existent crumbs from the corners of her mouth, “do I have something on my face?”

“No! No, no.” Harry’s careful beam simmered down from it’s previous brightness, and his hand nervously filed through the swoop of chocolate curls sitting on his head like a cinnamon roll. “I just think y’name is pretty thas’ all.”

He murmured the last part so that it was practically incoherent, and lowered his gaze as a searing heat stretching like saran wrap around his head and the divot on the nape of his neck. Oh, God. He was fucking blushing. Great Harry. A normally favorite among the ladies had been reduced to murmurs and thick, uncoordinated movements.

Like dropping her card when she piped up again.

Voice as small and quaint as his had been, "you think my name is pretty?” Her fingers are wrapped around the frail straps of her bag, tight enough that her knuckles were white and Harry was scared that she’d bury her fingernails into her palm.

“I think y’very pretty.” He whispered back. He can’t even bear to look at her in fear that he’s totally fucked himself over once and for all. His logic was this: what girl wants to be told by the guy they’re buying flowers that they’re pretty after he reads her name from her debit card? Especially one who (if outside female sources are to be believed) dresses “the way my mother did when she was a girl in the seventies”? Jesus, fuck. He must’ve looked ridiculous.

Harry opened his mouth to backtrack and apologize for being so unorthodox in his workspace, a breath sitting on his tongue with words ready to spew out, but the bell began to chime and it yanks his head from the register to the front and instead he said, “welcome! I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Flustered and full of regret, the flower connoisseur returned his wired gaze back to y/n, who… was smiling at him? The kind of smile that said ‘oh my god, I can’t believe you just said that. Now please say it again’? Was he… dreaming? Did he have to pinch himself in order to verify that he wasn-

“Thank you... what’s your name?” Y/n looked at the card from his hands and sunk her hand- carefully, as to not get her fingers stuck in any of the tiny holes- and there was another clicking noise before she took her hand back out. That angel-like smear of girlish happiness was still on her, decadently radiating positivity and secret affection. Goodness leaked from the seams of her bones; through the cracks of her breastplate, radiating from her chest to Harry’s. He could feel it now. He could feel that his previous assumptions about her nature were true. She was altruistic and tender, like the inside of a bird’s wing.

“Harry. M’name’s Harry.” This time, he didn’t hide his happiness. Even his eyes shone with a heightened, clear and sparkly shade of liquid evergreen. The joy that bounced inside of him like ricocheting metal balls in a pin game machine. His slender hand, fawn-skinned and graceful like the legs of a deer, stretched out between them. His mother had taught him that along with the first introduction of his name, a handshake must be present, always. Dipping his head slightly, and his words spongy with love-ditz, Harry rumbled, “Nice to meet you, y/n.”

She placed her hand in his, and was practically swallowed by only his palm. He curled his fingers around her, thumb and middle finger overlapping around the clammy center of hers. So she was nervous, just as he was. Y/n was trained on their embracing limbs, and he could feel a spot on his neck where the skin palpated from the rush of blood as she observed their entwined digits. Their hands moved up and down, up and down between them for longer than necessary until her chin twitched back up to meet his, and she blinked mawkishly, slowly, like the videos of rehabilitated barn owls Harry sees on his Instagram.

Then, suddenly, as if she remembered she was not the only one present, y/n jolts upright and shakes her head dazedly. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Harry. I like your nail color,” she added.

He’s cheesing. A shit-eating grin too big for his face and it carves dimples into the flesh of his cheeks. His name on her tongue had never sounded so appealing, like it was made for her and only her to say. Not even the turtle-doves that cooed outside his window in the mornings sounded as beautiful as she did saying his name. And she complimented her nails! She hadn’t scrutinized him like others had, instead, she displayed her admiration for them. No one- well, actually he can’t say that without offending Mitch- no female of his age had ever received him with such open-mindedness as hers. If he didn’t have any self-restraint, he would giggle. Instead, Harry pulled his hand back so that their perfect moment wasn’t sullied with bouts of bad timing, “thank y’love. I like yours, too. You’ll have t’come over sometime and paint mine, yeah?”

Y/n laughed, and he breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn’t been too bold, “I’d love too!” With glee frozen on her, she turned to look over her shoulder at the customer who was browsing the flowers Harry had in buckets, “I don’t want to hold you back from a customer for so long. I’ll stop by again soon, Harry. Thank you so much for your help.”

The moment her hands reached for the wrapped bundle of sunflowers and the mermaid vase, a metaphorical grey cloud of rain and thunder manifested in the space above his head, and blocked all of the sunshine from spanning across his toned, lithe body. Did she really have to go? He wanted to whine. Maybe even wrap himself around her ankles like a child that refused to leave the park. They were only just getting to a mutual spot of comfort! Forget the other customer, he wanted to shout. Harry would kick them out and flip the sign to ‘closed’ if it meant only a few more minutes in the presence of her candy-coated charisma.

But he knows that’s unrealistic, and settles with, “it was my pleasure, y/n,” a flirty wink (at least he hopes it is), “I’ll be waiting f’your next visit.” His taffy lips wrapping effortlessly around his smooth words, fueled by her welcoming receptiveness to his advances. It would be easy to be himself in the future, a little smoother and eloquent in his language and feeling. He was usually clear with what he wanted from anyone, and made it a pleasurable experience in all aspects for both parties involved (once it was three). Harry wanted to sweep her off her feet, and he wanted it to be an enjoyable experience for the both of them. Revel in that feeling of blooming emotions in a new relationship. A healthy one, in which he wasn’t receiving back-handed compliments all the time.

He wasn’t superficial enough to push anyone off the table based on looks alone, but it did help that y/n had the disposition of an angel. An ethereal voice, supple lips that looked so silky and soft they had to feel that way, too, and hands that felt so tender in his. Perfect for holding on a late night stroll, or over the center console of his car when -if they go out on dates.

