#'the simplest way i can put it' ONE WALL OF TEXT LATER

[secretarysong]

for no reason in particular (Lying) i headcanon Mayday's obsession with Kul Fyra to be hereditary. more specifically it was Directly passed down from her mother who owned. like. almost every piece of The Goolings merchandise under the sun; shit ranging from the collectors' edition of their debut album to the drummer's autographed crash cymbal ... it was almost as if the only notable thing missing from her collection was Kul Fyra's Guitar...

[laurelwen]

I feel dumb asking this but do u have any info or opinion about tvis image?? I dont really remember the context of the scene it appears in but I have been wondering who it could be or what it means i the movie. May be theres an obvious answer but I didnt want to make any conclusions.

So first off, this isn't a dumb thing to ask! It's worth looking at in detail and others might enjoy a little mini deep dive as well.

The image is a drawing on the wall in Nigel's secret room. We only see it when Sally investigates the room after Nigel is already dead and Alex is in custody. That part of the wall is never shown in the scene between Nigel and Alex, unfortunately. We can tell there are some sketches/papers on his walls, but the actual area of wall where this sketch is hung doesn't appear on camera.

Source

The drawing itself is based on a piece taken from The Anatomy of the Arteries of the Human Body, by author Richard Quain with illustrations by Joseph Maclise, published in 1844.

If you'd like to see the rest of the book, you can see all the art plates in the book here, with a link to the full digitized text as well.

Side by Side

The drawing isn't an exact match, as apparently the prop/set artists redrew the sketch to make it smaller and the area of dissection also smaller. While it was very clearly copied directly from this piece, the artist didn't quite replicate the exact facial features or even the anatomical details. Since it was used as set dressing and only seen for a split second on screen, I doubt it was given much importance--they were merely capturing the vibe of the art to support Nigel's characterization and further the macabre and gruesome atmosphere.

Meanings

It's part of the overall series of ephemera we are shown in his sketches and notebooks that highlight his interest in dissections, anatomy, etc. All of these sketches are meant to underline his "morbid fascination with all things dead."

The movie leaves us to decide whether we think he was copying this drawing from the book itself, or if he was sketching this from an actual dead human that he examined in person. We know from his notebooks that he did his own sketches of the animals he dissected, though it's hard to say if ALL of the images were his own work or if some were copied from books.

(I'm amused that Nigel Colbie was out here using regular old poster putty to put things up in his dorm room. It's so relatable and normal. He's truly just a guy.)

On the one hand, we know Nigel had access to the morgue. He knew where to find the tunnel entrance, knew that it would lead to the morgue and how to navigate the tunnels to get there, and he HAD A KEY. This absolutely suggests he had been there before. Perhaps he spent time studying and sketching the corpses. On the other hand, I find it unlikely that no one would notice if he had dissected the face and throat of a previously intact body, so it's hard to believe he could have done that and not alerted the staff to a security issue in their building. Another option is that he found one of these bodies already wounded in such a way that a study could be made without changing or disturbing it enough to be detected by staff later.

The simplest option is that he simply copied a drawing he found in a book, which is a standard practice for improving your art skills. Choose whichever possibility you find most believable and/or appealing.

One Final Note

I cannot decide if I think this was deliberate on the part of the production crew or simply a coincidence, but the original drawing does have hair that is vaguely reminiscent of Alex's style. In my opinion, the face doesn't really resemble him, though there are more similarities in the original than in the copy made for the film.

It feels unlikely to be a deliberate choice by the crew and I don't think it looks very much like Alex, but I feel like you could take that detail and run with it if you wanted. Invent head canons on why Nigel would sketch Alex with his throat sliced open, if that tickles your fancy. There's some fun to be had there.

[Like MInds Masterpost - Main]

[gyllenhaalstories]

TU ES JOLIE — DAVIS MITCHELL

summary: occasionally, he is a smooth talker. more often than not, he is an awkward chatterbox. and he is, always, very honest. that’s his thing, being honest about everything.

warnings: curse words, mentions of food, smut (dirty talk & retro sexting,  hickeys, mild nipple play, clit rubbing & fingering, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, humping and mentions of other implied sexual activities). 18+ NO MINORS.

word count: 3710

gif credit: me (@/gyllenhaalstories) / divider credits: @/firefly-graphics

notes: even though i have no idea what this fic even is, i did it. i finally wrote for my beloved precious husband. why don’t you listen to sufjan stevens’ to be alone with you while you read? you can read this even if you have not watched demolition, you will learn that he holds letters (and women’s underwear) dear to his heart. 📝 thank you for reading & REMEMBER TO REBLOG!

