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hwaightme · 1 year

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After Hours on Christmas Eve

- pairing: seonghwa x fem!reader (implied woosan, implied yungi, hongjoong has a gf?) - genre: fluff, office au, young love, slice of life, a sort of slow burn - summary: instead of playing along to the buzz of the festive season, you chose to spend Christmas Eve at your desk. Could this decision make your wish come true? - wordcount: 5.7k - warnings: light sprinklings of curse words, overworking, cynicism

“Are you sure you can’t come? My wife and I would be more than happy for you to join us…”

“Yes, I’m afraid, but thank you so much for inviting me.” You were doing your best to escape your line manager’s over-enthusiastic attempts to coax you out of the office to ‘have fun’ and to ‘embrace the festivities’. Although with the best intentions, you had no desire to spend an entire evening on edge and at a metaphorical gunpoint.

“Do you at least have something planned? I don’t want you over-working yourself,” the gentle-faced man inquired, smoothing down his salt-and-pepper hair in front of a desk mirror left behind by one of your colleagues. “Besides, there isn’t much of a point. Business in the west is very slow today and tomorrow so we can relax.”

You hummed in response and got up from your chair, seeing your boss approach the shared coat rack. Exchanging holiday wishes once more, you were officially the last one on the floor from what you could see.

There definitely was something special about an empty open-plan office. Not quite ghostly, but you could feel a certain energy about it that can’t be found in other types of workspaces. Maybe it was the echoes of the buzz that is normally prevalent. Maybe it was just the overwhelming row after row of monitors and desks, identical corporate soldiers. Maybe it was not even the office itself, but rather the impressive view that could be glimpsed through the glass walls that embrace it. Colossal skyscrapers peeking from the chilly mist that was already settling on the city. Concrete jungle, a stunning architectural feat, marking human evolution in perfectly engineered geometries.

Normally you wouldn’t pay as much attention to your surroundings as this eve, but the sudden solitude made you ponder. Oh, how small you were. A worker ant, crawling to and from nests of varying sizes. So small, in fact, that it was impossible to even begin to comprehend how little influence you had over most things. Take even another person’s thoughts, for instance. At the end of the day, it was not you who made them believe one thing or other, but it was the way in which their neurons fire and how a grand variety of influences came together to turn into a singular notion.

A light flickered and turned off a few rows away from you – the team that normally sat there collectively took their holiday around the same time, leaving the seats pitifully vacant. Inadvertently you glanced at the fluorescent cylinders hanging above your head, wondering if you were frozen for long enough, would you be enveloped in the darkness?

With a sigh you ambled back to your desk, attempting to supress the pang of loneliness in your chest. If only you were on a higher floor, then you would not have to entertain yourself by people-watching out of the corner of your eye. Instead, all your attention would be consumed by the myriad of emails that you have yet to wade through, and the programming tasks that you have lined up for yourself to compensate for your lack of ‘spirit’.

It wasn’t that you were a manifestation of Scrooge or the Grinch, it was just that you, simply, could not be bothered. Some time ago you would have probably made an effort to gather some friends, or plan a romantic evening with a significant other, but with the former all being preoccupied with their own new family lives or winter getaways, and the latter being nowhere on the horizon, you perceived yourself as the odd one out, and as such, exempt. There was no need to be festive to the point of aggression, methodically “decking the halls” and planning dinner with more rigour than a military commander.

If Christmas was not that big a deal to you, then why were you escaping all its mentions and expressions in the office? As a matter of fact, even here you could not fully rid yourself of reminders. Among the desks and meeting rooms you could find remnants of small parties and attempts to ‘brighten up the place’ – a forgotten packet of sugar cookies, a mini tree from the supermarket… a Santa hat? This level of décor was more than enough to confirm that you just wanted the next few days to pass silently, and your present camping out at your desk was you feeding into the illusion that you could be more productive than your colleagues. You sincerely wished you could experience the rush and excitement, but at it did was made you put your phone on “do not disturb” and ghost your friends and family. Perhaps tomorrow you could face their grinning faces and social media spam, but tonight… no… tonight it was just going to be you, your virtual desktop and the snack vending machine.

Right, time to wallow in self-pity and spend Christmas Eve coding.

Soon enough, you found the right playlist, cleared your mind of aimless musings and let your fingers dance across the keyboard to the rhythm of a jazz rendition of Last Christmas. The tune was soft and light, barely audible as, even though you let yourself assume you were the only one left on your floor, you were too anxious to be sure no one would walk by. There you went again, with your myriad of social concerns. No, focus, focus.

You managed to sit through a good number of jolly tunes until it got a bit too much and you switched to good ol’ Chet Baker. As soon as the first notes of Almost Blue began to resonate from your phone, you could not help but take a deep breath and lean back in your chair, eyes shut in delight. What could be better than this? Probably nothing… or all of this and some tea. That would be lovely. Your hands still behind your head you peeled one eye open to glance at the paper cup on your desk – the cup you had bought at the canteen had long gone stale, and they were probably shut by now. If only-

“Do you want some tea? I could recommend a certain blend if you would allow me.” A familiar voice rings out right next to you, making you yelp.

❆❆❆❆❆

A little while earlier...

“If you dare leave the office before she does and do not even attempt to make conversation, I swear, Seonghwa, I will beat your ass.” Although the threat was said in jest, judging by the mischievous glint in Wooyoung’s eyes, he probably had already imagined new ways to sadistically tease his friend about this ‘office crush’.

Seonghwa was watching his colleagues gather their belongings, eavesdropping on discussions of plans and organised outings, and could not help the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that reminded him – he was cornered and could not flee. Any other evening and he could have made some kind of excuse but no… not tonight. Not on Christmas Eve. And it was all because he carelessly exposed himself through his changing habits, assuming his best friend Hongjoong would not read him like a book.

Whether it was going all the way around the floor just to walk past where you sat, or during any of the larger meetings to wait for you by the elevators, or to somehow learn your beverages of choice and your break times so that you could ‘accidentally’ meet in the floor’s kitchenette. According to his friends, Seonghwa was hopeless. That was also probably why he hauled a ‘Christmas Tea Blend’ to the office to give to you as a gift, only to discourage himself upon hearing that you were ‘not really celebrating this year’. The last thing he wanted was to unintentionally upset you. So the tinned tea leaves that he buried in his briefcase was now burning into the back of his brain, somewhere beside the adorable outfit you wore to the office festive jumper party.

Once Hongjoong noticed that Seonghwa was very much unlike his usual self – more shy, overly polite and cautious, the devious lightbulb began to repeatedly flash above his head – soon enough, his entire group of comrades in chaos was aware of the infatuation and promised to not let it go until he actually made an attempt to get closer to you.

“Hey, did you hear me?” Wooyoung’s voice summoned Seonghwa back from his mental wanderings, causing him to flinch. He spun in his friend’s direction, to see that he was already fully dressed and was finishing wrapping a monstrous scarf around his neck.

“Sure, yes, totally. And I can see you are literally disappearing under that thing.” Seonghwa motioned with his hand, earning himself a bashful grin.

“‘Cause baby it’s cold outside~”

“Did you just…”

“Oh yes, I did just. Anyways, I am off, San just texted that he’s waiting outside. And I know for a fact that you did not hear me, so Yunho, care to repeat? Bye guys, merry Christmas!”

And just like that, there was one less menace to worry about. Sliding back to his desk, he caught the sight of Yunho, who sat right across, slowly rising and logging off. Upon meeting gazes, the younger flashed him an apologetic grin, mentioning something or other about plans. His departure was considerably less dramatic; instead, every step appeared efficient, elegant, and well-calculated. No wonder he got to present in front of senior management. With a wave goodbye and a cryptic “Hongjoong will probably say the same thing that Wooyoung said, but better, so I’ll leave it to him. Merry Christmas!”, Yunho made his way to the elevators, with Seonghwa’s progressively more distressed gaze following him.

He fixated on the clock at the bottom right of his screen, imagining it ticking away on the many faces he would check during his commute home. Him and Hongjoong could be at their local convenience store right now, picking out their favourite items, the location of which they know by heart. Then they could waddle back home, and while still swaddled in puffer coats, get the cup ramyeon going. But no, not this time. This time, Hongjoong decided to remind his friend that he was, in fact, a man in a relationship and had to spend time together with his girlfriend at least sometimes. And even though Seonghwa had attempted to appeal by reminding Hongjoong of brotherhood and ‘all they had been through together’, the latter brushed him off by explaining that this Eve was a perfect chance.

“-… right yes, thank you so much! Definitely. Let’s discuss next… Thursday then? At 11AM your time? Perfect, I’ll book that in. Yep, right, happy Christmas!” a victorious fist raised to the ceiling, with the other hand rapidly returning a nearly-dead headset to its stand, Hongjoong was elated to finally be done with his calls for the day. Although it did look great to have ‘English’ on his CV, the exponential rise in the number of meetings that he had to lead because of that was astonishing. He proceeded to stretch and yawn, reminding Seonghwa of a cat he saw online.

“These people can’t catch a break, huh?” casual small talk that both knew they did not really need, but did it anyways. Hongjoong nodded in agreement, rolling his eyes at the fact that he still had a calendar invite to send. While lazily clicking away, skimming over scheduling suggestions, he commented as-a-matter-of-factly, much like he would if he was talking about the tasks in his sprint:

“I heard that Y/N is staying late at the office tonight.”

“I know.” Seonghwa mumbled, running a hand through his dark locks. Out of habit, he reached out to poke his mouse when he noticed his monitor’s screen going dark. Even though it was highly doubtful that anyone would check attendance at all, especially over the next week, Seonghwa was devoted to making his activity status as impressive as possible.

“And you know that I will not let you back in the house unless you have an update, right?” his friend was beginning to sound more and more like a mentor, much to his dismay. Though to be fair, he made it work.

“Yes sir.”

“Atta boy.”

“Of course, that is if you are not going to be rocking around a different tree…” Seonghwa tried, chuckling at the speed at which his friend’s eyebrows flew up and a curse fluttered out in defence.

“The filth of this man. And to think that this is the same guy who can barely make eye contact with a certain someone.” Hongjoong retorted, rising off his chair, and slamming the keyboard with a newfound force. Once satisfied with the darkening of his screens, he spun on his heels and made a beeline for the collection of outerwear he left lying around by some cupboards off to the side.

Finally, the disorganised pile that was driving Seonghwa up the wall the entire day would be out of sight. Along with any hope of supressing his feelings with misguided extroversion. As much as he appreciated the gentle nudges from Hongjoong and Yunho, and the not so gentle ones from Wooyoung (to the point where many a time he would purposefully orchestrate some awkward one on ones because, apparently, that was the only route to romance development), they did little to ease his pacing heartbeat.

Seonghwa decided to accompany his friend part of the way, though his offer to share the elevator ride was coolly rejected with a knowing shake of the head. He bet that if he were to be asked to pitch a business idea to a group of executives in that exact moment, he would be less nervous. At least there he would be basing everything off what he had learned, implemented, and could improvise about. You? Well, you were a completely different story. He could only wish that he could read as much as a page from your book. Beyond the office chapter, that is.

You joined the company a year after he did. Ambitious and hardworking, you were very easy to notice. Whether it was a major contribution to a top-priority project, or a breakthrough in one that was previously at a standstill, your name came to circulate among many professional circles, and even though you were not direct collaborators, Seonghwa grew to be familiar with your style of work. Out of your cohort you were the one to arrive the earliest and leave the latest, regardless of the season. He was not sure whether it was purposeful or preferential, but you hesitated or simply avoided the louder social events, choosing to either spend that time at the office or to make a quiet exit. At the same time, he never saw even the tiniest sliver of toxic competition that was a regular occurrence among new recruits, especially in the early months. You were simply existing in your own lane. Working because you loved it. Doing what you did because you wanted to. You were very easy to develop a crush on.

By a sheer stroke of luck Yunho had been assigned to be your official ‘seonbae’, to be your point of contact about life in the company, any networking and general, more informal-style support. Soon enough, Yunho had introduced you to his team, which, after continuous warm greetings and amiable exchanges of pleasantries and classic office banter, turned to the occasional collective lunch outing and twice to after work drinks. So, even though his friends poked fun and teased him for being distant and passive, Seonghwa did share a foundation with you. You knew him, and he sure as hell knew you. He even had you added on LinkedIn (a step which he patted himself on the back for – still within bounds and very professional, but still gave him another connection to you).

But there was no guarantee that he could ever go beyond that. Beyond being colleagues of a similar age, trying to make it big in the industry. If only he could run predictive analytics on the mess that was in his brain because of you to figure out the best steps forward. Maybe his job had spoiled him too much, and he got too used to taking calculated risks, rather than merely shutting his eyes, and taking a leap of faith.

Alas, here he was. Acting every bit an agitated teenager trying to drop a letter in their crush’s locker and hope that by doing so, they will get their happily ever after. Seonghwa had finally come to terms with himself and the limits which beating around the bush had. And it most definitely did not take him an unreasonably long amount of time, including procrastinating by completing mandatory trainings, reviewing his to-do lists, and reorganising his desk for the umpteenth time.

There was that tin again, staring him down. Ornate packaging, with miniature etchings of the spices included in the tea. Though it was nothing particularly special aside from being reflective of the season, Seonghwa was drawn to it, nonetheless. To put it simply, he wanted to brighten up your day, even if just for a fraction of a second. Even if the tin were to just be left behind in the shared pantry. He took out the gift bag which he packed away in a secure compartment of the case to prevent it from bending. In a couple of moves, the gift was ready.

Alright, Seonghwa. Here goes nothing. You have been sitting here long enough. What if she already left? What if you are wasting your evening at this point for… nothing?

Once he had conquered half of the way to your side of the floor, however, all doubts of you possibly having left flew from his mind, instead being replaced by a sudden swelling. Although he had to strain to hear it, your humming along to some tune was, needless to say, adorable. The way in which you had adjusted your desk and chair to allow for your feet to dangle to the upbeat tempo added to the wholly different Y/N. At the same time, you were focused. Entirely enveloped in the realm of your digital escapades, writing line after line on an editor on one screen and checking data on another. It was at this moment Seonghwa proclaimed himself to be a bit of a goner. He took a couple of steps closer to you.

His breath hitched in his throat when he noticed you break your focus and change the song that was playing to one he had also listened to far too many times to count. Almost Blue. Chet Baker. While you relaxed into the song, eyes fluttering closed, he took it as an opportunity to finally come close enough to announce his presence.

Now or never.

In the split second that he had before you would undoubtedly turn and see his form hovering barely two meters away from you, he took note of the old paper cup on your desk. It was a wild guess that it was tea, but he was already far out of his comfort zone to stop.

“Do you want some tea? I could recommend a certain blend if you would allow me.”

❆❆❆❆❆

Back to the shared present times…

“Oh my word who in the- Seonghwa! Whew, it’s you… I’ll be honest I got a bit spooked there.” You exclaimed, keeping a hand pressed right below your neck in a futile attempt to settle the sudden spike in adrenaline that shot through your body. Though it did little, seeing as it was Seonghwa you were facing.