What really hooked, reeled, and sinked him, though, was the fact that she was so nice to him. From the start, she’d been nothing but polite and sweet with him. Don’t even get him started on the way he swooned at the tone of her voice when he said that her name was pretty! So quiet and velvety, careful and calculated like she wanted him to know that it was okay. That she wasn’t thrown off by his comment. He nearly toppled over, clutching his heart with his legs jutting straight up into the air like a frightened goat.

It wasn’t until the bells stopped ringing the sad notice of her exit that Harry realized he passed up the perfect opportunity to ask for her number, and as he kicked himself over it, he walked with the perfect customer service face he could muster to help the other person in his store.

***

Harry was having a shitty morning.

Not the kind of morning where every aspect of his routine is a terrible mishap, but like the water being too cold and the stove not working or the bottle of oat milk in the fridge being empty so he couldn’t make coffee. No, everything was fine and rolling smoothly, as it should.

His water was the perfect temperature and ran down the toned bumps and divots of his muscles like the relaxing thrums of a lover’s caress in the midst of prowling heat. As soon as it hit his back, he released a sigh of contentment, his shoulders hunching and head rolling back and his hands roamed his shoulders and the back of his neck, rubbing away any aches that existed. The branch of eucalyptus that hung from the golden pipe of his showerhead fused a thick minty scent into the steam that fogged the glass wall, and the calming aroma helped the tendons loosen like the deflating limpness of untied shoelaces. He spent a few minutes just standing there, inhaling and exhaling deeply and feeling his lungs open and stretch beneath his rib cage.

It almost made him wish that he’d opted to use his tub for a hot bath instead.

He was able to cook an egg just fine on his stove, with dashes of Everything Bagel Seasoning with a side of avocado and a slice of toasted cranberry walnut bread, the same thing he had every morning. The carton of oat milk was brand new from his trip to the market the day before, and his coffee tasted the same as it always did. But… he was just... sad. An melancholy soreness that eroded against the insides of his body, consuming him slowly but surely and leaving him with a lost feeling of emptiness and unimportance.

He thinks he might know why he’s feeling this way.

While he’s stirring his scrambled eggs, he’s wondering how y/n likes hers. Over easy? Sunny-side up? Scrambled, like him? Did she even like eggs in the morning? What did she eat in the morning? He knows that some people ‘aren’t hungry’ in the mornings, though that’s only because they’ve gone hungry in the mornings before for an extended time period, and after so long of not feeding their growling stomachs, their brain discontinues the signals of hunger. Harry hopes that isn’t the case with y/n, and that she’s eating the proper three meals a day every day.

And while he dipped a mini vegan chocolate croissant that he got at Whole Foods, he also wonders what she likes to dip chocolate croissants into, or if she even likes chocolate croissants. If she was a person who likes sweet treats, like strawberry tarts with powdered sugar over them or something lighter, like fruit cut into small squares in a bowl. When Harry was younger and would visit his nan on the weekends, she would pick fresh strawberries from her garden and cut them up for him when he’d woken from his nap. Sometimes, she would even sprinkle half a tablespoon of sugar over them. He wonders if she’d ever eaten strawberries like that.

It’s been a week and a half, he still hasn’t seen her, and his heart is yearning.

Harry knows he’s not in the correct headspace to assist other people with a cheery disposition about an hour before opening time, and decides it’s best if he writes a note on the door about how the shop wouldn’t open that day because he didn’t want to taint the reputation of his business by snapping at a customer for the only bundle of sunflowers he had, or dissolve into a puddle of love-sick tears in the middle of ringing someone up. Though really the notice just says ‘H’s Garden will not be opening today. Sorry for the inconvenience!’ followed by a frowning face and a lopsided, filled-in heart.

Harry drags his feet back up the stairs, his lower lip jutting out in a discreet but depressing pout, and grabs Owen from his tank so that the chameleon could curl into the shoulder of Harry’s hoodie while he moped on the couch to sappy rom-coms that would only make him think about her more. At least there was someone there with him, even if his small green friend only used him for mangoes and papaya. They sit together for the entirety of Romeo + Juliet, and when it’s over, Harry’s sniffly and standing up to return Owen to his enclosure and to clean because the riotous emotions that whirl within him are too much to process while sitting down.

Cleaning wouldn’t help him solve his problems, but it would help him cram all of his worries into a tight corner at the back of his mind- sort of like when dirty laundry began to overflow in the hamper and it requires extra force to shove it all in, only to come all back out like a memory sponge. His tormented thoughts on y/n could be compared to a dramatic inner monologue, very similar to how Romeo feels about his Juliet. But, soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and y/n is the sun. Harry has the play on his book shelf (the one with the side-to-side modern English translation because he was never quite gifted in the English department) and as he reaches for a bandana to tie his hair back, he finds himself resonating with a particular line: parting is such a sweet sorrow.

There was no need to change any of his clothing, since he was already dressed in one of his more impromptu outfits; grey sweats and a white t-shirt that read ‘women are smarter’ in black across his chest. He tied the red bandana into a knot at the back of his head, and lifted it over his chin so that it settled on his forehead, sweeping his hair back with a final push back. It doesn’t get in his way when he crouches to clean his various tables, spraying cleaning products with his shirt pulled over his nose, another organic product that’s supposed to be less harmful and smells like cinnamon and sandalwood. His shoulder blades begin to ache because he’s being a little more aggressive than he has to be, but the green tiles were sparkling so he was content.

He washes the dishes, mops the kitchen floor, vacuums the carpets, cleans Owen’s habitat, and tidies the mail that piled up on the table when he finally calls it quits. Scouring his brain for something to do, to keep him busy- his brain busy, Harry settles on the floor with his back to the edge of his bed. He’s shirtless now, and is in need of another shower but he’d rather not because he knows he might end up crying over the possibility that he’s scared y/n off. There’s a book in his hands and a Frank Ocean record playing softly in the background that mentions something about ‘I've been thinkin' 'bout you, do you think about me still?’ and it’s not helping his case at all.