“My dear,

I have to catch the train before the sun had time to rise. I promised you a grilled cheese, hopefully not burned since they are no longer edible when the orange cheese turns black and smokey, and your coffee, hopefully with your favourite creamer and not that peppermint flavour I bought last winter that tastes horrible. I left everything you would need on the counter (and inside the refrigerator), hopefully you think of me when you have breakfast.

I know I will be thinking of you. I already am when I’m writing this letter. And I will think of you on the train. I will think of you on the plane. I will think of you until I get to hold you in my arms again. And kiss your cheeks. Your lips. Your face. Your neck, I know you like that. And I like how sensitive your skin gets when I suck a mark on that spot near your collarbone, you always flinch when I kiss over it again later. Is it like it right now? Did you flinch when you touched it? I hope you did.

Enjoy the morning. I would love to enjoy my morning with you. I miss the way you slowly wake up in my arms when I hold on to you tight. I miss feeling you pressed against me. I miss hearing your noises when my hands explore your body. I miss you.

Sincerely, David C. Mitchell.”

This was the first letter Davis left you before his departure for his business trip. Something about Silicon Valley, you did not remember, and neither did he.

He knew he would be gone. He knew he wanted to be back already.

Your eyes ran over the ink on the paper, you could hear the words in your mind as if Davis was speaking them to you right this moment.

He signed with his full name, it made you chuckle. He always did that, even for the simplest of notes stuck on the wall by the front door or in an email sent from his iPhone. It was a habit, you assumed. He was a special guy, in more ways than one.

Your fingertips brushed over the soft, silk-like texture of the ribbon that held the tissue paper together. He was not much of a gift giver, you did not mind. He communicated his love differently, in his own special way. The package he left with the neatly folded letter on his side of the bed was as much as a surprise as the letter itself. A text would have sufficed, rushed in the airport before boarding the flight.

Davis had taken his sweet time wrapping a series of thoughtful presents. He tried to remember the secretary at work, and how she wrapped the presents his boss sent to the other employees. She wrote the notes. She curled the ribbon with the blade of a scissor. He wanted to do that too, and he tried until he succeeded. The mess of tape and wrinkled paper in the trash bin downstairs were proof of his hard work.

You revealed a delicate piece of underwear, you held it up so softly. You let the sun light through it, glowing. It was white. White like his collection of dress shirts. It was simple, it was pretty, it was already one of your favourite pair of panties. After your quick morning shower, the water turned cold on purpose to stop the overflow of mixed feelings about Davis’ absence, you put them on.

The panties fit you perfectly. Davis knew it. He studied your body like it was a map he wholeheartedly desired to get lost in. The curves, the shapes, the details. It was printed in his otherwise foggy, maze-like memory.

“Sweetheart,

You should go outside tonight. I will be outside too. We will be looking at the same moon. It will be half full. Like me. Half empty without you.

I want to sleep outside with you. I want to set up a tent as if we would go camping in the middle of nowhere. Bring blankets and pillows. I want to stick our heads out of the zipped exit and look at the stars. I want to make up constellations and galaxies. They will make no sense, scientifically speaking. They will make sense to me.

While we are outside, I want us to feel cold, the breeze of the evening getting chilly. I want to pull you closer to me. I will say it’s to warm you up. It’s a lie, it’s because I need to be closer to you. I want to look in your eyes and see the night sky shining in them. I want to forget we are in our white picket fenced in yard. I want to be alone with you. I want to go down on you. I want you to tell me what you see while all I see is your body moving in waves against my mouth. I want to make love to you. I want to take it slow. I want to feel you. And I want you to feel me. I want to tell you how beautiful you are, so much more beautiful than the sky. You won’t believe me. I will tell you until you do.

With love, Davis.”  

Your thighs were pressed together on your computer chair.

Davis had left the letter in your shared home office, tucked under the colour coded to-do list of the end of the week and a paper weight in the shape of a rose quartz heart.

The scribbled words, the increasing rush in his handwriting in the last paragraph. It was like he tried to write faster than he could think. It was like you tried to read faster than you could see.

You added on your to-do list to buy camping equipment.