You were not quite sure how to call him, considering that you wanted to desperately avoid the title of ‘friends’ when it came to him. So, when you had just met, you had chosen “Park”, but your kindling closeness changed that in a matter of weeks. Now, it was Seonghwa. The kindhearted co-worker, Seonghwa. The one to drop by with snacks when you were bombarded with calls, Seonghwa. The one to open and hold doors and perfectly match pace, Seonghwa. The terrifically handsome in a fitted suit and tie, Seonghwa. But most certainly not someone who you expected to see in the office on an evening when most of your co-workers of similar age were going out or at least pretending to.

“So sorry, that was foolish of me. I should have… probably pinged you or something.” Head lowered, he fired out an apology, worried that he was acting out of line.

When he did not hear anything in response except a push of the spinning desk chair, followed by a pair of stylish dress shoes entering his field of vision, Seonghwa finally returned your gaze, which was exceptionally cheery. It made him think of the sight that he had the chance to admire only a few minutes ago – of just you in your own world.

“Well… there is only one way to make things right. You mentioned tea?” you questioned, hands folded, a smile threatening to ruin the mock disappointment that you were attempting to sustain.

“Tea… yes! That’s right. Recall how we had spent quite a few of our breaks admonishing the disgrace that is our floor’s coffee machine?”

“Yes, Seonghwa, and I recall you nearly going into cardiac arrest when your manager turned the corner during one of our roast-roasting sessions,” you elaborated, the memory making you let out a soft laugh. With new-found colour on his face and boyish confidence, he continued.

“True. To this day I look twice. Anyhow, in the spirit of the festive season, and generally in the shared appreciation for nice-tasting drinks, I hope that you will enjoy this blend. Merry Christmas, Y/N.” he outstretched his right hand, which had been clenching the strings of the gift bag a bit too strongly to seem nonchalant.

Your lips formed an ‘o’ as you rose from your seat to approach Seonghwa. Taking the bag from him, your fingers lightly brushing against his, you were beyond excited. The gift itself was nothing too special – though the store from which it was, was impressive enough. But the idea that Seonghwa had prepared a gift for you and had obviously had it on his person the entire day was turning your mind fuzzy. You could feel your cheeks getting hotter by the second and you were now the one to find the carpeted floors interesting.

“Thank you so much, Seonghwa. And merry Christmas to you too. I am so sorry, I don’t have your gift on me right now…” you began, words stumbling over each other.

Seonghwa was caught off-guard. His gift? You prepared a gift? For him? He could not help but let out a quick ‘huh’ under his breath, causing your eyes to shoot right back up and peer straight into his. Enveloped in a momentary silence, you were frozen. Hesitant to act, out of fear that the fragile unknown between you would be broken, neither you nor he could bring to fill the pause. Eventually you managed, repeating yourself:

“I am so sorry… I really do like your gift. A lot. I’ll let you in on a little secret, but I was eyeing it for a while, but never bought it. So, you hit the mark. For real. I promise I’ll bring you something cool. Well at least I hope so-” trailing off again, your delivery was unusually garbled. It was hilarious to think what would happen had you been the same way during stand-up calls.

“Seriously, do not worry about it. I am just happy as is.” Seonghwa responded, face lit up by a toothy grin. He was trying his best to not pay much attention to how close you were standing.

“Then how about we try this tea out?” you blurted and side-stepped to make your way around your colleague and crush.

He followed you closely as you ambled between the rows of desks, taking note of how different his place of work felt in the afterhours. Even though it was not completely silent due to ambient electric buzzes and the music spilling from your pocketed phone, the floor had gained a certain sleepiness to it. Much like the heaviness of the looming low clouds outside. Surprisingly, right here and now, he felt safe.

The open plan kitchenette was a simple number, complete with the bare minimum of a sink and dishwasher, cupboards, a microwave, a vending machine and a coffee machine. Approaching the last of the list (and the most popular), you pried open the paper cup storage, taking out two and shutting the compartment once more with the back of your busy hand. In the meantime, Seonghwa was searching the shelves for something that could potentially serve as a strainer, since he was silly enough to buy loose leaf tea without considering the actual drinking process. Just as you were about to ask him about what exactly he was doing, the young man produced a box of coffee filters from a long-forgotten drawer, wiggling it in front of himself in a miniature celebration.

“Okay that is actually genius, Seonghwa. I was about to ask,” you commended, reaching out your hand and squeezing his forearm without giving it a second thought. Initially you wanted to slap yourself for potentially overstepping some boundary. However, once you turned to the counter beside the sink and set down the gift bag and cups in preparation for a tea ceremony on a budget, you felt Seonghwa cautiously rest his palm on the small of your back.

“Let’s assemble our innovation for tea-making then?” he joked, positioning the box beside the rest of the items, and pushing his hands into the pockets of his trousers. His touch still lingered on you, mind replaying the moment an unnecessary number of times like you have seen variety shows do.

Your improvised tea production tactics worked surprisingly well. Aside from a couple of stray leaves and one spill (which Seonghwa had promptly cleaned up, unable to look at it for longer than five seconds) you now had yourselves two large cups of spiced tea, well brewed and ready to enjoy. Upon entirely clearing up the aftermath, you and your companion decided to change location. Only a couple of steps and you were seated at a round wooden table, positioned right in front of the floor to ceiling windows. Without mentioning it at all, you moved the chairs slightly closer to one another, so both of you could admire the view and the inexplicable comfort that being alone together, in the most unlikely place, brought.

If you could stop time and live in that moment forever, you would agree to it without a second thought. Chet Baker was continuing his extended concert, only now in a legendary collaboration with legends: Bill Evans, to name one. What a pleasant coincidence it was that ‘Alone Together’ was playing. The slow tempo, alluring, like the perfectly warm beverage you were cradling in your hands. The exhaustion of the day that passed was melting, tenseness of your muscles easing with every crumble of time that fell away. You were grateful for this. And yet, an inkling of doubt still managed to settle, and you couldn’t help but ask your partner in daydreaming if the music was to his taste.

Which led to you discovering he was an avid fan of the cool jazz genre and kept up with you when you started listing of one musician or singer after another. What you were not aware of, however, was the reason behind his understanding and pleasure to enthuse about improvisation with you. About five or so months ago he, you and Hongjoong were caught up in a lively debate about sampling in music, and at some point in the conversation, jazz floated to the surface, and left a deep impression on Seonghwa. He saw it as an opportunity to get to know you, your tastes and how you heard the world. So, he went through every playlist he could find, even attempted to curate his own. Behind the scenes, he was trying to fall in love with what you loved. Evidently, it paid off, as he could now share beauty with the most beautiful person sitting behind him, knowing that he was the one who had made you smile.

Your peaceful chat came to another halt. Caught up in your own musings you peered into your cup of still-hot tea, which you had not failed to compliment a number of times already. When was the last time you had experienced such childish delight because of a simple treat? Better yet, when was the last time you had experienced a lack of rigidity and social obligation around the festive season? True, you had prepared presents for your work friends, hence why you had not felt too terrible about accepting the gift from Seonghwa, but it did not feel like a gesture of political correctness. It felt like a genuine expression of joy and of the ‘Christmas spirit’ that many raved about. You had forgotten that it was a real thing, rather than a capitalist gimmick made to sell more items at higher prices during the seasonal rush.

The festivities were not so scary to you in this moment. You could not find your previous self anywhere, the one who was so sure that any bit of Christmas sentiment was sentiment wasted. Your eyes darted to your right, to see a pair of dark orbs resting right on you. A shared chortle. Back to your individual giddiness. You would not trade this Eve for any other.

“Oh, would you look at that…” you heard the man beside you comment while pointing at the windows with his cup. Guided by Seonghwa’s direction, you noticed the prima-donnas of the winter, the first snowflakes waltzing down, illuminated by glimmers of fluorescence emanating from the gargantuan steel pillars. “…it’s snowing.”

The phrase rang out, not dissimilar to the final notes of a piece’s movement. The culmination of one story, only for another to begin.

“How will I get home?” you wondered, asking the question to no one in particular, fully captivated by the scene. As if on cue, a flurry of white rushed past the building, suggesting the snowfall would only get heavier.

“I’ll go with you.” Seonghwa replied, while setting down his now finished tea.

“But I take the…”

“I know. I remember. Down to the station,” he snorted at your confused shock, before adding “we take the same line.”

“Ah, I see. Thank you, Seonghwa.”

“My pleasure,” his voice, mellifluous and soothing, beckoning you, to join him right by the windows where he had moved. Setting your own cup aside, you rose, adjusted your trousers and went to stand close to your taller partner.

Music had long faded into the background, with you attuning yourself to any sound coming from Seonghwa’s motions. Be it a breath, a shoe or his suit jacket rubbing against his shirt as he rocked once, twice. Anything to aid you in memorising the features of his man. Unbeknown to him, you had already learned the rhythm of his gait – something of a habit that you had if you were particularly close to or interested in a person. So, when he had approached you this evening, your subconscious was already leaping and celebrating.

In the quietude that snow brought to the metropolis you both resided in, you wanted to take time and share it. Just like now. In a wordless trance you felt as though you had deeper comprehension of his enigmatic nature than ever before, and even so, you only wanted more. You wanted to protect this fragile atmosphere you two had built on this very floor, your office, your second home, and carry it with you. Your heart swelled as you felt a gentle caress over the fingers of your resting hand. Not daring to look down out of fear that you were imagining the sensation, you stared out into the darkness beyond the neighbouring buildings. Moments passed, and a warm palm was pressed against your own, fingers intertwined.

How could two hands of two separate beings fit so ideally? Brought together by serendipity, or was this what Christmas miracles were for? The night you dreaded, turned into a precious memory to last a lifetime. You were sure. This was the beginning of something only fate knew.

❆❆❆❆❆

BONUS ENDING: And just like that, hand in hand, was how you left the building, longing to make up for the months you could only exchange glances and work-related stories. You ambled to the entrance of the metro, struggling against the gusts of wind that were threatening to steal your hats and your warmth. But on this Eve, it was hard to imagine anything stealing away the pure adoration in your and Seonghwa’s souls. This was the joy you swore to cultivate, protect and cherish.

“See? I told you they would figure it out. C’mon, man, have a bit more hope. It’s Christmas after all.” A bleary-eyed Yunho poked his companion in the shoulder, causing him to roll his eyes.

Yunho, being the ultimate sucker for potential romances and betting against his friends, did not need persuading to hide out at the nearby bar in hopes of seeing whether Seonghwa would make successful moves or not. He dragged poor Mingi, who was working in a different department but aware of all the office drama thanks to Yunho, along with him. Evidently, the instigator of the impromptu gathering was Wooyoung, who, after losing and having to pay for a round of drinks, was especially sulky.

“Yeah, yeah. I know. But this is only after we drilled through his skull and did his head in. Isn’t that right?”

“Exactly, so don’t question your own teachings, master Jeong.” Yunho retorted, a cheeky grin plastered on his face.

“Don’t worry about it, Woo. Look, I managed to take a pic-”

“San, you make me prouder day by day. Send it to me, Hongjoong’s got to see this.”

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haruhey · 1 year

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It’s Not Enough Anymore

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Word count: 3.3k

Angst | Follows the events of Season 7, episode 1: A Day Will Come When You Won’t Be | Thank you to @belatalbotgf and @dxrylswalker for betaing

Everything that could go wrong goes wrong.

A full-throttle dive into the Negan plotline after avoiding it forever.

It wasn’t supposed to end up like this.

When you went out, the only goal in mind to get Maggie to a doctor because she looked so sick and so fucking pale, it wasn’t supposed to end up like this.

Abraham wasn't-

Gravel digs into the knees of your sweatpants, the blaring lights blinding you into deafness, and the throbbing in your head is accompanied by a scorching numbness down your cheeks. You look a mess. You feel it, too - a mess of tears, of sweat, of shaking limbs and bloodshot eyes - but everyone does. Knelt here, in front of these people, everyone you care about and have cared about is a mess.

The only ones who don’t are too familiar with the warfare hung at the tip of this asshole’s bat.

You can barely hear Sasha whimpering to your left as you watch each swing - your own sobs threatening to bubble up from your throat and rip past the quiver of your lips. The rush and deflate of adrenaline making your head feel like cotton - and even though you want to, you can’t look away. Abraham’s head is pulp battered into the ground, some of his blood running almost black against the shine of headlights as streams of it map down whatever is left of his neck, and you hate the gait of the man in front of you.

Negan twirls his bat then, too carefree and too jovial, and in a second, something hits you. It’s warm, the streak of it marking across your forehead and gathering where your eyebrows furrow, and it takes a second before you realize what it is.

It’s Abraham.

It’s his fucking blood.

You can’t even will yourself to move and wipe it off. The second Negan opens his mouth, you freeze, each neuron in your body refusing to fire as your chest tightens up again. Hands balled up against the middle of your thighs, you think you can feel your fingernails through the layer of fabric you’re clenching, Your head drops, the shock holding your eyes open finally slinking away, and fat teardrops wet your knuckles, blurring your vision.

Maybe it’s for the best, the fact you can’t see through the haze of your own torment.

But you can hear him. You can hear him move. He walks away from you, the crunch of gravel sounding with each step, and you whip your head in his direction when it stops.

No.

Rosita.

It’s frantic, the way you wipe away your tears, liquid coating the flesh of your thumb, and when they come into your view, they’re red, a sick mixture with Abraham’s blood painting wet on them. Bile rises from your stomach to replace your swallowed-down scream, and the mortified look on Rosita’s face haunts you from across the lineup.

He just took one or six or seven for the team, Negan taunts, so take a damn look.

His voice sounds like scratching, like rope burn against an open cut and the twist of a dull knife.

So take a damn look.

Then it all happens so fast; the spring of a bulky figure rising to his feet, the hard right hook he lands on Negan, and the only person you could think of with enough courage and stupidity to be that fucking headstrong is-

“Daryl-“

Your throat is dry, the length of it feeling cracked from breathing in the miserable midnight air, and his name barely even comes out above a whisper. Your body surprises you with the way it moves - an inch, maybe, your knees driving your upper body forward - but you know you can’t get to him.

Even if you could, what would you do?

It’s not the forest he knows like the back of his hand. It’s not some abandoned warehouse or apartment building you and Daryl were assigned to scavenge. It’s not digging out a bullet he took a little too close to the femoral artery. You know this. After all that’s happened, how could you not?

The two of you against the world, it just isn’t enough.

Not anymore.

But it doesn’t stop you from moving, your shoulders sitting past your knees as the skin on your palms rip from the jagged rocks on the ground. It’s stupidity that fuels you. It must be. Daryl’s misplaced courage and his overwhelming stupidity must have rubbed off on you, but you’re not as headstrong as him.