It’s no use.

There’s a plague of darkness buzzing like cicadas in his ears. He fears rejection and criticism. That maybe, she was only pretending in order to make the situation more pleasant so it ended sooner. Most of all, he feared that it would always be this way. That he would never find someone who embraces who he is as a person. Always met with mean side-eye glances or second looks of displeasure and confusion. It isn’t always that way, though, because then that would mean he gets absolutely no action, and that isn’t true.

Harry is very… well-educated in matters that concerned sexual intercourse, but it was always a one-night stand ordeal. It was never ‘I really like you we should go out sometime’. In fact, he noticed that only time his approaches were well received were those in which he was dressed in a calmer manner. Simple, solid colors with sneakers or a t-shirt. Girls would flirt back, make good conversation, allow him to buy them a few drinks, and when he’d take them to his apartment they’d ask why he lived on top of a flower-shop, and if it was his sister or female-friend’s palace that he was crashing. Sex would ensue, but his heart wouldn’t be as present and engaged as he wanted it to be.

Wrong. It was always so fucking wrong, and God, if he didn’t get out of this apartment he’s going to breakdown and cry and there’s no one to call to come over because Mitch is on a trip with his girlfriend, Sarah, and his other friend Jeff is on his honeymoon in Sweden. They were the only two on his mental speed dial list during the rare occasions he had a crisis, as they were the two that Harry had ever really opened up to. Mitch was a bit closer to his heart. They’ve known each other since their school days and practically grew up together (at one point they had small crushes on each other, which were confessed years down the line). Jeff was the owner of Winsome where… where y/n had mentioned spending her last twenty dollar bill. He didn’t have an issue opening up to them. He liked opening up to them, but he didn’t understand why they were the only two that ever truly opened their arms to him.

A walk, he decided, would help him… air out his brain. Calm down. Breathe a little deeper, a little easier.

He threw his white shirt back on, and a forest green sweatshirt that donned the emblem of the school he went to earn his business degree that fit him wide around the shoulders and felt like a marshmallow. Putting on a pair of beat up shoes, he shoved his keys into his pocket, hobbling and nearly losing his balance because he was moving way too fast. The door closed behind him with a slam, and even though he was still wearing the bandana around his head, wispy stray curls framing his face in a wild mane, his distress palpable through his appearance, but he doesn’t care. He just needs to get out and feel the cool air against his skin.

There’s a backdoor behind the stairs that will take him to a small alleyway that leads to a back parking lot where other shop owners that live at the top of their stores on the same side of his street parked their cars. He unlocks it from the inside, and throws his shoulder into it, desperate to her out. When it shuts behind him, he doesn’t turn back because it’s the kind to lock from the outside when closed. His fingers curl into the ends of his sleeve so that the tips of his fingers (nails now changed to a sparkling silver color) are the only parts of his hands visible.

Rounding the corner, he whistled the cheeriest tune he can muster. His lips are puckered and his cheekbones high with the extension of his mouth. He’s not very happy on the inside, though he remembers reading something somewhere that if you pretend to be something long enough, you’ll eventually become it. If he pretends to be happy, then he’ll actually be happy.

Right?

Harry rounds the corner of the parking lot and turns on to the main street. It’s only two in the afternoon, so there's people crawling in and out of shops anywhere. He even sees a man and a woman peeking into the window of his store, and he would feel bad if he wasn’t in a shitty mood already. He’s so out of it, that he nearly yells ‘get your hands off my windows!’. He doesn’t though, because for a moment the woman becomes y/n and the man becomes him, wrapping a ringed hand around her waist and whispering in her downy ear ‘they’re closed, darling, let’s go somewhere else’ and she straightens dejectedly, pouting playfully and standing up and her tippy toes so that she could press a quick kiss to his lips.

That image fades though, and the couple continues with their stroll, hand in hand, and his heart is wrenching, writhing and trying to yank itself free from it’s place in his chest because it hurts too much to stay.

Cars whizz past, and he skirts in and out of people on the sidewalk, keeping his pace fast and focused. There’s no intended destination, he’s just moving with the intent to forget the pretty girl who haunts him. Her voice is all he can hear. Her smile is all she can picture. And the rest of her is all he can imagine, which is exactly what hurts the most. Imagination only goes so far, fulfils so much with uncertainty of what the truth was and what wasn’t. Harry could imagine her with her feet up on the lip of a bubble filled tub, a glass of wine in her hands, but then…what kind of wine did she like? Or did she even like wine? And did she even have a bathtub to stretch out in after a long day?

He curses the crimes he may have committed in past lives to deserve this torture. This unbearable pain that felt like he was being dunked in a slow-acting acid. He can do nothing about it but keep walking with labored will power. He passed his shop, and a bakery and a small thrift store that sells used clothing for way too much money. At the propped open double-doors of Jeff’s Winsome, he decides to talk in and browse. There’s so many items that smell good and taste good, that it was fun to just walk in and look.

“Back again so soon, H?”

Spinning on his heel, Harry comes face to face with Niall, a brunette, fit, Irish bloke with a chummy smile and a killer sense of humor. The two have brokered a sort of friendship, considering the amount of time (and money) that Harry spends there. Niall has even started calling him ‘H’ in silent homage to his flower shop.

“Y’know I can’t stay away,” Harry attempted to joke, his lips pulling up in a weak smile, “plus, I think I needed s’more of the peppermint essential oils f’my diffuser.”

“‘Course ya do! You're worse than the bloody vegan mums that come in asking for gluten free baby powder!” Niall cups a hand over his mouth and loudly whispers to so that only Harry catches his verbiage. There was a woman in the back of the store, looking through soaps in the limited kid’s section, the same exact kind that Niall was speaking about. “Go on and look around then, I’ll be here when you’re finished.” He said.