“Remember when we had sex on this table? It cracked so loud we thought we had broken it. We laughed so hard too, I don’t remember what I liked the most, seeing your blissful face after you came around me or the tears falling down your cheeks from your laughter. I want to fuck you on this table again.

And again.

And again.

I want to break it.

Buy a new one. Demolish it again.

D.

PS: Look on the seat of the second chair to the right.”

It was dinner when you found your third letter of the day. In the middle of it, the ink had gone from a faded blue to a striking red. He must have killed a pen trying to write it, you guessed.

He had tried to finish the later while you were in the other room, unaware of his plan to make the two days of his trip more tolerable for you.

You did not bother to finish your food and you stood up from your chair. You pulled each one, searching for a similar package as the morning. You found it, it was plump, squishy. You explored it before you uncovered it from the tissue paper. It was a cozy bathrobe, somewhere between something you would steal from a hotel out of fun, and something Davis would take pleasure in peeling it off you. It was white, too.

Like the panties. Like the bra you found in your office, on the box of papers and envelopes you needed to organize from work.

You needed him to come back. And fast.

*~*~*

Unfortunate miscommunication, that was the excuse his boss told him about his delayed flight. Davis could not join him back home, he had to wait for the next flight sometime in the afternoon. He was disappointed.

It was a fortunate mistake for you, somehow. When Davis informed you he had to wait a couple of hours, you set up the scene for him to come back. You cleaned up, you prepped snacks for later when his stomach would growl. You showered, did your routine, you lit up a few candles.

He sounded tired on the phone, talking nonsense with floating, imaginary numbers and putting on this persona he felt so disconnected from drained him.

He took care of you while he was gone. It was your turn to take care of him when he would return.

You grabbed a pen and a pad of sticky notes. You walked around the house with your open robe, catching the scent of Davis’ cologne that you liked to wear when he was away. You started leaving note after note until you made your way to the bedroom.

The timing was perfect, you got a text from him saying he was about to drive back home.

Finally. You needed him to come back.

You caught sight of yourself in the mirror, dressed in the robe and lingerie he had gotten you. You liked what you saw.

Davis would like it even more. He tried to hush the voice of anticipation in his mind, keep it quiet, keep himself focused on the road. The closer he was to your street, the more he focused. Not on the road, but on you. He was doubtful: did you find the letters? did you take time to read them? did you like what he bought you? would you be happy to see him?

The doubts disappeared. A smile appeared on his face. He pulled on the first sticky note, it was by the shoe rack in the entrance.

“Follow me.”

So, he followed. His eyes were searching for neon pink papers, distributed in the living room, the kitchen, by the stair case.

“I missed you. I can’t wait to see you. I’m glad you’re here.”

You heard him climb up the stairs, and you fixed your hair and appearance once again. You thought you would sit on the bed, let him discover his present like you discovered his, but your heart had other plans.

Davis had barely made it to door frame that the loud noise of his army surplus bag dropping to the floor did not succeed to cover your excited squeal. He wrapped you in his arms, catching you while you ran to him.

You wasted no time in thanking him, with words and kisses.

He wasted no time telling you he missed you, with a smile.

You asked him about his trip.

He told you the less boring details, so he said very little. His boss and he, especially Davis, closed a deal with a French company, something about a long-term contract across the ocean. Numbers, all invisible and nothing tangible. “I learned something.”

You arched your brow, your arms wrapping up around his neck and resting on his broad shoulders. “What is it?”

He swallowed, you pulled away to loosen up his tie and unbutton the top of his shirt. He helped you, by removing the tie altogether.

You helped him, by opening the rest of his shirt one button at a time, slowly. His shirt was white. It matched your lingerie.

“Tu es jolie.”

You looked in his eyes. He was proud, content. He was happy, and even happier that you were wearing his gift.

“It means you’re pretty,” he nodded, putting emphasis on his words to prove his sincerity. “In French.”

“You’re a smooth talker.” You replied, while your hands worked to unzip and loosen his dress pants around his toned waist.

He furrowed his brows in confusion. “I’m not a smooth talker.”

“Before those letters, I would have agreed.” You teased him with a smirk, you teased his body by running your hands over his back and pulling him closer to your body. Your palms rested on his dimples, right above the curve of his ass. “It was really sweet. I love the letters.”

He held your face in his hands, delicately. The kiss he pressed against your lips had no delicacy, it was rough, it was hungry. It was different from his whole demeanour.