In the same way it had propelled you forward, your body stops you, freezing you rigid as Negan’s men tackle him to the ground. You hear him then, another twist of the blade as he yells his disapproval towards Daryl, but then you hear him chuckle - watch him amble in a circle and crouch down to where his people are holding Daryl down - and you’re terrified.

This is the end.

A man comes running out of the crowd then, half his face burnt and a mop of thin blond hair, and it doesn’t take long for you to realize the crossbow he’s holding is Daryl’s. You know that crossbow - you’ve held it and laughed when Daryl watched you miss the practice targets, felt the sore weight of it in your arms as you became accustomed to its draw, took it apart and cleaned it when he broke his finger tinkering with his bike - and you’ve saved his life with it more than once since the prison.

But it’s just a crossbow, no matter how much it means in your hands or Daryl’s, and the man holds it as such, pointing it at Daryl’s head as if he was an animal meant to be put down.

He looks it, swollen eyes darting around and held to the ground, a hand pulling his hair like he’s meant to be inspected.

Your blood runs cold as you watch, helpless and shrinking while Negan toys around with Daryl’s fate in his head, and the only thing you can do is hope and pray to a god you’re not sure even exists that Daryl will come out of this alive.

But then Negan says no, and it takes you aback, a relief washing over you as he gets dragged back between Rosita and Michonne, but it doesn’t last long. The second Negan starts up again - a hand on his hlp and a gesture of his bat - there’s no relief to be found anywhere.

The first one’s free, then what did I say?

It torments, his tongue, dancing along weighted syllables.

I need you to know me

You feel it crush your lungs, and it steals your ability to breathe, the implications of his words dawning on you.

He’s going to kill someone else.

He’s going to kill someone else and he’s going to make you watch.

Again.

In a split second, he turns, his back to you as he lifts his bat, and though it happens so quick, time stands still.

You hear Glenn’s skull crack on the first swing, and you physically recoil. The second one makes you sob, and you’re sure it’s not him, but the force of Negan’s swings makes it feel like the ground is shaking. You wish it was. You wish the earth would tear apart and swallow you into it whole. You wish anything would just happen so you wouldn’t have to just sit and watch and listen.

Negan taunts. All he fucking does is taunt and taunt and taunt. He laughs and patronizes and leans in close as if fascinated by the blood rushing down Glenn’s face and the eyeball popped out of his socket. He plasters on fake concern, a fake apology lining his lips as if he felt any semblance of actual remorse for his actions while Glenn gathers the last bit of coherence he can to talk to Maggie, but he can’t fool anyone.

Each time he brings his bat down, it’s an ever-present ringing in your ear. Again, again and again - laughing, laughing and laughing.

You can’t be here.

It feels like a nightmare, but each time you breathe, you can feel a breeze on your wrist, the arms propping you up falling and surrendering your weight to your forearms instead. No matter how much you try to convince yourself this isn’t real, each broken puff of air reminds you it is.

So you close your eyes.

You rest your forehead on your stubborn wrist and close your eyes and hope that if you just blinked hard enough, you’d wake up. That this, this would stop.

It doesn’t. It doesn’t stop because it’s not how reality works.

But he does. Eventually, when his arms tire and there’s nothing left that you can recognize as Glenn, Negan stops, his voice straightening you back into a sit.

You were supposed to watch, and you’re terrified of what would happen if he had caught you.

Even after he stops, reprieve doesn’t come. The smell of metal lingers in the air, stinging your nose and making your skin crawl, and the only thing you can hear are the sobs ripping through Maggie’s throat. It’s muffled at first, the water you’d felt like you were under ebbing away, your brain returning to you as if it had shut off to keep you from even conceptualizing what you’d just seen, but its efforts can’t stop you from replaying every single goddamn thing.

Time drags on forever, drawing the sun up from under the horizon and painting a haze of fog over the trees, and exhaustion pulls at you. You’re in a limbo, teetering on the edge of fatigue and anxiety-induced restlessness. Your arms have long since forced themselves into a rest - somewhere between Rick getting into that RV and the overwhelming waves of nausea - but you’d long since given up on trying to control your body.

It’s your head that you need to control.

Because you keep seeing Negan’s first swing - keep seeing Abraham brace for it - and you can feel his blood on your forehead.

Then it’s Glenn, the crack of his skull and the twitch of his lifeless body.

Then it’s everyone.

You watch it happen to Rick, to Michonne. You watch it happen to Eugene, to Sasha, to Aaron and to Carl. It’s so vivid behind your eyelids that you’re not even sure what’s real anymore. You want to scream into the gravel just to feel the raw tear of it at your throat, but you can’t find the power to do it. You’re not even sure you can lift your neck from the way it falls limp toward your chest.

Steadying your breath, you clench your fingers to force blood to return to them as you hear the engine run closer, and you pull your arms up from underneath you, lifting your head. Your breath is trapped in your lungs as you watch the RV roll in, your gaze passing brain matter and guts before it’s stuck on the front door. Rick’s been gone for hours by now, and you’re not sure if he’s even still in there.

The door swings open then, slamming against the side of the truck before Rick’s thrown out of it. You swallow hard at the way he hits the ground, shoulder first and dazed in a way that you can’t find any words to describe. Negan comes soon after, a nonchalance in his swagger before he picks Rick up by the collar, and the way he drags him across the gravel punches up into your chest.

Rick’s struggling to keep up - to find his bearings - but he never does, palms breaking against the ground for some semblance of balance and a panicked look on his face. He lands that way too, on shaking knees while Negan spews another monologue, the same twist, twist, twist of that dull knife returning to you.

You’re not sure you’ve ever seen Rick like this - this defeated.

There was always a drive in him to accomplish. He needed it to continue. It drove everything he’s ever done to show Carl that there was a whole future out there that was possible, but that drive in him is slowing, almost speeding to a stop.

He’s weak on his arms as his eyes dart around him, all of you listening as Negan just keeps talking and talking and talking. You hate the sound of his voice, but you find yourself wishing that it was all he would do. If he just talked then he wouldn’t be able to really do anything.

It’s all hope, though. All useless hope because it doesn’t take long for him to gesture with a gloved hand and for a cacophony of subservient triggers to sound behind you. You can feel cold metal lingering just an inch from the back of your head, and you bite your lip until it bleeds when Negan calls Carl up.

Michonne tries. Even through her tracks of tears and her quivering voice, she tries to reason with Negan, but nothing gets through to him. Rick knows already. Rick understands - probably better than anyone, you want to scream it out to him - but you know it won’t do anything. So you keep your mouth shut and fight the pool at the corner of your eyes as you avert your gaze for your own safety, the hopelessness in you churning and churning into something more explosive.

Nothing messy, clean, 45 degrees. Give us something to fold over.

God, does he ever just fucking shut up?

Rick’s begging easily cuts through your thoughts, crying and pleading for it to be him - for it to be him and please not Carl - but Negan berates him, screaming and yelling so loud it sends you into yourself, flinching away and trying to get as far from them as possible. Your head knocks against the gun behind you and there’s a forceful push to your head to get it back to where it was, and the air around you sears your lungs as he counts down.

It’s some sick game for him, you know it is, and all you want is for it to be over.

Metal slides against rock a few beats after Negan’s one, and though you’re not even looking in Rick and Carl’s direction, you squeeze your eyes shut, waiting for the squelch of sliding flesh and the sharp thunk of it meeting bone.

It never comes, though.

Thank God it never comes, but when you look back, there’s nothing in Rick’s eyes. As Negan yells at him and chastises him, there’s nothing but surrender and yielding. The drive is gone, replaced by an all-consuming fear of what’s next, and your stomach is unrelenting in the knots it twists.

All you can do is hope that it’s over - that you’ll be able to carry Abraham and Glenn back to Alexandria and give them a proper burial - but, there’s an odd feeling within you. While Rick’s fire is gone, yours is sparking, kindling alight. You’re exhausted, the fatigue weaving into your joints and the fibers of your muscles, but something swims volatile within it, too.

Maybe it’s anger, maybe it’s determination and fury and resentment mixing together and settling in the night that’s passed. You’re not sure. All you know is that it’s consuming you, burning away at your numbness and your hopelessness.

It powers you enough to finally lift your eyes and drag them over everyone else. They look the same way you do, tracks down their cheeks and shoulders slumped, empty eyes and shaking breaths, and you can’t even bring yourself to look at Maggie. You can hear the way her sobs linger in her throat, and even if you try to force a glance, you’re scared you’ve cried all your tears and something inhumane will come up instead.

Please, just let this be over.

And it almost is. God fucking damn it, it almost is, but nothing good’s happened today.

Why would it change now?

Why would you hold on to that idiotic idea?

Negan calls a name then, a familiar one - the burn stamped to his flesh flushing up the memory of the crossbow pointed at Daryl’s head - and just as his arms loop underneath Daryl’s, the streak of red down his open chest blurs in your vision.

No. No, he can’t-

Despite everything - despite your shaking legs and your burning lungs - you lunge for Daryl as he kicks at the ground in a frantic attempt to secure his footing. Blood still lingers on your palms from the last time your body acted before your brain, and you realize, no, this is the stupidity. This is that dangerous mix of Daryl that you must have picked up, but it’s not just him. It’s also desperation.

Desperation not to lose him. Desperation not to feel alone again.

No, no, no - they took Abraham, they took Glenn - you’re not sure if you could handle-

“Daryl!”

There’s a grab of your shoulder then, pulling back with such force that it knocks you down to your side, a kick to your rib rattling through your torso, and you don’t have the energy to fight the pain searing through you. They’re too strong and you’re too drained, thick soles of hiking shoes and steel-toed boots digging hard against your bones, and the ground’s sharp rocks indent your skin as if to humiliate you further.

“No! Get off’a-”

They hold you down by the hem of your shirt and by the collar of your jacket as Daryl yells, his shoulders jolting against the hands on him with the same desperation yours are. He’s never had someone like you - everything that was good and could still be good, he believed in them because, even though he fought it, your stupid smile twisted his pessimism and tore it into hope - and he can’t be the reason you’re gone too.

It’s barely a scuffle - it takes no time for the two of you to be overpowered, both of you held in clammy, trigger-happy hands - and you watch from the ground as Daryl’s thrown into the car, hunched over and shifting on his feet as if waiting for an opening.

It never comes. His crossbow is pointed almost mockingly at him, and when the doors pull shut, there’s no proof he was ever there except the ground where he was knelt. The pebbles that once lied even now piled up around the clearing his knees had made.

They don’t let you up until Negan’s done talking, something about liking Daryl and how Rick shouldn’t try anything unless he wanted him back in pieces taunting you in the back of your mind. When they finally let you go, they look down at you with nothing but duty in their eyes - an upturn of disgust on their lips - and there’s no remorse to be found anywhere on their faces.

To them, you’ll never be anything more than a nuisance. Nobody here could be, Negan made sure of it. You could barely even be considered a threat in the state you’re in, your cheeks stained with dried tracks and your hair streaking down your forehead from cold sweat. No, to them, you’re a chore.

They look at you and can smell the hopelessness permeating your body and swimming through your veins if they even cared to linger for more than a fleeting glance, but after they load back into the trucks and peel out, leaving you to pick up each piece of yourself and wipe away the haze of tears and bruises and blood with your trembling hands, something new settles within you.

Finally, anger comes, rooting deep in your chest. It burns through your blood and shakes each breath.

They took Abraham - they took Glenn - there’s no way in hell you’ll let them take Daryl, too.

#haruwrites #daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon the walking dead #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon oneshot #daryl dixon imagine #daryl dixon angst #the walking dead fanfiction #the walking dead daryl dixon #daryl dixon x you #the walking dead oneshot #twd

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emerald-chaos · 2 years

Text

Fire Meet Gasoline

Hello girls, gays, and theys. If it hasn't already been abundantly obvious from my thirst posting--I have been riding the Pedro Pascal train pretty hard these days. That being said, I (naturally) binge-watched Narcos and fell head over heels. Javi is a gift to be cherished.

I'm sure this isn't the first fic of this kind, but I just couldn't help myself. I was watching and found myself plagued with feelings that I couldn't keep to myself. I hope you all enjoy xoxo.

Pairing: Javier Peña x sex worker!reader

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: mentions of sex work, alcohol use, cigarette smoking, unprotected P in V sex, rough sex, dirty talk, oral sex (m & f receiving), cream pie, and I think that’s it?, smut (18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI)

By clicking the read more button you agree that you are at least of 18 years of age or older.

The cherry of your cigarette began to dim as it reached the filter. The smoke danced around the room and into the deepest part of your lungs. As the nicotine mixed with the alcohol that was already present in your system—you could feel an all too familiar sensation as your head began to float. It was an incredible feeling and one you chased often–the euphoria of the way your body seemed weightless and uninhibited. The only other time you felt this way was after a really good lay.

And even that was usually only with one person in particular.

Taking one last drag, you stubbed out your cigarette in the ashtray. A sound came from beside you, on the coffee table, and captured your attention as you turned to see your phone light up.

New Text Message

Eyes scanning over the words on the screen, your stomach began to fold in on itself. Quickly, you snatched the device from the table and unlocked it–heart beating rapidly with anticipation as you opened the text message thread to see what was said.

Wait up for me.

The words left you feeling like you could throw up in the best way possible. Then the phone dinged again.

Need you.

Your bottom lip trapped itself between your teeth as you attempted to muster up a good response. It never made sense to you as to why you found yourself getting so worked up any time you received a text message from him. It was purely a business transaction after all.

You know where to find me.

Pressing send, you tossed the phone onto the couch before pushing yourself up and padding into the bathroom. Gazing over yourself in the mirror, you decided that you looked well enough. Usually on nights like this–ones filled with late text messages–there weren't a lot of formalities during your encounter. Things tended to get straight to the point, so it didn’t really matter what you looked like.

You chalked up the tremors in your hands to the mixture of nicotine and alcohol swirling around inside of you–attacking your nervous system and firing off neurons haphazardly. Deep down, however, you knew that couldn’t be further from the truth. It was him that made you feel this way.

It was always him.

While there was pleasure that could come along with work on occasion, you mostly tried to keep the two separate. In all the years you’ve been working in your particular field, there had never been any trouble with separating the two. In fact, you’d grown to become rather good at it. The tactic seemed to make things easier, kept you happier with work, and it created a comfortable distance between yourself and the people you were working with.

Then Javier fuckin’ Peña came along.

The warmth of his brown eyes, the fullness of his lips, the low timbre of his voice when he whispered absolute filth in your ear–the man was better than any drug you’d ever tried. Each time you had him he’d take you higher than the last, leaving an impression on you–inside of you–that would last for days in between.

It wasn’t a written part of your job to provide a sense of comfort and support to those people who hired you–but it was something that just came easy with Javi. Fingers sliding through his chestnut hair while his cheek pressed against your abdomen–his lips spilling secrets of what it was like to work for the DEA. The nightmarish things that he had seen–that he had to do. It was no wonder the man was as fucked up as he was. Although, you knew that feeling all too well.