Harry only nodded his acknowledgement, and moved in between wooden walnut shelves. The entire store had a caramel brown color scheme, with only the inventory adding color to it. Macramé potted succulents and plants added to the natural, outdoorsy feel. Winsome had an interesting mix of smells from all of the aromatherapy based products it housed, but it only added to the appeal.

Currently, he held a packet of four lip balms that advertised to be ‘100% all naturally derived ingredients with no artificial additives' infused with ‘healing power of crystals’, two of them ‘citrine cherry' flavored, and the remaining ‘garnet guava’. The brand name is something in Italian that he can’t read, packaging thick and a triangle made of arrows in the corner signaling it can be decomposed and/or recycled. He had the same exact ones at home, only they were all misplaced and-

“Harry?”

A small, timid voice called his name from behind him, and he froze. He knew that voice. It was the same one he had repeated over and over in his head for the past week, waiting for her promised arrival with a hopeful heart.

His eyes go wide with recognition, body still and stiff like a deer caught in headlights. His heart begins to rump at a furious speed, loud in his ears like a million stampeding hooves. The packaged products in his hands shake, and then she speaks again, “Harry, is that you?”

Is this really happening right now? He’s embarrassed at having been caught with lipstick in his hands of all things, but he can’t put them back now. It was too late for that. He lets them hang at his side, and turns around. He hopes there isn’t perspiration dripping from his temples because all of a sudden he wants to yank his sweater off.

Harry turned, slowly. He feared that if he moved too fast she would fly away like a startled dove.

“Y/n…” He’s breathless, but he manages a pitiful quirk of the corner of his mouth, which he licks over right after, “hi.”

She’s wearing a dress this time, frilly at the hem which fell just above her knees. It’s pink and covered and lined with blood red trim at her forearms. A string of pearls glistens at the base of her throat, and her lips are covered in a sheen of lipstick. Her hair, however, is a tousled mess, pieces of it framing her face and untucked from her bun as if she had been jostling around. Her cheeks are flushed with the cold, and clearly that thin beige cardigan hanging off her elbows is doing nothing to keep her warm.

Y/n smiles at him, with the same shakiness, “f-for a second I thought I was talking to the wrong p-person.”

It’s quiet again, and they’re both fidgeting. Y/n’s knees knock together as she shifts her weight from foot to food, and Harry idly rubs his finger under his nose and sniffs boogies that aren’t there. She’s staring at the ground and rocking back and forth on her heels and he can’t think of anything to say because he’s so paralyzed by the fact that she’s actually standing in front of him, and looks as gorgeous as ever. Had he somehow manifested her presence?

While she’s hiking up the ends of her sweater so that they��re situated properly on her shoulders, he says the first thing that comes to his mind. “Aren’t y’cold?”

Her head snaps up and she peeks at him from under her lashes while flattening a hand at her thigh, “a little bit.”

Harry watches her tuck her hair behind her ears and wonders if she came walking from her apartment again. In the cold. Dress as she was. Not that he had a problem with the way that she was dressed! He understood that sometimes when people grew bored they used the smallest occasions to dress up and have some fun and get out of their homes. He did it too, sometimes. To clear his head. Hell, isn’t that what he was doing now?

“D’you need a ride home?” He stumbled over his tongue to backtrack, not wanting her to think that he was a wierdo or anything like that, “t-that is if y’walking, I wouldn’t want you to get sick or anything like that. S’bit chilly out today.”

Y/n smiles shyly at him, a blush on the highest points of her cheeks, and rubs the side of her face against the fabric of her cardigan, “thank you, for the offer, but uhm… it’s my friend’s baby-shower-gender-reveal thing today and I came with my other friend to some last minute gifts and some flowers. I was going to buy some stuff from here because she’s crazy about the whole ‘no preservatives’ and all but, and I was also going to stop by your shop to buy some flowers, but I saw you were closed so I…I’m rambling again.” She sputtered out the last bit, and pressed the tips of her three middle fingers to her lips to stop the words from coming out.

Harry smirked at her antics, but it’s more of a repressed smile, and the rest of his humor gleamed in the sea-glass of his eyes like a message in a bottle.

“S’alright, love.” He’s still holding the lip balms in his hand, and he can feel the moisture that’s collecting on his palms dampening the Kraft like material as he gestured to her dress with the tip of his chin. “Y’wearing pink. I take it y’want the baby to be a girl?”

“Actually, I know it’s a girl. She told me,” y/n pips, shrugging smugly.

Harry laughs at her this time, “Did you finish with all your purchases here? I can make an exception and open up f’you.”

“Oh, Harry, I don’t wanna bother you! Because if this was your day off then-”

He lifts a hand to get her to stop, and uses the opportunity to twist around and put back what he had in his hands. The conversation is flowing so smoothly now, that all of his previous worries are gone. He can only focus on her and the way her eyelashes fluttered and the crystalline sparkly in her voice.

“Y/n, it’s fine. D’ya finish here? We can head over to the shop now if you’d like.” Harry points a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the door.

“Uh, no. I just got here so I still have to go grab some things,” she said, pushing her hair past her ears again. He thinks that she can probably tell the disheveled state her hair was in, because she begins to pop off a pin in her hair to readjust it. He doesn’t mind it, though. He thinks she looks cute. Angel-like.

He nods, rolling his hands into fists within his sleeves so that the cuffs hang over his knuckles, and tries not to trip over his legs as he backs away. “A’right. I’ll wait f’you in the front, then. Take y’time, love.”

“‘Kay,” she gleams at him, biting down on her bottom lip, and Harry turns away fully before he starts whining about how cute she is or before there’s a dent in the heather grey fabric of his sweatpants.

At the front, Niall has his chin at the palm of his hand, and as he gets closer, Harry lifts his head to see that the brunette is wiggling his eyebrows mischievously. There's a shit-eating grin on his face that clearly points to a mountain of teasing in the near distance.

“A little love-struck, mate?” He said, as soon as Harry was within hearing distance. At least he had the decency to keep his voice down, he thought.

Harry flips him off, “oh, bug off.”

Silver glitter sparkling on his nails, and his gaze strays to the floor, bashful of how clear his affection was. He turns to rest his bum against the counter and pulls out his phone to appear busy as he waits for y/n, mindlessly opening Instagram to have something to do (and to stop him from glancing at her ever two seconds).

“Yup. I knew it. Have y’asked her out yet?” Niall doesn’t stop to let Harry refute his question, “y’know she comes in sometimes, after stopping by your place? And she just will not stop talking about how nice yeh were to her.”

Harry’s head snaps up from his screen so fast, something at the back of his neck creaks with the force. Instagram is long forgotten.

“What? Are you fuckin’ with me right now?” He doesn’t mean for his words to come as aggressive as they do, but the thought of her speaking to someone else about him is… well, it’s thrilling.

Alarmed, Niall’s hands come up near his face in the motion of surrender, “no, man! Dead serious. Think she likes yeh, honestly.”

He can only say: “Fuck me.”

Niall is about to respond when a quiet voice breaks their stares, “I’m all finished.”

“Already, babe? I’ll rig ya up, then!”

He’s quick to slide the few products over the scanning square, and y/n and Harry stand beside each other silently, their height difference laughable. Niall’s gaze flickered between them with no commentary, and his lips pucker with a wiggling smile when he finally announces her total. A bit too much for a small changing blanket, oatmeal-based baby lotion, pacifiers with a lavender infused towel attached to ‘aid with goodnight night’s sleep’, and a bamboo hairbrush with a tuft of soft bristles.

Nonetheless, she provides the money with a pleasant smile. Harry can see a bit of tightness around her eyes that suggests discomfort, but he doesn’t say anything. Niall hands her a paper bag with her purchase, “there yeh go! Have a good day now, y/n! And be good, to Harry!”

Harry’s eyes widen at Niall’s last comment, and it takes every bit of self-restraint in him to not reach the other counter and whack him in the back of the head. Instead, he shakes and ducks his head in near shame.

Y/n, however, quips back with “I’ll be nice only if you’re nice,” and bumps her shoulder against his before walking towards the door, looking over her shoulder at Harry who’s smiling wide now, and trailing after her with no regard to Niall at all.

He shouts something after them about being rude lovebirds, but Harry doesn’t care. He’s floating after this heaven-sent like cartoon characters being led to a freshly baked pie with their nose on the scent. His rump high in the air like the Lorax disappearing into the light in the clouds, utterly ignorant to everything else.

When they’ve both stepped outside, they speak at the same time,

“Let me just-”

“Do y’wanna put-”

Harry and y/n giggle at each other,

“You go first.”

“Y’speak first.”

And then they laugh again. Harry pretends to zip his lips and throws away the key, and she says radiantly, “I’ll drop this off in my friend’s car really fast and we can walk to your flower shop.”

Watching her approach a car parked two spots away, a girl with blue, pink, and brown hair leans over to the passenger side, seat belt straining against her throat and when she sees Harry, she waves and it makes y/n push her back to her spot behind the driver’s side. Whoever this girl is, she and Niall have to meet, seeing as they can’t mind their own business. He chuckled and waved back, that girl laughing along with him and it made y/n cover her face with her cardigan covered hands.

“I’m sorry about Charlotte,” she said when she got back, “she doesn’t know how to mind her own.”

“A bit like Niall, it seems.” Harry said. He waits for her to catch up before beginning to walk down the street. Side to side, shoulder to shoulder. They’re so close, Harry can feel the warmth of her body heat through the fleece of his sweatshirt. It’s cold, and she’s still this warm?

“Maybe,” her eyebrows raise, and her head tilts towards him, “they should meet.”

“Tha’s exactly what I was thinkin’!” His voice rises with his excited agreement, and the tip of his nose wiggles as he scrunches his nose.

As they get closer, to H’s Garden, Harry reaches into his pocket for his keys, fingering through them so that they wouldn’t have to stand in the cold for so long. He didn’t want her to get sick.

“I’m sorry, Harry. I feel really bad about this,” she whispered beside him, looking up at him with doe eyes as she worried her lip between her teeth, the sheen of gloss adding an extra allure to her image at that moment. “It’s your day off, and I’m bugging you.”

They stood in front of the door now, underneath the green umbrella cover that extended from the top of the door and down the side of the window. Harry waited for her to step into the little alcove created by the indent of the door before stepping in after her and jiggling the key into the lock. He resisted the urge to pull his lips down into a cooing frown at the look on her face. She really was worried about disturbing him. If only she knew that he spent the entire day moping (and nearly crying) over her.

He sucked on his teeth, “oh, love, please worryin’ about it. Don’t wanna see that frown on y’pretty face anymore okay?” His confidence was slowly coming back, “s’not my day off, I just didn’t feel like speaking to customers today.”

Shrugging, he opened the door, and took a step back to allow her to step through first. Y/n ducked her head as she passed him with a murmured ‘oh, okay’, and he followed right after her, wanting to get away from the cold too because he knew that his nose was probably pink at that moment, but what he didn’t anticipate was for y/n to stop right after breaching the threshold, and bend over at the waist to pick something up from the floor, causing Harry to bump into her at such an awkwardly sexual angle with all of his momentum.

Considering he was half twisted away from her and in the middle of pulling out the key from it’s slot, the amount of force in Harry’s push from behind was enough to cause her to nearly fall forward, a surprised whimper slipping from her lips. Harry, determined not to see her fall, lets go of the key and reaches out just in time to grasp her hips on either side, pulling her back towards him mid-fall so that she doesn't collapse on her face.

However, in the midst of all of this Harry forgets himself and uses a bit too much force. Not to mention, the implications of their position makes him hyper aware of every single place their bodies touched, her small frame against his lithe, tattooed body.

This moment only lasts for a few seconds, but he can feel everything.