When it first began, you knew that you weren’t only the girl in Javier’s life. There was just no way. Initially, you were okay with that. It wasn’t like you had a claim to lay on him. He wasn’t yours. But the more time that the two of you had spent together, the more he confided in you–there was a small part of you that wished he was.

Underneath the asshole attitude, the harsh exterior–there was someone incredibly soft. Someone who only wanted to make a fuckin’ difference in the world. Little did he know that there was no such thing–the idea nothing but a glorified daydream. Something a kid wishes for before they realize how fucked up everything is. It was obvious that he had been hardened after years of finding that out the unfortunate way. Even in the absence of this, however, he still managed to allow his warmth to show.

Javier had let it slip during one of your meetings that you were the only person he had been meeting with for a while. Something about trusting you–something about how you “know exactly what he likes”. Somewhere deep down you knew that meant that he felt safe with you–that somehow, someway, he liked being with you. You always wondered if it had been the same way you liked being with him.

You hadn’t realized you drifted away from your body until a harsh knock at the door brought you back to the present.

Cursing under your breath, you yelled out, “yeah, just give me a minute!”

Hurrying around the apartment, you did your best to throw things together quickly before you looked down and realized you were in a raggedy old t-shirt. Shrugging, you figured it wasn’t going to stay on your body long enough for anyone to care anyway. Plus, it wasn’t like Javi ever came over to give you interior decorating tips.

As soon as you unlocked and pulled the door open, a pair of lips were molding themselves to yours. A small noise erupted from your chest at the sudden action, your feet stumbling backwards a few steps until a strong arm wrapped itself around your waist–a large hand splaying on your lower back. The touch felt scorching against your skin.

Javier kicked the door closed behind him as he steadied you. His lips were rough–he tasted like scotch and those cheap menthols he got at the shop down the way. Through your time together, you knew these things to be a sign that he had a very poor day at work.

Pulling away for a breath of air and to shrug the leather jacket off his shoulders, Javi’s chest heaved as he looked down at you. His pupils were blown wide–with anger? lust? It wasn’t really easy to tell in this situation. Most likely it was a mixture of the two.

“Hey,” you spoke–soft and calm. “I’ve got all night. Are you sure there’s nothing you want to talk about?”

Javi scoffed and gave you a deadly stare, toeing his shoes off by your front door.

“I didn’t come all the way here to talk about my goddamn feelings. I came here to fuck you—hard.”

The harshness in his tone made a new wave of arousal gather at your core. There were very rare instances in which Javier talked to you in that tone of voice. In every single one of your rendezvous he was polite and respectful–unless you specifically asked him not to be. It was even more obvious to you now that whatever happened today was particularly rough on him.

And if this was his way of getting those feelings out–of being able to come to terms with whatever awful shit he had to deal with today? You were more than happy to provide.

Gathering the material of your shirt at the hem, you yanked it up and over your head. As you tossed it waywardly to the side, Javi practically growled at your naked form before him. In a few long strides, his lips were back on yours as his hands roamed the plane of your back. Blunted fingernails traced the curve of your spine as his tongue traced the seam of your lips.

The perks of a small apartment meant that it only took a few steps backwards before your calves were hitting the edge of your mattress. Breaking away from the kiss, you settled yourself onto the bed–maintaining eye contact with Javi as you did so. Nimble fingers worked to unbutton and unzip his pants. A wave of heat rolled over your body as you saw a tuft of hair exposed as you dragged the zipper down.

You loved the way he wore his jeans with nothing underneath—just so he could always be ready to bury his cock in your warmth.

Eyes finally fluttering down to the waistband of his jeans, your bottom lip found home between your teeth once again as you watched his cock spring free from the confines of his jeans. Javi let out a satisfying hiss when you ran a manicured fingernail across the large vein on the underside of him. Spitting into your hand, you began to stroke him–slowly yet purposefully as you watched him shine with your saliva.

A deep, guttural groan tumbled from Javi’s lips–causing your thighs to clench together at the sound. You looked up at him and watched the way his shoulders seemed to fall–already beginning to wash away the harshness of the day with your touch alone.

“Look at me, baby.” Your voice dropped several octaves, “Let me make you feel good, hmm?”

Javi’s head lulled for a moment before he picked his it back up and looked down at you. Those gorgeous, pillowy lips parted and slick from your tongue. His eyes held a quiet gratitude to them as his hand cupped your jaw.

As soon as he started to look relaxed, you kept your eyes on him as you took the tip of him into your mouth. Immediately, Javi’s nostrils flared and his jaw clenched as he did his best to keep his composure. The soft, warmth of your mouth was almost too much for him at this moment. That didn’t stop you, however, from swirling your tongue around his swollen, leaking tip as you groaned at the salty taste of him that coated your tastebuds.

“Fuck, cariño.” Javi was already beginning to pant.

Humming around his length, you closed your eyes and took more of him into your mouth. At the base, your hand encircled him–stroking what parts of him you weren’t able to fit completely. You hollowed out your cheeks around him as you lazily sucked him off. There was no sense of urgency–the only purpose you had in this moment was to help Javi forget whatever it was that had been plaguing him.

You only held him in your mouth for a few moments before you felt his hand pull you off.

“I love this perfect mouth…” He trailed off for a moment as his thumb swiped across your lower lip, wiping away the string of saliva that connected you to his cock, “but that isn’t where I want to cum tonight.”

Nodding your head, you shuffled your body backwards onto the bed and settled into your pillows–watching as Javier fully rid himself of his clothing. His hand lazily stroked over his cock as he looked at you–all pliant, perfect, and waiting for him.

All that anger, all that malice that was present on his tongue as he stormed into your apartment tonight–it was mostly gone. The gentle giant looking at you from across your mattress…

That was your Javi.

As the two of you kept your eyes locked on to one another, Javier slowly crawled onto the bed. As he reached your foot, he leaned his head down and began to kiss your ankle–his hand running smoothly up the other leg as he did so.

A soft sigh fell from your lips as your head molded into the pillow behind it. The feeling of Javi’s lips as they traveled up your skin paired with the contrasting roughness of his calloused hands on the other side had your body reeling.

It was a perfect representation of Javier–rough and ragged, yet somehow smooth and soft at the same time.

Javi couldn’t stop himself from running his nose up your slit whenever he reached your sex. The soft gasp that came from you made him grin wildly.

“You’re always so good for me, cariño. Always make me feel so good.”

Your hands slipped into his hair, lightly tugging onto the curls just how you knew he liked. A small groan came from the man between your legs before he buried his tongue deep within your folds, dragging the muscle across every inch of it that he could. Javi muttered a line of spanish into your cunt, but you couldn’t make out exactly what it was that he said. His tongue languidly stroked your sex as he made sure to accentuate each movement with a flick of his tongue on your already swollen clit.

It was impossible to stay still–your body writhing underneath the pleasure that Javi so freely liked to give. Even though he had come to your apartment with the intention for you to help him forget the day–he was the one who couldn’t pry himself out from between your legs.

Gently, but firmly, you tugged on his hair at the roots–causing the brown eyes and long lashes to finally flutter upwards in your direction.

“Next time, Javi. C’mon–want you inside me.” Your voice was honey thick, dripping with desire.

For a moment, it actually looked like he was torn over the decision to keep eating you out or to finally bury himself inside of you. Settling on a groan, he pulls away from your cunt—his face glistening with your wetness. Patting your thigh, you get the hint from him that he wants you on your hands and knees.

As you flipped over, Javi leaned past you to grab a pillow and settle it underneath your hips as you lowered yourself onto the bed. You turned your head to the side and allowed your body to melt into the mattress. A moment later you felt Javi gently grabbing your legs and pressing them together

Your bottom lip caught between your teeth again as you tried to look over your shoulder to see Javi. The angle in which you were positioned made it difficult, but you caught a glimpse of the way his lips parted as he looked at you—sliding the head of his cock through your folds.

The sensation caused a ripple of pleasure throughout your body–from your head all the way down to your fucking toes. Your eyes felt heavy and fell shut as your fingers dug themselves into the sheets underneath you. Javi quickly fluffed the pillow a bit more underneath you so that it angled your hips just a little higher for him before he began to slowly push into your tight, hot cunt.

“Fuckin’ christ.” Javi cursed as his length slipped slowly inside of you—the way your legs were pressed together caused your walls to fit snugly around him.

This had been a favorite position of his in the past—the sensation of your cunt forming to his cock was enough to drive him wild. Like you were molded especially for him.

A low, guttural groan escaped from your lips as your face contorted in sheer ecstasy. The pillow under your hips allowed him to enter at such an angle where he was hitting each and every spot in the most delicious way. Not to mention the way your legs squeezed together helped you feel every ridge, vein, and movement of his cock.

As soon as he was seated fully inside of you—pelvis to pelvis—you felt his weight lower onto your back. Quickly the hair of his mustache tickled your ear as he took your lobe between his teeth. The action caused another whine from you, which Javi took as a signal to start moving.

Javier continued to mouth at your ear and the side of your face as he slowly and meticulously thrust into you. It felt as though he was so deep inside of you that you could feel him in the deepest part of your abdomen.

“Javi,” you whined out his name and that was all you could muster.

He replied with a soft shushing noise in your ear.

“M’right here, cariño—fuck—you’re makin’ me feel so good. So warm and tight around me, wanna stay buried in this sweet cunt forever.”

The whimpers and whines you were spilling forth slowly transitioned to a groan as you listened to his filthy words filling your ears. The noises you were making caused Javi to grunt behind you before he started to move his hips harder.

After a few more thrusts, Javi was repositioning himself behind you—yanking your hips up so that your knees were on the bed as he planted a foot down on one side of you and began to thrust at a faster pace.

Your hands gripped the sheets for dear life—a desperate attempt at staying upright as Javi’s hips bumped into yours harshly. One of his large hands left your hips in order to slide up your back and curve over your shoulder—keeping you in place as he fucked you.

A long, desperate whine tumbled from your lips as you panted. Somehow each thrust felt deeper than the last–the painful, yet pleasurable, kiss of pain against your cervix sending your head into a tailspin.

“Fuck, fuck, Javi—baby—I’m gonna—“

A growl came from the man behind you as he began to thrust into you even harder and faster. Your bodies became more desperate and words more slurred as you hurdled toward your orgasm. As you felt your walls begin to pulsate around him, Javi yanked your body upwards and against his chest as he growled and nibbled at your ear.

The band within your abdomen snapped harshly as you felt your body writhe and shake against his. The intense fluttering at your walls around his cock caused Javi to grunt into your ear before he sank his teeth into your neck. Although you were cumming around him—that didn’t stop Javi from continuing his relentless pace into you.

“Fuckin’ give it to me, cariño. God, this fuckin’ cunt feels so good squeezin me. You want me to cum, hmm? You want me to cum and fill up this sweet little cunt, huh?”

One of your hands flew behind you in order to tangle itself in the man’s curls as your other gripped your breast harshly. All you could do was manage a nod and a choked out, “please!” as you listened to Javi’s filth.

Javi’s face buried itself into your neck, his hot breath grunting against your skin as his hips began to falter and stutter. A high pitched curse came from behind you before you felt his cock twitch inside of you as he released his spend deep inside of you.

The two of you continued to rut against one another for a moment—prolonging the euphoria you were experiencing—before you both collapsed onto the bed beneath you.

Javi’s face remained buried in your neck as he panted. Your limbs and eyes felt heavy as you tried to bring yourself back down to earth. A small shudder washed over your body as you felt his cum drip slowly out of your sensitive hole.

You both stayed that way for what felt like forever before Javier finally pulled himself from the bed. You heard the soft jingle of his pants and the padding of his footsteps as he walked away from the bed. A few minutes later there was a warm cloth wiping away the insides of your thighs, causing a dreamy sigh to slip from your lips.

As you finally opened your eyes, you watched as Javi tossed the towel into the bathroom and crossed over the carpet to grab your cigarettes from the nightstand. Settling one between his lips, he grabbed your lighter and cupped his hands around his mouth—soon the familiar smell of nicotine filling your room.

A soft smile and hum came from you when you realized he was holding the cigarette out to you. Propping yourself up slightly, you grabbed the stick and placed it between your lips—inhaling the sweet essence deep within your lungs. As you exhaled, you held the cigarette back out to him and watched as he took a drag of it next.

Javi lingered by your bed for a moment–watching as his fingertips ghosted over your knee– before he turned and walked to the window, using a light finger to push your curtains out of the way and take in what was happening in the outside world.

“Do you wanna talk about it now?” Your voice was soft, barely above a whisper.

You watched as the muscles of his back tensed for a moment before a heavy sigh smoothed them back out. A cloud of smoke formed above his head as he took a long drag of the cigarette.

It felt like ages before Javi finally spoke.

“I can take out every piece of shit this side of the border and it doesn’t make a bit of fucking difference. There’s always going to be someone else who takes his place.”

You weren’t really sure what to say, but his voice sounded pained—the way someone sounds when they feel as though they’ve wasted their time, that their actions have been fruitless.

“You’ve made plenty of difference, Javier.” You began to speak but the man didn’t budge.

“Sure, there’s always going to be bad people in this world. But because of you there are less. You know just as well as I do that plenty more people would be dead if you hadn’t stopped Escobar.”

There was a silence that settled over your apartment—the only noise coming from the nightlife outside.

Javi finally moved—turning to stride toward your nightstand and stubbing the cigarette out in the ashtray there. Your eyes never left his body as he walked around to the other side of your bed and slid back into his spot from before—his back to you.

A soft smile danced on your lips as you scooted forward and wrapped yourself around his body from behind. A quiet, soft sigh came from the man in front of you before he moved his hand and laced his fingers with yours—giving you a tight squeeze.

“Just a couple hours. I’ll be gone by morning.”

You really hoped he wouldn’t be.

#javier pena #narcos #narcos fic #javier pena x reader #javier pena angst #javier pena smut #javi pena #narcos fanfiction #javier pena oneshot #javier pena fanfiction #javier pena x female reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character #javier pena x you #javier pena x y/n

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pandorasboxoftreasures · 1 year

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A lot of you guys have no idea... Really. You don’t. The accuracy is chilling. (TW Child Abuse/Homicidal Thoughts/Violence/Mental Illness/Depression)

People that think they know me: “You’re so nice and kind and have a strong sense of justice and fairness and wouldn’t hurt a fly. How could you possibly identify with that awful, angry, violent alien monster?”

Me: *Explains the time a year after leaving school I found myself sat opposite on a bus from the kid that two years prior stabbed me in the ear with a pencil and worse, then had the whole class that watched and laughed defending him saying he did nothing when I fought back, even though he permanently scarred my right eardrum and damaged my hearing, then used my reason for having to leave class early that day (my dad had a hospital appointment) and forced me to be kept behind by the teacher and punished for fighting, even though I was literally trembling with shock and pain and barely able to speak through my PTSD episode to ask to have my ear checked but being ignored.*

*Makes this exact face remembering imagining following him off and the permanent damage I was going to do to him if he gave me any additional reason or opening to and looked down at him like that the whole time leaving him squirming in his seat, terrified, unable to make eye contact while also saying to him with the exact same tone and pitch as in that shot and said the following word for word because that moment was burned into my brain with how much I look back on it years later scared with what I'm^ capable of doing to someone and how close I was to doing it*

“Hello, Michael... That’s you, aye? Yeah... That’s you. Like my new look...”

“... or am I too legal?”

____________________________________________

^ Yes, present tense. Because those wounds can only be managed since they don’t fully heal. I find myself getting very close once in a while to that violent 17 year old looking for relief from my grief and pain of what he and others like him did to the bright, friendly, happy, excited child with a promising future that walked into that school building and never came home.

The fact that they could figuratively kill that kid like that, drive the husk left behind to almost literally finish off the job and then walk away and live happy little lives with relationships and children and careers and good reputations and family support and nothing coming back to bite them ever while my world and future had completely crumbled and imploded boils in my veins to this day.

Over three dozen therapy sessions have helped with management. Hobbies provide an outlet. My career path is in the one that ultimately saved me where all others failed. Video games. The places where I could safely trigger catharsis.

But I still need to keep checking myself so I don’t become that scared and wracked with despair thrashing for someone vaguely related to the people that pushed me into the water to pull down and stop myself from drowning empty shell of a former being again.

Seeing it on screen that night I impulsively bought the tickets for seat M10 in Screen 12, hit me like two couch-sized arrows to the chest.

I didn’t think I would ever see it happen and be so accurate with something I didn’t make. I was making it. But it looks like I got beat to the punch.

And how haunting, but also how great it is to see. Someone in the pipeline between the firing of neurons and the firing of pixels empathised enough to make it realistic in the face of the convenience of a simple villain.

It may make him more scary because of how raw he is and people like me knowing what he’s capable of with that knowledge and experience of being there (especially after the end of Way Of Water where he’s in an even lower state), but it’s real.

I’m scared for Ritch as much as I’m scared for what he will do to others.

I wasn’t just being like “Oh, no, Lo’ak/Kiri! Don’t hurt Lo’ak/Kiri!”. I was at the other end of the gun/knife going “Don’t do it, man. It’s not gonna make it better. Crossing that line is a lot harder to come back from. Don’t do that to yourself just to get back at him. You’re a snake coiling yourself around a saw. YOU’RE BETTER THAN THIS!”

It’s the same with Neytiri grabbing Spider, too.

I think I need to drop this video down here before I consider this post done for now. I’ve still got a lot more to say, but that’s probably better saved for later.

But last word on it? Yeah. He better get a redemption arc... AND LIVE!

Because Christ knows there’s not enough characters like that in media for how many people are battling those demons IRL.

The more there are, the more conversations the real people can start.

Trust me, you don’t wanna keep sending the message that the only way to heal, repent and move forward after these kinds of thoughts and actions is to die.

youtube

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mmoxie · 11 months

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Part 9- History Lesson

News was starting to spread about the sudden disappearance of Sean Gracie, the young mayor of Eureka, NV and producer of the popular Mayor Sean YouTube channel, where he cultivated an audience of politically active conservative men between the ages of 18 and 34.

Craig was keeping Dani apprised of these developments on their weekly visits, but the other six days when she retired to her motel room, she was much happier to put on an Ancient Aliens marathon or professional wrestling.

Work was fine, but Fourth-In-Charge Redd Lake was starting to make more advances on Gina Lincoln. He wasn't bad looking or anything, but he was aggressive in a pitiful way, flexing rank and saying things like, "I think you owe me," as he tried to leverage Dani into dinner-dates and venues outside of Fish Camp.

The thought of reducing him to ash had crossed her mind, but she was supposed to be better than that. She had completely let herself come unglued from the world and its consequences when she immolated Mayor Sean- and according to Craig, the only way to duck those consequences was to go to Peru.

After a while, it dawned on her what she actually had to do. She was up late in her room, sitting on the edge of the bed with a pint of moose tracks and watching Star Trek. Profit and Lace, the episode where Quark has himself a couple sex changes.

Man, people hated this one, she thought, twirling her spoon around in the carton, pushing around the few bits of chocolate she saved for last. I dunno, Quark looks kinda good like that. The writing was disastrous, but the costuming was spectacular. Dani wasn't the turn-your-brain-off style of watcher, but she tended to find something to love about the worst of it, like getting excited over seeing a pug, despite it being a complete ruin of a dog.

Drink Slug-o-Cola, the slimiest cola in the galaxy!

Stupid show. Unforgivably boneheaded writing. Total ass.

She loved it.

And that's when it clicked. She found all this affection in her heart for anything that made her laugh, anything that gave her brain- her complete nightmare of a brain, which fired its neurons wherever the hell it wanted, whenever the hell it pleased- another handhold. Actor names, cameos, slogans- wasn't Andy Dick in Voyager? Must've been around the same time he was in Just Shoot Me. No, wait, that was David Spade. God, I should watch Joe Dirt again- her train of thought snaked through mountains of bullshit to get from any Point A to any Point B.

But by god, it had gotten there. She couldn't un-kill Mark LaGrange, and she'd have to reckon with that. Hell, she wanted to reckon that. The thought had occurred to her of attending his funeral, if ever he had one. No telling if they were still searching, but she'd find out.

No, what she had to do was fall in love with this dangerous new ability, and to do that, she had to make herself laugh with it. It couldn't just be "you ignite when you're suicidal" if it was ever going to be anything other than a means of lashing out in deeply sick circumstances.

Still, she was suicidal from time to time. Mayor Sean being in the news didn't help with the urge to disappear. But she had a feeling that if Craig heard this idea, the old cokehead might get a kick out of it.

She slept, eventually, worked, eventually, and returned to the houseboat on Sunday for her weekly check-in with Seebs.

"I'm glad you've been introspecting, Dani. I've got pamphlets for some retreats you're gonna enjoy. But, uh- tell me again, how I'm supposed to help with this?"

Dani leaned back on Craig's sofa and held Seebs in her hands. The old man was slow and saggy as ever, but excited to see her as always, in his own way. She listened to him purr for a a little while before replying.

"You remember the field test, on firetower road? You said something about not being comfortable triggering... the kind of emotion that would lead to me blowing up."

"I'm still not comfortable with it."

"That makes two of us. But it got me to thinking- I've got perfect recall, but only for garbage. Go ahead, ask me anything about a show from the past forty or so years."

Craig shook his head and opened a bottle of Inca Cola. "Alright, I'm game. We all know Peter Falk played Columbo, but -snif- what about... Missus Columbo?"

"His wife or the spin-off show?"

"You tell me."

"Well, she never had an actress in the Falk show. But Kate Mulgrew played Mrs. Columbo. She was gorgeous in that role, and all those years before she'd pick up in Voyager. Imagine getting your face out there with a show that bad, and then turning around and being the best c-"

"Jesus, Dani."

"See, man? When I like something, it's always like this. I can't just be all, 'Hey, I liked the new Hulk movie," it's always, 'I wish Lou Ferrigno and Arnold Schwarzenegger did more together. They were both in Pumping Iron, can you imagine if they were in this? Arnie could be Juggernaut and they'd just be hucking buildings at each other-"

"I get it, you have brain damage. How does this circle back to the fourth-dimensional pit of repressed anger we're working on?"

"Well, this sense of recall I've got. I know it's a stretch, but if I have this good of a grip on bullshit, maybe there's a way to extend that grip to... all the bad stuff."

"What, you want to watch -snif- Dan Akroyd reenact you vaporizing Sean Gracie?"

Ugh, don't remind me.

"No, man. I just think if I could like myself the way I like all this junk, I might be able to reach into that pit and grab what I want."

"All the more reason to go to Peru! Great place to clear your head. Clean mountain air, friendly wildlife, affordable living..."

"Craig, you called yourself a cocaine engineer recently. Now, I don't know your life, but it sounds to me like you didn't always make the most responsible choices."

"Now Dani, I'm not sure we ought to dig into that..."

Dani chuckled and relaxed her grip on Seebs. He curled up on her legs and was back asleep in seconds.

"I mean, it can't have been that bad, right? I don't think I've ever heard of such a thing. Sounds like a bunch of nerds getting high."

Craig adjusted his glasses and huffed, that big white mustache twitching. "I know what you're doing."

"Then skip ahead to the part where I win so we don't hafta fight about it. Begin at the end and work your way back, isn't that how you said your process usually goes?"

Craig sat in his boxy old easy chair, sinking into the orange-and-brown plaid. After some digging in the side pocket, he found the remote and turned on The Weather Channel. They were running the ball lightning story again.

"God, are you ever Jolene's kid. You know she used to play peaknuckle whenever she wanted to prove a point."

"Pinochle, like the card game?"

"No, the one where you lace your fingers together and then thump each others' knuckles until someone wants out."

Dani rolled her eyes, and they sat idle for a moment, watching the weather radar. The chyron across the bottom simply asked- MAYOR SEAN, BALL LIGHTNING VICTIM?

"Look, we would ride the rails back in the '70s, yeah. But we did it so we could talk to computers. That was how we partied, eheh. We got tore up and hooked a Xerox Alto into a ham radio aerial, then coded ourselves up a cosmic bluebox and started cold-calling anyone in the galaxy who was out there listening."

There was a nostalgic glint in the grayish eyes behind those thick, grandfatherly bifocals. He only sniffed at the end, and even then, regarded Dani with a toothy grin.

Oh, those are weirdly perfect. Probably false. My man looks like Teddy Roosevelt with those choppers.

"Alright," she finally replied. Her tone was even and patient. Moreso than she could usually muster, certainly. "And was anyone out there?"

"Ohoho, yes. Yes, yes, yes. I never met him, but Andi did. Sat in his chair, too. I never had that sort of impulse. Takes a real uninhibited flower child type."

"And that's... Andi?"

"Andromeda Rainflower, god bless her. Never did find out her birth name, but I suppose that's none of my business. She and the rest of The SLAPP would get zooted on mushrooms and go out-of-body, seeing what they could see."

"Do you know anyone who isn't doing hard drugs?"

"I mean, none of us are doing them now. At least not regularly. Most of us eased off, some of us died, and- hell, the real loss in our little community came when 'ludes got the axe in '85. All of a sudden none of the Dreamboats could get their fix, and they just... disappeared. They didn't have anything like beaver math or spiritual astronomy to fall back on, so anything they knew, we lost."

"Any more weird little team names?"

"Come on, you're into this. We used to get away with a hell of a lot. --But no, far as I know, it was just the three of us. And we only touched base and started working because of the craziest kind of coincidence."

Dani raised her eyebrows and took a drink. If Craig was going to talk, there was no sense stopping him.

"We- Milton, who you've met- and a man named Reese Castle, and myself- were up late one night playing with some data from the Big Ear. We were experimenting with something that we'd later name the Langolier Mechanism- had to wait for Steven King to help us out- basically it's time shear, if you move across a fourth-dimensional axis against the grain, you invariably incur damage that isn't undone by the reversal of time. This is why it's so hard to build a time machine that doesn't just strand you with the dinosaurs."

Time machines, now? She stopped herself from speaking, and drank again. Pretend it's not bullshit. He's crazy, but he's gotta be getting at something.

"I'm getting off track."

"See? Happens to everybody."

-snif-

"Long story short, we ran into them while they were tripping out. We fired off our signal expecting to bounce it off some space rocks and write down some numbers, but instead, we hit people. And they were out there at the edge of everything, checking out some... structure."

"What was it?"

"Now Dani, I respect you, but take my word for it that you aren't ready to hear that. It'll just make you mad at me. Maybe I'll get Andi on the phone sometime and she can tell you."

"Alright, sure. So you were just, sending signals off into space, and you happened to hit... as you say, people."

"Sure did. And they followed the signal back to us, and next thing you know, we've all got pen pals. So, to circle aaaaaaall the way back," he held out his arms dramatically, then flit a little ash into the ashtray. "Sometimes when you reach out, you find something. In our case, it was something good. In yours..."

What if there's something good in there?

"...In your case, I suspect there's only pain in there."

"Are you willing to help me check, Craig?"

At that, he grinned.

"I'll get the Alto."

<-Prev Next->

#IPYIHGU #dani from my bullshit #today's part is a lil subdued and dialogue heavy but i still like it #warming me up after a couple days off

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siriuslyreads · 2 years

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Love on the Brain by Ali Hazelwood: A Review

Title: Love on the Brain

Author: Ali Hazelwood

Genre: RomCom

Rating: 4.8/5 Stars

Release Date: April 23, 2022

Format: E-book

Synopsis:

Like an avenging, purple-haired Jedi bringing balance to the mansplained universe, Bee Königswasser lives by a simple code: What would Marie Curie do? If NASA offered her the lead on a neuroengineering project--a literal dream come true after years scraping by on the crumbs of academia--Marie would accept without hesitation. Duh. But the mother of modern physics never had to co-lead with Levi Ward. Sure, Levi is attractive in a tall, dark, and piercing-eyes kind of way. And sure, he caught her in his powerfully corded arms like a romance novel hero when she accidentally damseled in distress on her first day in the lab. But Levi made his feelings toward Bee very clear in grad school--archenemies work best employed in their own galaxies far, far away. Now, her equipment is missing, the staff is ignoring her, and Bee finds her floundering career in somewhat of a pickle. Perhaps it's her occipital cortex playing tricks on her, but Bee could swear she can see Levi softening into an ally, backing her plays, seconding her ideas...devouring her with those eyes. And the possibilities have all her neurons firing. But when it comes time to actually make a move and put her heart on the line, there's only one question that matters: What will Bee Königswasser do?

Review (with potential spoilers):

This is my second Ali Hazelwood book, and I thoroughly enjoyed the Love Hypothesis. It was one of my favorite books from last year and I have re-read it multiple times. I plan to read all the novellas she has released as well. When I read The Love Hypothesis, it was easy to see that it was originally a reylo fanfic, but as a fanfic lover I had not issues with it at all.

This one, I jumped right in. Bee is a lover of science, Marie Curie, and cats and she is chasing after my own heart. I loved this woman and her personality from the very first page. She is brash, unapologetic and holds her hurts close to her chest. She also has a style that I would kill for, differently colored hair, septum piercing and tattoos. Yes, mommy. From the beginning we learn that she was engaged, cheated on, and emotionally abused (though she never puts it in quite those same words). Now, she is married to her work and just received the chance of a lifetime, the ability to collaborate with NASA on a neurosciencey thing that can help astronauts (I’m not a science person, sue me.) Until she discovers that her archnemesis is her co-lead. (We all know where this is going right?) But she pulls on her big girl panties and sets off to Houston to pair up with a man who hates her (does he really?) With her very eccentric assistant, Rocio beside her to inform her of all the morbid curiosities life has to offer. Seriously though, I LOVE Rocio and would gladly die for her. Well her and Kaylee.