He can feel the easy give of the skin of her hips underneath each finger that touched her, the softness of the flesh on her thighs against his sturdy knees. The fabric of his sweatpants is suddenly non-existent, and it’s almost as if he felt every taught tendon of her legs, frozen with efforts of helping catch or brace herself. The heat of her groin is flush against his, and it makes him want to scream with a sudden sensitivity. Her ass is practically seated on him, full and malleable against the points of his laurel covered hip bones. Harry’s semi-hunched, as her weight also pushed him back, and the position is doing nothing to help his frenzied mind settle. He feels like shit because he’s being a horny, pubescent kid instead of asking her if she’s okay, but then y/n moves back into him to straighten fully and their centers grind. Her dress is semi-bunched at the halfway point of her bum, and he can feel heat emanating from her, radiating back on his bloating cock. He has to stifle a moan when she pushes herself up with the tips of her fingers.

Just as quickly as it started, it’s over. Y/n is dusting her bum off so that her dress falls and covers her modesty, and she’s beet red in the face, not looking at him. Which was fine by him, he was too ashamed to look into her eyes.

He clears his throat (something he’s doing a lot around her) and asks if she’s okay.

“Yes. Yes, I’m okay. This was on the floor,” she squeaked, holding up a neon yellow notice sheet in her hand. That damned thing was what caused all of this?

It’s a notice from the delivery men that said, ‘sorry! We missed you!’ with a time and date messily scrawled on the dotted lines. Harry had forgotten that he was getting a shipment of several plants that morning.

Cursing, he takes it from her, “t-thank you. Now how ‘bout those flowers?”

It’s awkward, obviously, but y/n is severely silent. Harry’s still stuffy in his pants, but he ignores it and doesn’t add any fuel to the fire because there’s more pressing matters at hand than a boner. Y/n is the most quiet she’s ever been around him, considering all of her word vomits and ramblings, and he’s suffering. Definitely beating himself up in his head for having ruined the moment. He held onto her for a second too long, frozen. She must feel so embarrassed, and he was self-endulging like a fucking asshole.

Harry asks her questions on what flowers she’d like, and she answers by pointing or bringing a stem to him, laying it on the counter without a word. A mixture of dahlias and baby’s breath with a handful of feverfew to make the pink in the dahlia’s stand out. He lays them out on his work table, cutting the ends at an angle where they need to be cutted and laying them out on a sheet of clear, dusty rose paper. Three packets of flower food are strewn at the corner, and y/n busies herself by fidgeting with them. He grows concerned when he makes a comment on the kinds of ribbons he had stored and she doesn’t say anything. Not even a nod or a hum.

Eventually, he decides he’s had enough of her neglect, and pauses his work to devote her some attention.

“Love, I’m sorry about what happened,” he said softly, trying to catch her eyes, “I know it probably made y’uncomfortable, and I didn’t do much to make the situation better, but I just didn’t wanna see y’fall.”

Y/n’s head is already dipped, so he can’t see her face, but when her shoulders begin to shake, he knows he’s utterly fucked. She starts to sniffle, and his eyes go wide. The paper crinkled as he set down the baby’s breath he’s holding in his hands. He hates seeing people cry, not because he didn’t know how to deal with it, but because he often ended up crying along with them. Also, he just didn’t want to see her cry. Harry wanted her to be happy, glowing, and smiling. Not dull with dollops of woeful distress in liquid form.

He rounds the corner and spares a look out to the street, wanting to make sure that there is no strange onlooker eavesdropping on their interaction. His hand reaches out to stroke her back or shoulder comfortingly, but he thinks better of it and drops his arm. She most likely would not like to be touched, considering what just happened between them. He drops his head, seeking face-to-face interaction, and speaks as gently as he can, “y/n, what’s wrong?”

She avoids his search, and turns the other way while sniffling, “you probably think I’m weird now or something after that.”

“No!” Harry exclaimed, jerking his head back as if he’d been struck, and her words practically had. He can’t believe that she would think that and even go as far as verbalizing her thoughts when he worshipped the ground she walked on and didn’t even know her that well, yet. “No, no. I don’t think that. Y’tripped, that’s all. Happens to everyone. If anythin’ I’m the weirdo for grabbin’ y’the way I did, and I’m really sorry about it.”

Y/n dig the heels of her hands into her eye sockets, “that was so embarrassing, I should’ve told you I was gonna stop or something. I always embarrass myself in front of cute boys and I never know what to do. I just-”

Harry interrupts before she can dig herself further another hole. He highlights a segment of her words, dropping everything else in hopes of changing the conversation and taking her discomfort away, and mostly because he was bursting with relief and happiness. She had said that she thought he was cute, just how he thought that she was adorable, and nice, and everything good. They were on the same level, their minds in sync. Did that mean…

His voice is airy and light because of what she had just admitted, “y’think I’m cute?”

She stills with awareness of what she’s just said, and a puppy-like noise seeps from the back of the throat before her hands sink further into her eyes, embarrassed. Harry tenderly wraps his fingers around her small wrists and pulls her hands away from her face, murmuring about ‘don’t rub y’eyes anymore, love, y’gonna hurt’ with nothing but kindness. A millisecond of distraction speeds through his mind at the softness on the inside of her wrists.

There’s a trickle of blubbering in her part, her bitten lips bumping against each other as she attempts to backtrack, “I mean- I- I-”

Harry decides that it’s now or never. It was a bit inconvenient, perhaps, but with her revelation his confidence soared and he was more prepared now to ask than he ever had been. So, he goes for it, “can I have y’number?”

A moment of semi-uncomfortable silence as the unknown tips the scale. Would she say yes? Would she say no? His head was spinning and he hoped his nose didn’t start bleeding or something because y/n nods slowly, smiling, and then, “okay.”

He’s elated. He was the polar opposite of what he had been that morning. If only Owen could see him then. He doesn’t waste any time reaching into his back pocket and handing her his unlocked phone. They don’t share any words, only coy glances and flirty quirks of the lips as the tips of her fingers move on his screen. Harry can’t believe that he’s finally getting her number, after nearly a month of pinning.