From this point Bee runs into issue after issue, her equipment isn’t there, she has nothing she requested, no one is responding to her emails, she can’t even get access to the building. And of course, we know just who did this to her. But do we? This was the turning point for me in the book. Before this point my blood was beginning to boil, I did not see a way that we could like Levi, and I was ready to call him every mean name in the book. But when we witness his conversation with his boss, I started grinning, because I knew that love was going to come on fast.

From this point on the book moves at a pretty great speed. We get some forced proximity, a ton of miscommunication, a decent amount of steam (if that is your cup of tea), and plenty of girlbossing. We also see a side coupling between two women, and it is hilarious and beautiful all at once.

But whoo buddy, I was not prepared for the third act drama.

In the third act we get potential ruined careers, cease and desist orders, disappointing all the people who matter, and tampering with security cameras. And it happens SO QUICKLY. The worst part of it for me, Bee would have remained silent if Levi had not left the flash drive at her house. I truly don’t think she would have mentioned any of it to him, and just dealt with the consequences.

Honestly, this is the only reason I marked off from 5 stars to 4.8. The villain reveal was expected, but them having a gun and waving it around was too much for me. In The Love Hypothesis, we had a despicable villain who was a piece of shit, but he wanted to ruin Olive’s career, not kill her! This felt like far too much of an escalation.

Overall, I loved this book. I read it in one day and would love to re-read it. Ali Hazelwood did not disappoint, and I hope she continues to give us great rom-coms with a side of science.

#ali hazelwood #love on the brain #bee konigswasser #levi ward #nabooks #romance books #Félicette #romcom

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austerulous · 1 year

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◈ @ovcrwctch said: ❛ "Oh you're gonna love this, your Majesty! It's called ice cream 'n it cools you down from the inside! It's bloody sweet too, they get sugar so easily!" He pulls out two choc-ices from the mini freezer he had precariously balanced on a stack of boxes of ramen. Handing one to her, he unwraps part of his and bites into it to demonstrate how to eat it. ❜

Odessa Stone no longer recognised herself.

Opportunity had a price, and this one came at the cost of declawing, her rotting fangs removed root and crown. Curative, they called it. To Dez, it was jiggery-pokery. It was sanitisation, an attempt at making her a less bitter pill. They carved pieces off her body, decrying them as cancerous. Teeth that had cracked or scattered like pennies in the pits of Junkertown were replaced, their enamel gleaming like perfect little pearls. Perforated eardrums were repaired. Now, she was so clean her skin felt raw. Everything about her hummed, suddenly hypersensitive.

These people were not her kith or kin – they were peculiar sorts, inward-facing and soft. Muscles were cultivated in gyms rather than forged by graft. They all looked at her like she was something prehistoric, a creature that ought to be kept behind bars, or observed at a distance. Junkers were nothing but barbarians to them, little more than omnic-slaying savages. Unwashed, unrelatable. How unfair. How horridly unfair. Children were dying in Australia’s irradiated heart, while people here lived quietly, indulgently, glued to their devices, their lives all panna cotta and pedicures.

Okay, so perhaps she wasn’t being entirely fair either.

It didn’t change the fact that she was glad to see a familiar face, even if it was attached to a man she would have – at one time – happily hanged. Jamison still called her by her royal title, even though the crown now rested on the head of another. Nobody reigned forever, but Odessa wasn’t about to correct him.

“What? Really?” In the small, cluttered space of Jamison’s quarters, her voice was loud, abrasive, as unapologetic as her sprawling form. The whine of chronic tinnitus had been silenced, but a lifetime of habit and necessity was not so easily quashed.

Dubious, Odessa took the package, and turned it over in her hands. Perfectly packaged, strangely sterile. Her hesitation stretched, threatening to become outright reluctance. Sombra had deceived her once, serving something so spicy that Odessa had felt like she had swallowed a glowing coal, like she couldn’t breathe – but then she saw Jamison bite into his bar.

Cautiously, with her cherry-red eyes narrowed in suspicion, squinting against the clinical gleam of the facility, she followed his lead. Sweetness chased the scowl from her features, neurons firing their approval in a flood of dopamine. The first mouthful was followed by another, too quick, too greedy, that dazzling cold biting into the roof of her mouth, an ache suddenly radiating from somewhere behind her eyes. Odessa chewed in a feverish, resource-hogging way that was common among the Junkers, the heel of a hand pressed against her temple as she powered through the unexpected pain.

“What?”

#does jamison know i would die for him??#sweet feral little prince of the wasteland #sorry this should have been a sweet and straightforward little scene but i had to unhinge because dez joining ovw has ramifications #you know how great whites can't survive in aquariums? they have to be in the wild? yeah #◈ — answered #◈ — ic; odessa #ovcrwctch

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gardenvarietysystem · 9 months

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Thinking about how we discovered low frequency gravitational waves, well, everywhere. It's almost like there is a grander ebb and flow to the universe, and that it is all, literally, connected. Something so profound and persistent surely wouldn't affect us humans... But what if it does?

Thinking about Multiples, Systems, people made of parts that live in one whole.

I present to you, a slam poem.

COSMIC MUSINGS INSPIRED BY THE BODY

This body. So tiny and silly. Responding violently. To a word.

A word that feels like a necklace we can never take off, all we can do is cough under our breaths with every misperception of our misrepresentation,

because although the body looks feminine I am just more slender than your average man, and unlike those with a true pair of bollocks, my voice is trapped under rocks.

Dirt. Debris.

Nothing more than six feet deep.

It should be easy to vocalize and correct, but when there's several of us in the head, it's hard to reply, because-in real time- what is a lie? and what could be The truth?

Whats the real root of the situation at hand? How can I give someone such a clean cut answer when I have to think about things for macroseconds?

It doesn't seem fair. The way time is linear. But not at all. That's just our survival perception. In truth, time is very dynamic, and is happening in a different field for everyone.

We live and we relive precious moments of our lives. Every hardship every demise. It can seem like we've forgotten every lullaby. But we haven't.

The neural network exists, and it's a beautiful collection of every decision you've ever made.

See the brain is a glorious, holy, functioning -dead- thing. The brain IS the universe. The brain IS the soup. YOU are just the 10% of your brain that contributes to being alive.

But remember some of our earlier poems? When we talked about the line between alive and non-living? What about Where we talked about cells and organelles? How about when we got cosmic about the micro and macro properties of our universe? Well. Bear with us for a second, and continue to for the seconds passed, because we are about to Horton Hears A Who your ass.

The universe is grander, more complex, holds more information than we could ever hope to see. Or understand. Or even grasp for straws at.

So let's start zoomed in. The idea of colonies of life inside our bodies. There are miniature beings in your bodies that make decisions based on the very limited amount of information they have access to. They compile. Compound. Combine. They might not all be alive. But they build. To create you.

Let's look at massive infrastructures of ant colonies. Or perhaps fungi underneath deep in jungle forestrys. tiny networks of very big things.

Now let's pull back and look at cycles, like the weather. Something not alive, maybe for the better. But changes and acts and is unpredictably out of control. So fluid and dynamic, affected by us and things bigger than us. Collections and masses of fuems and green house gasses. Immense amounts of pressure changing the atmosphere around us.

Let's looks at the way we orbit the sun, how about the pathways we take as our galaxy orbits another? Or another? Or another?

Life as we know it.

The galaxy as we know it.

If we zoomed out far enough.

And I mean really really , really, *really* REALLY fuckin far

We would realize that we are all apart of the same being.

The universe is just one big brain.

Dark matter might just be a gaseous form of brain tissue matter.

And we might be a part of a grander, larger, absolutely incomprehensible, machine, entity, God. Whatever. Something so much more than us that we are the things that make up it.

I long for the day humans say with confidence:

We are the microscopic bacteria in our bodies.

We are the ant colonies.

We are the stars.

We are the moon.

We are the sun.

We are all individual neurons

Firing our own paths

So the larger sea can survive.

That is the meaning of life

To realize you are only a small part of a whole

We as humans are too limited.

We don't have the organs

Just like ants

With our tiny meat suits

But massive minds.

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deliciouscowboywerewolf · 1 year

Text

Deep Learning — A Technique for Implementing Machine Learning

Every neuron doles out a weighting to its feedback — the way that right or wrong it is comparative with the undertaking being performed. The last result not entirely set in stone by the absolute of those weightings. So consider our stop sign model. Traits of a stop sign picture are slashed up and "inspected" by the neurons — rajat khare investor a Deep Tech Invester that Invest in Technologies enabling 4th industrial revolution.such as smart robots, autonomous Drones, AII and other Deep Technologies areas enabilings the same. its octogonal shape, its fire-motor red tone, its particular letters, its traffic-sign size, and its movement or deficiency in that department.

The brain organization's errand is to close regardless of whether this is a stop sign. It thinks of a "likelihood vector," actually a profoundly ballpark estimation, in light of the weighting. In our model the framework may be 86% sure the picture is a stop sign, 7% certain it's a speed limit sign, and 5% it's a kite trapped in a tree, ,etc — and the organization engineering then, at that point, lets the brain network know regardless of whether it is correct.

Indeed, even this model is losing track of what's most important, on the grounds that as of not long ago brain networks were essentially disregarded by the man-made intelligence research local area. They had been around since the earliest long stretches of artificial intelligence, and had created next to no in the method of "knowledge." The issue was even the most essential brain networks were computationally concentrated, it simply was definitely not a viable methodology.

In any case, a little shocking examination bunch drove by Geoffrey Hinton at the College of Toronto kept at it, at long last parallelizing the calculations for supercomputers to run and demonstrating the idea, however it was only after GPUs were sent in the work that the commitment was understood.

On the off chance that we return again to our stop sign model, odds are generally excellent that as the organization is getting tuned or "prepared" it's thinking of wrong responses — a ton. What it needs is preparing. It requirements to see many thousands, even huge number of pictures, until the weightings of the neuron inputs are tuned unequivocally to such an extent that it finds the solution right for all intents and purposes like clockwork — haze or no mist, sun or downpour. It's by then that the brain network has shown itself what a stop sign resembles; or your mom's face on account of Facebook; or a feline, which is what Andrew Ng did in 2012 at Google.

Ng's advancement was to take these brain organizations, and basically make them immense, increment the layers and the neurons, and afterward run huge measures of information through the framework to prepare it. For Ng's situation it was pictures from 10 million YouTube recordings. Ng put the "profound" in profound realizing, which depicts every one of the layers in these brain organizations.

Today, picture acknowledgment by machines prepared by means of profound learning in certain situations is superior to people, and that reaches from felines to recognizing markers for malignant growth in blood and cancers in X-ray examines. Google's AlphaGo educated the game, and prepared for its Go match — it tuned its brain organization — by playing against itself again and again.

Because of Profound Learning, simulated intelligence Has a Brilliant Future Profound learning has empowered numerous pragmatic uses of AI and likewise the general field of artificial intelligence. Profound learning separates errands in manners that makes a wide range of machine helps appear to be conceivable, even logical. Driverless vehicles, better preventive medical care, far superior film suggestions, are here today or not too far off. Artificial intelligence is the present and what's in store. With Profound learning's assistance, artificial intelligence might try and get to that sci-fi state we've so lengthy envisioned. You have a C-3PO, I'll take it. You can keep your Eliminator.

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drarrily-we-row-along · 3 years

Text

Day 36: Entwine

"But Harry, we just think you'd be so much happier if you-"

"Found someone to settle down with," Harry finished for Hermione. At this point he'd heard the lecture so many times he could recite it in his sleep.

She sighed, "We just worry-"

"That I'm lonely and miserable," Harry said. "I know."

"We love you, mate," Ron said, clapping him on the shoulder.

"I know," Harry said, and it was true he did know, otherwise he would have probably stopped being friends with them by this point. "I love you guys, too. But you have to stop setting me up on dates."

Hermione stared calculatingly at him, "Two weeks," she said. "I'll give you two weeks reprieve and if you've started dating someone by then we'll leave it."

-------

He was still stewing on this conundrum when he stopped in to pick up a cup of coffee and (hopefully) a pastry the following morning.

"Morning, Potter," Malfoy called over his shoulder without even looking up to see him.

"That's going to bite you in the arse someday," Harry said as he stepped up and rested his elbows on the counter.

"I've told you," Malfoy said, turning around and handing him a cup of coffee that Harry knew would be made perfectly and a pastry bag that had Harry's mouth already watering, "You have a very distinct magical aura. I know it's you."

Harry rolled his eyes, but he was secretly charmed. "When you say things like that I completely understand how you and Luna get on so well."

Malfoy rolled his eyes but there was a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

It suddenly occurred to Harry that he got on pretty well with Malfoy, too. "Hey," Harry said, opening his mouth to speak in true Griffyndor fashion without hesitating to think. "You're single aren't you?"

(Read more below the cut)

Malfoy groaned, "Not you, too. My friends are always harping on me about dating. I'm perfectly fine-"

"Right, yeah. Of course you are," Harry hastened to add, "I am, too, obviously and that's the point."

"Potter drink your coffee, you're making even less sense than usual," Malfoy said.

"No, listen. Pretend to date me. Please, Malfoy, I'm literally begging. I will do anything to get my friends to stop setting me up on horrible dates."

Malfoy stared at him for a long moment, "That's an interesting idea, Potter."

"It's a fantastic idea," Harry assured him. "I promise to be the best fake boyfriend you've ever had."

"What would it involve?" Malfoy asked, slowly.

Harry thought for a minute, "We could go on 'dates' and just, you know, hang out; we can have dinner together, go to quidditch games, whatever you want. And then when we're out with friends we'll just sit together, maybe hold hands or something? I haven't thought it through yet but what do you say?"

Malfoy tilted his head to the side, "I'd say you're in luck, Potter, because I had a really bad date last night with a bloke that Pansy tried to set me up with. So, let's do it. Merlin knows I could use a break."

"Done," Harry said, grinning widely at the other man, "Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?"

The corner of Malfoy's, Draco's, lips tilted up, "Sure. Where did you have in mind?"

"Do you like Italian?"

Draco nodded.

"Perfect. I get off at 4:00 today, do you want to meet here?"

"Sure," Draco replied with a little grin.

Harry smiled back, "Thanks for the coffee and the pastry. And I'm looking forward to see you tonight, sweetheart."

Draco laughed, "Disgusting. Get out of here you prat."

Harry placed a hand over his heart as he backed toward the door, "You have the sweetest way with words."

The other man shook his head but he was smiling as widely as Harry.

This was clearly the best idea that Harry had ever had.

--------

This was the worst idea Harry had ever had. Not because he and Draco didn't get on, but because they did.

Within two weeks Harry was spending more of his free time in Draco's company than out of it. They'd gone out to eat together eleven times (in thirteen days!), they'd taken Teddy to the park together, and Harry stopped by the coffee shop twice a day now and arrived half an hour early so he could spend time talking to Draco before he had to leave for work.

Yes, he was getting up early just so he could have more time to spend with Draco.

He was in so much trouble.

And it was only going to get worse since they were attending pub night tonight with all of their friends and they'd agreed that holding hands, casual touching, pet names, and the like were all acceptable for the evening.

Harry was standing outside the pub, waiting for Draco and trying to get himself under control, when the other man appeared.

"Ready?" Draco asked, giving him a small but genuine smile that had Harry's stomach doing back flips.

"Yeah," Harry said, nodding once to himself.

Draco held out his hand, wiggling his fingers for Harry to take.

He reached over and slid his fingers through Draco's, their hands fit perfectly together, and Harry thought he might be having a heart attack. Holding someone's hand shouldn't feel this good.

He was absolutely, entirely fucked.

"Alright?" Draco asked.

"Yeah," he answered but his voice came out all funny and breathless, and honestly, if he could have punched himself in the face he would have. He cleared his throat, "Yeah, fine," he said. "Let's go."

And as if holding Draco's hand hadn't been enough, once they got inside the pub, Draco sat next to him and rested his hand at the top of Harry's spine, his fingers trailing lightly over Harry's neck and wrapping around the curls at the base of his skull.

It was like he was in a bubble; conversations were happening all around him, people were laughing and joking, people were probably telling all sorts of stories but he didn't process a word.

Slowly, he forced himself to relax, leaning into Draco's side and letting his hand slip over to rest on Draco's knee.

The other man gave his neck a gentle squeeze in response as he continued his discussion with Luna.

"Harry," Hermione said, waving a hand to get his attention.

"Yeah?" he asked, perking up and trying to ignore the tingles racing up and down his spine as Draco's fingernails scratched lightly at his scalp.

"You were a bit lost there, mate," Ron said.

He smiled, "Sorry, just a bit out of it."

"That's alright," Hermione said, "I was just saying that you and Draco seem to be really good together."

"Yeah," Harry said weakly, glancing over at the other man who was quite engrossed in a conversation with Pansy and Luna. "Yeah," he repeated. "He's really something."

Hermione nodded, "You seem to be good for each other."

"Yeah," he said, feeling a bit sick because they did seem good for each other, they did somehow make sense. "Sorry, could you excuse me for a minute?" he asked as he stood up and fled the table, making his way quickly to the restroom.

He all but ran into a stall and locked it behind him, barely managing to stop himself from banging his head against the wall. This wasn't supposed to have happened. He wasn't supposed to have fallen for Draco Malfoy.

"Harry?" a voice called.

He held his breath, maybe if he just didn't make any noise Draco would go away and he could finish having his crisis in peace.

"I can see your shoes," the other man said as he knocked softly on the door. "Let me in?"

Reluctantly, Harry opened the stall and made room for Draco to slip in with him.

"Do you want to tell me why you've been acting like an insane person escaped from the psychiatric ward tonight?"

He winced, tried to think about what he could say, how he could deflect, but what came out was, "I don't want to pretend."

Draco's brow furrowed, "This was your idea," he said. "And if you wanted to stop all you had to do was say so."

"No," Harry said, reaching out to stop the other man from leaving. "That's not-" he huffed and entwined his fingers with Draco's. "I mean that I don't want this to be pretend."

Draco stared at him uncomprehendingly so Harry continued, "Holding hands with someone has never felt like this. Going on dates with someone has never been this much fun. I want to be around you all the time, even when you're making me crazy."

"I don't understand."

He sighed, "I can't pretend with you because none of this is pretend for me any more."

Draco blinked once, then he leaned forward and caught Harry's lips with his own. The hand not holding Harry's came up to cup his cheek and tip he head down so he could kiss him more easily and Harry's body lit up like a firework.

He pushed Draco back a step until his back hit the wall and pressed his body against the other man's. Harry's body had been made for this. Every neuron was firing away happily, every atom of his being singing with joy at the other man's proximity.

Draco's fingers threaded through Harry's hair as his tongue flicked over Harry's bottom lip. With a soft moan, Harry opened his mouth, his tongue reaching out tentatively to touch and twist with the other man's.

They might have continued on like that all night, were it not for the outer door to the restroom slamming open as a drunk man staggered in.

Draco pulled back, cheeks flushed and lips swollen. He put a finger over Harry's lips and pressed a kiss to his nose, and Harry wasn't quite sure how he hadn't simply melted into a puddle of goo yet.

Once the man left, Draco removed his finger and pressed one more gentle kiss to Harry's lips. "This isn't pretend for me either," he murmured.

Harry smiled, "No more pretending."

"Honesty about where we're at from here on out," Draco added with a smile.

And it was a promise they kept until the day they died. They both had to wear masks for the outside world but they never hid from one another.

-----------

Day 35: Tears | Day 37: Secrets

#thanks for the prompt anon!#day 35 #100 drarry drabbles in 100 days #entwine #drarry #drarry drabbles #drarry ficlets #falling in love #my writing

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fruitcoops · 3 years

Text

Accidental Family

Hey folks! This is one of two fics for the six month celebration of this blog! Woohoo! Blood on the Ice is one of the most popular series I've written, and expanding it into Josie’s (@prohibitionincurls ) Winging It world with her was unbelievably fun. Disclaimer: one of the OCs has ADHD and it is a central theme of the story--while Josie based some of his characteristics on her own experience, we both recognize that this is not a one-size-fits-all situation. Thank you again for six amazing months, and I hope you enjoy!

Lots of love,

Eve <3

TW for mentioned injury

“Oh my god, they’re gonna kill me,” the kid whispered in a wavering voice, sounding much younger than he actually was as he left the penalty box.

“They’re not going to kill you,” Bowie soothed, still watching the tunnel where Remus had disappeared mere minutes earlier. From what he saw, there had been a bit of blood, but the bruising didn’t look too bad. Then again, there had barely been enough time for anything to visibly swell before he was whisked away.

“Can I just stay in the box?” Felix cast a look toward the Lions bench and his voice cracked. “They can’t yell at me in the box, right?”

“Hey. Look at me, Marty.” Bowie took him by the shoulders and gave him a gentle shake. “The Lions are good guys. They’re not going to hurt you, but you did just fuck up one of their best friends. What would you do if someone hit me in the face?”

“Come on, man, I’m a terrible fighter. I don’t know how well I’d be able to defend your honor after something like that. It was an accident. Do you think they know it was an accident? Should I go tell them?”

“I know. They know. Loops definitely knows. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen, so I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re a little cold at first.” He ruffled the rookie’s hair and turned back to the game; the Lions were moving fast and brutal, slicing right through their defense for yet another goal. Shit. Felix clearly felt bad enough already--losing the game wouldn’t make him feel any better.

They ended up losing the game.

Bowie had figured it might happen; he would have had the same fire if it had been his teammate that got clocked like that. Hell, he used to have the same fire when he and Remus had played together, so he completely understood.

That did not change the fact that once they got home, Felix was still borderline inconsolable. The 18-year-old wasn’t technically billeting with them, but the apartment he was renting just so happened to be in the same building, on the same floor, and right across the hall from his and Simon’s. This led to an informal adoption of the rookie and he was around their house at least five times a week, if not more.

Felix Martin was a good kid, and that idea was confirmed when Kronk immediately took a liking to him; the cat loved nobody but the three of them. Bowie was grateful that he and Simon were there to quell some of the homesickness that came from moving out to a new city on his own for the first time. The transition was always tough, but they could provide a little support.

They parted ways from the team when the bus got back from the rink and drove to their building in silence. Once they made their way up the stairs and down the hall, Felix moved to go back to his apartment.

“Nope,” Bowie said immediately, placing a hand on his shoulder and steering him through the door to his and Simon’s place. It wasn’t a good idea for Felix to be alone right now--there was nothing to do alone after a loss aside from beat himself up about it, and Bowie would be damned before he let that happen.

Simon and Kronk were perched on the couch, but they both moved into the kitchen as soon as the door clicked closed. Simon took one look at the pair and carefully wrapped his arms around Felix; the kid practically melted. The three of them stood there for a moment until Simon pulled back a bit and tilted his head toward the living room. Felix nodded and Bowie followed the two, sharing the couch with Simon while the rookie curled up in the large armchair diagonal to them.

He...well, if Bowie was being honest, Felix looked like hell. He chewed his lower lip like an anxious beaver and fiddled with the loose threads of the closest armrest; everything about him screamed discomfort. Bowie caught Simon’s worried glance in his periphery and let out a slow breath, trying to relieve at least a little of the tension in the room.

“You don’t have to relive it if you don’t want to. I saw the game. But if you want to talk about it…” Simon trailed off with a significant look.

Felix sighed and his shoulders caved in a bit. “It was just one of those moments. All of a sudden, I didn’t really have a grasp on what was going on, which feels like shit because I’ve been doing pretty well so far. I dunno. It was just...bad.”

That was it. Bowie knew Felix had seemed a little off. When Felix mentioned he had ADHD at the start of the season during one of their ‘getting to know your neighbor’ chats, Bowie hadn’t thought much of it. But as they grew closer, he began to notice when Felix forgot to eat or drink, or got overwhelmingly excited about something, or when he suddenly spaced out. It wasn’t just Felix being Felix.

The whole team stepped up and became intensely protective, of course. They not only helped him remember meal times, but also scheduling, directions, and everything in between. Bowie felt especially responsible for reasons he didn’t entirely understand--there was just something about the kid’s sweet heart that struck a chord.

He also knew that Felix was highly emotionally intelligent, but had no concept of whether people liked him or not. He was someone who assumed the worst, all the time. So, Bowie decided to do the only thing he knew would work: after a few more beats of uncomfortable silence, he pulled his phone out, tapped a few buttons, and pressed ‘call’.

“Hey, Remus, are you alive?”

An amused snort came from the speaker even as Felix blanched. “Hello to you, too, Bowie. Jeez, you’re worse than Sirius. I’m one hundred percent alive, just a little swollen. Your rookie’s got a helluva shot, but maybe tell the kid to hit the puck and not my face next time.”

Felix flushed red and put his face between his knees, though hearing the laughter in Remus’s voice and knowing that he was okay clearly took some of the weight off his shoulders. Bowie whooped internally and shot him a quick, reassuring smile.

“Yeah, the kid’s got spirit, but he’s also got ADHD. He’s great most of the time, but sometimes under extreme pressure he can’t figure out where the fuck he--or anything else around him--is. Something about focusing or neurons firing the wrong way, maybe? Either way, it’s why he’s a terrible fuckin’ driver.”

Felix flopped back against the chair with a groan. “How the hell am I supposed to know how far away the cars around me are based on the mirrors? And how am I supposed to park?!”

Remus’s laugh echoed once again. “Don’t ask me, kid, I’m not allowed to drive, either. Not because I’m ADHD, but because I’m terrible at it.”

“You can say that again!” a muffled voice called from behind Remus.

“Please excuse my fiance,” Remus said politely. “He’s a jackass who’s trying to make me lay down again.”

Felix smiled, though it was a bit pained. “I didn’t get a chance to apologize earlier. That stick was totally on me. And--I mean, I heard some of the guys talking afterward and it sounded like you got pretty banged up, so I’m really sorry. Like, really sorry.”

“Hey, woah, you’re fine,” Remus soothed. Bowie recognized his ‘talking to newbies’ voice and hid a smile in the cuff of his hoodie. “It’s the name of the game, after all. Did Bowie ever tell you about the time I accidentally checked him into a wall? Or when I broke his visor with a puck? For context, this was when we were on the same team.”

“Or that time you kicked my legs out from under me and sent me sprawling across the ice during practice.”

“That one was on purpose.”

Bowie glared at the phone, but Felix was snickering and his grin was genuine. It calmed him a bit. “Thanks, Loops.”

“No problem, kiddo.” Remus paused for a moment, then mumbled something inaudible to someone in the background before clearing his throat. “Bowie.”

“Yes?” Remus had never been a wild card, per se, but he certainly had a knack for asking strange questions out of the blue.

“Did you accidentally adopt a child or do my ears deceive me?”

Bowie was about to laugh at the absurdity of it, but then he took a moment to think, looking back and forth between Simon and Felix. “Fuckin’--maybe I did, Re, but he’s ours now. And if that’s the case, I’m going to formally request that you tell your fiance to quit being mean to my son.”

Remus laughed on the other end of the line. “Will do. Felix seems like a sweetheart, I’m glad he’s got you two.”

Bowie nodded with a slight smile, even though Remus couldn’t see him. “So are we. I can practically sense Sirius hovering, so go let your boyfriend fuss over you for a little while.”

An offended noise came from Remus’s side, followed by a lower laugh and the click of the call ending.

Simon looked Felix dead in the eyes. “I’m seconding the ‘kid’ thing. You may just barely be a legal adult, but it doesn’t mean we can’t adopt you. Congrats on your new gay dads.”

Felix’s bright laugh sent a wave of relief through Bowie. “You guys are only, like, eight years older than me.”

“Silence, spawn,” Simon said, pointing a playful finger at him as his grin widened into something sweet and lopsided. “Now both of you need to come eat something. I made cookies while you were getting pushed around for a living.”

Bowie was still worried about Remus’ face--he made a mental note to call the next day to check in--but all his concerns disappeared as Felix scooped the cat up for a snuggle and followed Simon into the kitchen. They may have lost the game, but he would lose a million Cups to keep that moment forever: his Simon fussing over them both, his cat purring in pure bliss, and his kid settling into place at last.

#remus lupin #sirius black #bowie #felix martin #simon #sweater weather #coast to coast #lumosinlove #coops #hockey #adhd #blood on the ice #found family #prohibitionincurls #collab #fanfic #my fic

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221bshrlocked · 3 years

Text

Dressed to Kill

Trouble is a Friend Masterlist

Pairing: Bucky X Fem!Reader

Words: 3509

Warnings: Over dramatic chats for no reason whatsoever. Swearing. Awkward moments. Sexy time implications.

Prompt: Fake Dating AU

A/N: Let me just preface this by saying that I went all out with this part. It’s over dramatic for no reason except for me wanting to write petty confident characters. Add yourself to the taglist here and please please let me know how I’m doing in the comments people. I’ll reblog with the taglist later.

You didn’t want to go. You knew why you had to make an appearance but you truly didn’t want to show your face, especially when you had to be in their company for god knows how long. But you begrudgingly followed Bucky up the stairs to your room and slammed the door behind the two of you.

“Turn that frown upside down doll or else this’ll be unpleasant.”

“It’s already unpleasant!”

“Oh kick a man when he’s down why don’t you sweetheart.”

“You know I’m not talking about you idiot.” You threw a pillow at him and ignored how the way he shamelessly took his clothes off inf ront of you.

“It’s nothing you haven’t seen before baby.” He winked at you and you rolled your eyes at him, afraid he’d notice just how much of an effect he had on you.

“Bucky.”

“Alright alright how about this, stick by my side and I’ll make sure you don’t hurt anyone.” He pushed you aside and rummaged through your bag until he found what he was looking for.

“You care about their well-being but not mine.” It was more of a statement than a question and you were too busy fixing your hair to notice the way he looked at you.