When she’s finished, she clicks it off and sets it next to him with an added pat to the back of his suspiciously clean white phone case while he’s tying the flowers together with a loose rubber band at the ends to attach the food packets. He’s fine with working in silence now that she's not crying anymore. He throws occasional glances in her direction, and catches her watching his hands while fiddling with her own. Her brows were furrowed and her mouth was twitching.

“Will you text me?” She asked him.

He’s careful not to bruise any of the petals as he sets them down again, pausing with his ministrations to pick up his phone. He wiggles his eyebrows at her and types a quick ‘Hi. It’s Harry :)’. He hits send, “until you’re sick of me.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.” She shakes her head, and Harry’s reminded Rachel McAdams in The Notebook while she’s in complete denial of her feelings for Noah. The comparison makes his heart flutter, considering the romance of the onscreen couple. “How much do I owe you?”

Harry waves her off, “it’s on the house.” She begins to argue, but Harry stops her before she starts rambling again, “y’better go or you’ll be late, love.” He holds out the arrangement to her, tufts of baby’s breath poking out from between the vibrant dahlias like fluffy clouds, the feverfew looking like miniature white daisies in the center.

She looks at it, and back at him before huffing, “fine, but you’ll have to let me return the favor.”

“Of course,” he smirks, “with dinner, maybe?”

They’re both gleaming at each other now, “okay.” Y/n takes a step back, her body half twisted as she walks away, but it remains like that for a moment as her eyes rake him up and down, a murmur following, “bye, Harry.”

His veins charge with electricity, and his dark taffy lips part at her actions. Had she just checked him out? He doesn’t recover quick enough to return her goodbye because the previous swirl of arousal in his navel was bristling back to life at the implications of that look. Calm, slow, steady, and her eyes remained doe-like and innocent.

She had to have known exactly what she was doing, whispering his name the way she had, looking over her shoulder and under her eyelashes the way she did. Deviously provoking his thoughts to begin a new with a reinspired fervor. The space in his underwear was growing tighter by the second, a blissful ache swelling.

Before any other customer stepped in after her, Harry locked the door, and jogged up the stairs to prepare himself a nice, hot bath, simultaneously cursing and thanking the stupid fucking delivery men.

********

Harry can’t stop thinking.

Obviously, this is a huge issue for him. He was constantly thinking, and well, who wasn’t? The process of thoughts wisping around in his brain was one that he often put an unnecessary amount of energy into because he had no one to filter these thoughts onto, releasing them through a conversation to prevent the exhaustion of his brain and heart. A prime example of these mishaps being the depressing slump that occupied his demeanor that very morning.

This?

This was different.

As soon as the apartment door was shut behind him, Harry pulled the suffocating sweatshirt off of his upper body, fingers hooking in at the collar and yanking it off with a swift tug. It landed somewhere on his kitchen floor, and he didn’t stop to take note of its final destination. Instead, his legs instinctively took him to his bathroom.

Chest heaving, Harry walked to the small window leaking sunlight and rolled the stick between his fingers to close the blinds. His thumb dipped into the waistband of his boxes and dragged them down lopsidedly, the tiger tattoo roaring as it became exposed. When the blinds are fully closed, the white extension clangs against the shutters from his aggressive release. His body was slowly being consumed by a raging fire stoked by the illicit images his brain conjured of the innocent, unsuspecting y/n.

His inner turmoil consisted of guilt for using her image that way and justification from the conspiring rake of her eyes along the upper half of him that was visible behind the counter. He was so fixated by her, that her look alone felt like a tempting caress along his skin. And it all happened in a matter of fucking seconds. That’s how gone he was. That’s how fucking gone he was. Harry guesses that the easy excitement also had to do with the fact that he hadn’t gotten laid in a while (he only ever gets lucky when he goes out to the bars with Mitch or Jeff, and they’d been gone for a significant amount of time) and the strong affinity he had for the girl who bought flowers from him.

Explanation or not, he had to do something about the problem in his pants. He was painfully hard, and when he shucked his pants off fully, his underwear dragged with the movement and pressed against the tip of his swollen prick. A darkened patch of moisture bloomed where the head was, and he saw stars at the short pressure. He wouldn’t take his pants off just then, though. He liked to stall his pleasure as much as he could so that when he finally did cum, his stomach muscles contracted and his toes remained curled for more than ten seconds.

He twisted the golden knobs of his tub so that the water would come rushing out at a borderline scalding temperature, and opened the small cabinet above the toilet for a bottle of almond and coconut shea butter bubbles. He uncapped it and bent over the edge of the tip, the cool, porcelain lip touching his crotch and provoking a choked whimper to leave him. Jerking his hips back, he poured the soapy liquid into the spot where the water cascaded, and retracted his hand when the beginning of froth formed along the surface.

The heady sweet smell permeated the air with the rising levels of bubbles, and Harry couldn’t wait any longer. Because he liked to torture himself, he closed his eyes and slowly dragged the hell of his hand over the outline of his cock, a groan ripping though the silence. It’s so painfully good, that he does it one more time, and he jolts forward. He removes his hand, slips his thumbs underneath the waistband of his boxers, and lugs the fabric down his hips at an excruciatingly slow pace. The head of his member smearing precum all along as he moves and when he gets caught in the ripples of his boxers the muscles in his thighs flex at the ripple of pleasure that zips into his nerves.

“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath. His mind was a spinning vintage reel of slideshow images of y/n. Y/n on bruised knees, her mouth wide open and her own drool on her tits, the tip of his cock flat on her tongue as she pleads with weepy eyes for him to cum down her throat. When he finally springs free of his underwear, a hefty slap rings out as his dick collides against his abdomen, right on the space underneath his belly button.