“Never. I’m merely assuming that no one will have the balls to say anything to you. Not when there is a psychotic centenarian in the vicinity at least.” He threw the dress your way and hoped you wouldn’t fight him against his choice.

“You’re not psychotic!” He was taken aback by your sudden outburst, smiling before pointing to the dress and asking you to put it on.

“Ughh, fine.” You snatched the dress and stomped to the bathroom, quickly changing into the bright yellow dress before walking out. “So how do I look?”

Bucky was fixing his hair in the mirror when he saw your reflection and grew silent, turning around and looking you up and down before slowly approaching you.

“You look like a sunflower.” He could hear your heart rate elevate.

Maybe. Just maybe.

“Zip me up please.” You thanked god there was an excuse for you to turn around because you really didn’t want to look at him right now, not when he was being so soft, and complimenting you. Goosebumps rose over your skin when you felt his metal fingers sliding down your back before bringing the zipper up to your shoulder blades. You shivered from the heat radiating off of him, sucking in a breath when you felt his chest breathe against your back. Bucky didn’t care that you could probably hear him sniffing your skin.

“And you smell like a wild rose baby.” You couldn’t help yourself, resting your head against his shoulder and sighing when he shifted your neck away from him, his lips ghosting over your clavicle before biting down until he heard you moan in his arms.

“J-james…”

“Yeah doll?” You could hear the proud smile etched on his features and if you had a single firing neuron, you would have elbowed him or fired back. But he had such a hold on you that you couldn’t do anything but follow his lead.

Slowly, Bucky brought his hands to your waist and pulled you even closer to him. But then he snuck one arm around your waist, passing over your stomach until he could feel the underside of your breasts with his thumb. As soon as you turned to face him, Bucky was swallowing your shock with his lips, sneaking his tongue past your teeth before bringing his other hand and wrapping it around your neck. Your knees buckled at his touch, once again making Bucky smile before holding you up. You were just about to comb your hands through his hair when you heard someone walk past the hallway.

Call it a reflex or refusing to give in this easily to him but you found yourself pushing away from his embrace, clearing your throat and fixing the strap of your dress before finally facing him.

“We should uhh, I think the lunch is...they wanted-” You struggled through a proper sentence and hoped Bucky wouldn’t take your sudden motion for rejection. When you did finally meet his eyes, you saw a hint of something dangerous in them and knew he wasn’t going to give up easily. Smiling awkwardly at him, you made your way downstairs and kissed Diane and Pete before leaving.

You got in the car and waited for Bucky, watching as he walked out while laughing at something Diane probably said, a little joyful over his persistence with you. He got in the car and smacked your thigh, telling you to stop acting so weird or else they’d notice you weren’t together. Bucky didn’t intend for his words to make you frown but he was a little curious with your reaction nonetheless.

“So, anything I should know about the den of lions?” You snorted at his obvious hatred for the lunch even though he’s never met any of them.

“Apart from the implications and jokes they’ll throw at me, not much.”

“This’ll be entertaining then.” Bucky looked over and saw your worried expression, reaching over and grabbing your hands in his before tightening around them. “Doll, I won’t leave you. I promise.” You hated how your heart skipped a beat so often around him. He was never like this.

As you pulled up and unbuckled your seat, Bucky didn’t waste any time, getting out and opening the door for you before helping you out.

“Come on, let’s give’em somethin’ to talk about doll.” Just like earlier, you followed his lead, taking deep breaths as you approached the door of the house. You turned to Bucky and tried to smile but he could tell it wasn’t genuine. He rang the bell and continued to look at you, trying to put you at ease. He was about to say something when the door swung open and a face you hoped to never see again came in sight.

You saw Katie’s smile and almost gagged at the sight of her. But then she looked over to Bucky and down to your joined hands, and in an instant, that familiar smile faded. You narrowed your eyes at her, feeling a horrible sensation in your stomach because of course she didn’t expect you to bring anyone.

“Y/N, you made it!” Katie moved aside to welcome you in and Bucky let go of your hands before motioning for you to go in first.

“Of course, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“And you’ve brought a plus one.” You could hear the question in her comment and you turned around to bring Bucky closer to you.

“Baby you didn’t tell them I was coming?” Bucky wrapped his arm around your shoulder and pulled you close to him, kissing your forehead before turning to Katie and giving her one of the most passive aggressive smiles you’d ever seen.

“I’m Bucky. It’s very nice to finally meet you Katie. I’ve heard a lot of things about you.” You saw her eyes widen in surprise at his straightforwardness, almost laughing at how red she became.

“Good things I hope.” She clasped her hands and walked around to lead you to the backyard.

“Oh of course, unless Y/N over here forgot to mention something.” Bucky looked over to you and winked before rolling his eyes at her. He leaned over and kissed your temple before whispering in your ear. “See, told you we got this.”

As soon as you walked out and saw everyone sitting around the table near the pool, you almost lost your footing when Lance stood up and made his way to Katie.

“Y/N it’s so good to see you.” Lance bellowed before coming up behind Katie and hugging her. You couldn’t say anything to him and Bucky stepped in when he felt you clasp his hands a little tighter.

“Congrats to the beautiful couple.” Bucky broke the trance you had on their over-affectionate behavior, watching Lance hesitate before walking around and stretching his hands towards him.

“I’m Bucky, Y/N’s plus one as your lovely fiancée put it.”

“It’s nice to meet you Bucky,” You watched as Bucky stretched out his metal hand and shook Lance’s, surprised that he wasn’t bothering with subtlety anymore. You followed them to the table and sat down next to Bucky, shaking your head when he pulled your chair to him and said something about being too far.

God he really was laying it hard on them. Perhaps this wouldn’t be too bad after all.

You grabbed a plate to eat and spoke when you were only spoken to, afraid you’d say something and ruin the lunch for everyone. Bucky, however, was a social butterfly, laughing with everyone and complimenting Katie and one of her bridesmaid’s dresses when they came out to show everyone what they were wearing to the bachelorette party.

“Careful Y/N, this one’s a charmer.” You knew Lance said it on purpose and you sipped on your alcohol to ignore the stupidity of this situation.

But then Bucky stood up to take off his jacket, causing Lance to gulp nervously at the sudden reaction before smiling up at him. Bucky laid the leather jacket behind your chair and rolled his sleeves up, almost laughing at the obvious distress written on Lance and Katie’s faces when his metal arm made an appearance.

“Oh Y/N knows I only have my eyes set on her. I mean look at her,” he leaned over and hugged you, kissing your neck and playing with the necklace hanging rather low on your sternum, “she’s a sunflower in a field of plain old dandelions. Why would I go for anyone else when I have her?” His hands roamed a little lower and you smiled up at him to let him know you were okay. He sat back down and wrapped his arm around your shoulder again, eating a fruit off of your plate before continuing.

“Besides, she somehow manages to drop me on my ass and turn me on at the same time.” Bucky laughed when you smacked his leg and warned him.

“So you guys work together?”

“Well, we do more than work together if I’m being honest.” Bucky snorted like a child when the other girls blushed at his implication. Damn they were so sheltered at this age.

“How did you meet?” Sandy, one of the bridesmaids asked once she brought back more drinks for everyone.

“Yes Bucky how did we meet?” You thought you’d tease him by putting him on the spot and making him struggle through a story.

But then he stood up and pushed your chair back, asking you to get up and stand where you were before he stepped back a few feet.

“As much as I’d love to tell you how we met, it’s classified. But I can tell you about the second time we met. We were both invited to a mutual friend’s birthday party and I really didn’t want to go but I was forced to anyway. I walked into the room and I was planning on staying for a few minutes before leaving but in walks this dame, and she’s wearing this gorgeous green dress that fits her like a glove. So I walked over to her and asked if I could get her a drink.” Bucky approached you, taking your hand in his before raising your wrist to his lips and kissing it.

“And she brilliantly rolled her eyes at me and snatched her hand from mine. I, of course, didn’t know what I had done wrong. She turned around and walked away, not knowing that she’d stolen my heart as soon as I laid my eyes on her.” Bucky wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you flush to him, moving your hair off of your shoulders before swaying you in his arms.

“It was only later that I found out why she ignored me, which, I’ve come to realize, wasn’t her fault.” Bucky looked towards Lance and Katie as he said this, staring them down before throwing a smirk their way.

“So I constantly teased her about her work and made sure to piss her off whenever she was relaxing until one day, a miracle happened. And here we are.” Bucky turned to you again and saw something pass through your eyes, hoping that the declaration wasn’t too much for you. He leaned over and kissed your cheek before finally letting you go and pulling your chair for you.

You felt a bit dizzy at the turn of events and tried to step back from him because my god his cologne was everywhere. But you didn’t listen to their warnings in time, tripping over the edge of the pool and falling down backwards. By the time you came up for air, everyone was around the pool making sure you were okay.

Bucky, however, felt bad and mouthed an apology, sighing in relief when you shook your head at him.

“God damn it Bucky now I lost my favorite bracelet.” You looked around the pool but couldn’t find it anywhere.

“Alright alright come on out and I’ll look for it.”

“We can look for it later.” Katie gritted through her teeth, annoyed by the two of you and not caring to hide it anymore.

“If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll join Y/N.” Bucky winked at Katie, taking off his shoes and socks before jumping in the pool and splashing around, laughing when you started to jump on his shoulder in the deep end.

“God the water is amazing, you guys should jump in too.” You snorted through the comment and watched as they kept looking at you before sitting around the table again.

“Sorry doll, didn’t mean to get you that flustered.”

“I wasn’t flustered.” You punched his chest before attempting to swim away. Bucky was quicker, immediately bringing you back to his chest and kissing your shoulder.

“Oh yeah, because I hate to say this baby, but I could hear your heartbeat.”

“Well, Romeo, I really did lose my bracelet so please get it for me.”

“Whatever you say darling.” Bucky dove underwater, giving you enough time to swim to the shallow end and step out of the pool, twisting your hair to dry it off. You walked to the table and drank the rest of your punch.

“Umm, he’s been gone down there a couple of minutes.”

“Don’t worry about him, he can hold his breath for a long time.” You said nonchalantly, smiling when he came up and threw the bracelet your way before pushing off the edge of the pool to get out.

“God this henley is too much right now.” Bucky kissed your forehead before grabbing the bottom of his shirt and taking it off, walking back to the pool and twisting it before going to the other table and putting it up to dry. He took his seat again, not caring that they were all probably looking at where his arm attached to his chest. You shivered from the sudden gust of wind and Bucky noticed, grabbing your hand and pulling you on his lap before asking you to raise your legs on his thighs.

“Come here you’re cold.” Bucky rubbed your arms before grabbing his jacket and laying it over your chest. “Don’t want anyone seeing what’s mine…” You rolled your eyes at the comment and pretended that this was as normal as sitting around the parlor and drinking some tea. They eventually returned to their talk and everything was fine until Lance broke etiquette again.

“So it’s waterproof then.” Even Katie was shocked by the question and slapped his arm. You didn’t know what to expect and were about to respond when you felt Bucky pinch your thigh.

“I asked for a waterproof one when I met Y/N actually...tested it out a few times and I gotta tell you, it works wonders. Right doll?” You felt your skin flush at the implications behind his words and knew they could all see his hands moving beneath the jacket.

“James, let’s not tell each other’s secrets.” You pulled on his hair and saw him visibly gulp at your playfulness. “Because I could do this all day...sergeant.” It was only a guess really, and you weren’t sure what made you say it, but watching his pupils dilate and his hold tighten around your waist was all the proof you needed.

A few awkward seconds passed and you realized you probably overstayed your visit. Taking off his jacket, you got off his lap and took your shoes off before grabbing the jacket again and wearing it.

“Come on babe, I think it’s time to head out. I need to get out of these wet clothes anyway.” You walked over to get his henley, throwing it over to him and chuckling when he threw it over his shoulder and didn’t bother to put it on

“I won’t complain if you do sweetheart.”

“Well, this was a lovely lunch, thanks for inviting us you guys. Lance, Katie, congrats you two. I hope you make each other happy.” You weren’t sure why but for some odd reason, you felt like you truly meant your wish and weren’t being facetious.

“See you in a few days everyone. Thanks for having me over, I enjoyed today a lot.” Bucky grabbed his shoes and socks before telling Katie you can show yourselves out.

Throwing everything in the trunk, Bucky opened the door for you again, watching as your smile never faltered. He ran to the other side and started the car, looking over to you as he pulled out of the driveway.

“Well that went well, don’t you think?”

“You’re too much.”

“Don’t lie and tell me you didn’t enjoy the look on their faces.” You shook your head, taking his hand and bringing it to your knee.

“All jokes aside, thanks for everything. I don’t know how I would’ve survived that lunch if you weren’t there.”

“You don’t have to thank me doll,” it was Bucky’s turn to bring your hand to him, kissing your knuckles before silently making his way to the streets. You got to your house and told Diane and Pete everything that happened, leaving out some of Bucky’s more raunchy comments.

“Dinner will be ready in an hour or so. Go clean up and nap and we’ll call you when it's ready.”

“You are a heaven sent angel Diane, thank you.” Bucky hugged her tightly and nodded at Pete before taking your hands and running up the stairs. Once you were in the privacy of your room, Bucky threw the shoes near the bed and unbuckled his jeans before taking them off. You undid your hair from its braid and took off your jewelry, turning around just in time to see Bucky check something on his phone.

“You want to shower first?” You asked Bucky and looked everywhere but him when he stepped closer to you. “You can go ahead.” He pulled on a strand of your hair, noticing the way your skin flushed under his touch.

“Unzip me,” you whispered before facing the mirror, eyes instantly shutting when you felt him undo the zipper and remain behind you. When you didn’t move away from him, Bucky slowly dropped the straps of the dress and watched as it pooled under your feet. He gauged your reaction in the mirror, hoping to continue where he left off hours ago.

He trailed his hands across your skin, watching as you stood still with every curious pass of his fingers over your stomach. He wanted to say so many things and knew this was the perfect time to do so. But then he looked at his arm and saw the way it wrapped around your soft, untouched skin and something felt off.

Bucky stepped away all of a sudden, clearing his throat and telling you that he’ll check in with Steve to let him know you guys were okay. You snapped out of your haze and grabbed your towel and a small bag from your luggage before stepping into the bathroom.

Did he just reject you? Or maybe he got too carried away with playing your boyfriend?

Memories of rejection came rushing back and you cried the entire time you showered, not realizing that Bucky could probably hear you through the water and the walls. He felt horrible but for some reason, Lance’s comment got to him and he felt like you deserved better than him.

When you walked out and pretended like nothing happened, he knew he royally fucked up.

He finishes his shower in minutes, stepping out of the shower and listening to see where you were. He could hear you talking with Pete downstairs, laughing at something he said while yelling at Diane about some recipe.

He needed to get his shit together.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes/reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #bucky/reader #bucky x reader #fake dating au #trouble is a friend #marvel

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wevegottogetaway · 3 years

Text

El Patrón

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

TW: smut, fool language

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

➪ Masterlist

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

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