There’s a stripe of liquid on the trail left by the mushroom head of his prick, and Harry’s eyes roll to the back of his head, throat straining as he hovers over the bathtub. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s ever been this hard over a girl before, and it’s driving him crazy. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to last as long as he usually does. As he swings a leg over the edge of the tub, the hot water encasing his calf, he’s thinking about how soft she is. The inside of her wrist and the palm of her hand. If she’s that soft on an external part of her body that’s used everyday, he can only wither away at the idea of what the inside of her thighs feel like.

Bubbles are swarming up now, swathing his thighs and buttocks as he sinks into the sloshing water. When he’s completely seated and satisfied with the belly-button level of water, he clumsily throws a hand in the direction of the knobs to shut them off, and reclined his head against the curved end of the tub with his eyes shut.

He hikes up his knees so that they’re resting against the porcelain walls, and mindlessly ruts up into the water at the filthy images he’s picturing, white foam collecting in sparse clouds over the math on his chest. He doesn’t know what’s gotten into him. It’s as if his body is being transported back to the moment his hips clashed with y/n’s. At the recollection, his mouth drops and his eyebrows pinch in a silent moan. The feel of her flesh underneath his fingertips has him bobbing in the water, and the next ideation has him gripping the base of his cock.

Vividly, he pictured her on all fours, keening back onto him as her pussy enveloped him in warmth, a warmth that is almost replicated by the temperature of the water, dripping and making a mess of him but what’s turning him on most of all is the easy flushness of their bodies. He had felt the way her bum gave way under his hold, and he imagined the bounce of her flesh as he thrusted into her.

He moaned a broken call of her name with his eyes still shut, and heard the trickling of water as his fist rolled up his stiff prick, squeezing at the tip so that a few more droplets of precum dribbled out. With his thumb, he rubbed over the red mushroom head and lathered it in slow, leisurely circles, a throb pulsating with the beat of his heart as he returned to flicking his wrist over himself.

The way that he looked at him and the sound of his name on her lips seared into his memory. Airy and willowy, similar to it resonated in his brain with the fantasy of sinking into her for the first time, stretching her and having her preen and arch with desperate whimpers of his name for more. Harry considered himself to be ‘well-endowed’ and his size was a factor of what sent him careening over the edge as girls mewled over his size after he’d bottomed out. He wanted y/n to mewl under him, both of them falling apart at the seams at the mutual pleasures because if Harry’s this broken over just the thought of her, then he’s sure he’s going to lose himself beyond recognition after he’s buried himself into her velvety walls, slick with her arousal and so fucking warm.

Just as she had been earlier that day. There had been two layers between them- the fabric of Harry’s pants and her panties- yet, he was still able to feel an immense heat from the apex of her thighs against his cock. He needed more than this. He needed her, not just his hand driving him closer to the edge.

His jaw clenched as he bit back on a particularly loud moan, for no reason other than he enjoyed self-sabotage from time to time, and the speed of his jerking hand increased. His other hand gripped the side of the tub, and his legs flexed as he began to thrust up into his own fist, a trail of bubbles sticking to the tanned muscles. The cut rectangles of muscles of his abdomen glistened like freshly chopped cubes of apricot with the droplets of water that remained clinging to him. His breath came in labored, strained puffs as the palm of his hand twisted, tightening at the tip and loosening at the base.

For a moment, he paused and cupped his balls, massaging them as the fantasy in his head continued. His mouth wrapping around y/n’s nipples, her eyes glazed over from previous orgasm that he wanted so badly to give her. She’d whine something soft and quiet to match her personality, ‘please, Harry, please I want more. Need another Harry, please’, and he’d speed up the movement of his hips, driving deep into her and cooing into her ear about, ‘c’mon, darling. Give m’another then. Y’want it so bad, yeah? Give me a’fucking ‘nother’, and she’d release a peircing moan that explodes in his eardrums while arching into him. She’d squeeze impossible tight around him, gushing with her own cum.

The water in Harry’s tub sloshes around his ankles, and the muscles of his abdomen clench so that he’s closing in on himself, sputtering on an outrageously loud cry that he can’t contain and his hand increases the speed of his filthy ministrations because he’s right on the edge. He’s about to fucking cum and the back of his eyelids burns with the possible variances of y/n’s face in ecstasy provided by him with his nose deep in her cunt, lapping at the sweet honey that spills with every whimper of, ‘please let me cum, Harry. I’ll do anything, I’ll be good, please let me cum.

He tensed violently, his face contorted painfully as white ropes spurt from the tip of his cock over his fist and onto his chest, blending with the white almond foam. His feet are braced against the edge of the tub and his head falls back and his stomach tenses even further, the final leaks of his cum dribbling out.

With the fuzziness that comes after an orgasm, his body melts back into the water that’s still warm, and his jerks with a pant as he allows his softening prick to sink into the water. The head on his hair is matted in a chocolate smear across his forehead, and his lips are a raging heart of cherry blossoms, parted with arduous gasps of recovery breath. His hands fall into the water at his sides, and with the lapping movement of the liquid against his sensitive member, he ruts into nothing again.

Reclined with his eyes closed and heartbeat slowing, Harry murmurs a final, “fuck me,” at the extreme sensations that had raked through his body.

Somewhere in the muffled distance, his phone dings with the notification of a text message, and with a tired noise of resentment, he sits up and reaches for his sweatpants that lay in a messy puddle besides the tub. His fingers drip darkening spots onto the grey material as he rummages for his phone, and then he finally clicks it on...

It’s her name, lighting up his screen, and the text reads:

y/n <3 : so… dinner?

Harry doesn’t think he’s ever crushed on a girl this hard before because even though he’s just completely physically spent himself, there’s something stirring in the depths of his tummy just at seeing the heart she put next to her name.

He couldn’t be happier.

* * * * * *

and here he is!! what do you guys think?? pls pls pls leave your feedback in my askbox! i’d love to hear your thoughts! and if you really really loved it, don’t be afraid to press that reblog button <3333

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