You welcomed the change. It felt so nice to be reunited with him, it felt even nicer, though, to realize that he had missed you as much as you missed him.

Davis pushed you towards the bed, thoughtful to break your embrace so you could get on the wrinkled sheets. He leaned forward, kissing you once again, until he had to gasp for air. He took off the rest of his clothes, leaving him in nothing but his gray briefs.

You looked at him, from his beautiful face down to his just as beautiful body. He was clumsy in the way he moved, excited and rushing. Yet, he still took his time and you enjoyed every second you received to admire him.

He settled against the headboard, with his back pressed against it and his arms and legs open for you to crawl to him and sit in the spot he created for you.

And you did just that, without hesitation, after you removed the bathrobe. You sat between his legs and pressed your back against his front.

He pushed your legs open with his feet, locking yours in place. He could barely see you, from behind you, but he loved the view he had from over your shoulder. The valley between your breasts, your body warm and ready for him. He noticed how you were breathing when his hands caressed your skin.

You wanted him to stop with the teasing, stop with the slow motions as if you had all the time in the world. The words got stuck in your throat and left you confused, you did feel like you had all the time in the world. Why rush?

There was no reason to rush. Davis repeated that sentence to himself, no sound coming out of his mouth, only his lips moving whine he trailed kisses over your shoulder. He did not bother moving the strap of your bra out of the way, he liked it there. He kissed around it.

You put your hands over his, not guiding him, simply following where he wanted to go.

He lingered on your thighs, scratching your skin lightly with his nails. He moved to your hips and tummy, his pinkie fingers, and yours, brushing over the waist band of the panties. He moved up, and up, and up, until he cupped your tits in his hands. He squeezed them, pressed them together.

You helped him, pulling down on the piece of fabric so your breasts would hang over the cups and so you could feel his hands directly on yours. You moaned in his ear.

He pulled on your nipples, soft at first, but then rougher. He wanted to take them in his mouth so bad, to flick his tongue over them until he pulled more of those moans out of you. He refrained, making a mental note not to forget about it.

“I missed you so much.” You said, turning your head at an awkward angle to meet with his cheek so you could press a kiss on it.

Maybe those were the magic words, you did not really know. Either way, it was what convinced Davis to pick up the pace. He kept his left hand on your thigh, pulling slightly on your skin to leave even more room for his other hand that he pressed on your core. He felt a wet patch there, he throbbed in the confine of his boxers.

You imitated him, pulling on your other thigh to give him space while your hips bucked against his hand.

He pressed his middle finger against the fabric, pushing it between your folds. He pressed harder, rubbing tight circles against your covered clit. “Is it okay like that?”

Your mind was starting to get hazy, not really understanding what he meant with his question. It was hard to think, it had been hard to think these past two days, between missing him and needing him both so badly, you were melting under his touch. “Keep going, please.”

“I love you.” He repeated over and over again, this time audibly. Once again, he was taken aback by an indescribable urge, by this craving to feel you incredibly closer. His finger rubbed harder against you, his other hand joined so he could push two digits against your hole.

The panties were in the way, but the friction felt nice. Not as nice as you wanted it to be, but nice nonetheless. You rocked your hips against him and you threw your head back, resting it on his shoulder.

Davis was solid, he kept you safe in his embrace despite the waves of your body that swam with the little bit of pleasure he was giving you. “It feels so fucking good.” He whispered, his jaw clenched but released to let out deep grunt when you rubbed against him just the right way. It was not comfortable. It was not ideal. It was better than he imagined.

You tried to move the lingerie out of the way, sneaking a finger in between his to pull on the crotch part of it.

You managed to lose one of Davis’ hands on your covered pussy, instead he locked your hand immobile on your thigh while he pressed his whole hand against you. He rubbed hard, fast, rough.

It hurt and it felt good all at once. “Shit!” You exclaimed. “Davis, please, please, please.”

“You look so pretty like that.” You felt his teeth grazing against the skin of your neck until he noticed how you flinched when he found that exact spot he mentioned in his letter. He nibbled, he licked over it to soothe the bruise that formed as he started to suck hard on it. “I need you.”

“I need you too, fuck, please!” Your eyes were tightly shut close, your lungs felt like they were burning.

He did not bless you with the feeling of his fingers against your sensitive bundle of nerves, he enjoyed the soaked fabric too much to move it out of the way. “I know you want to cum, baby,” He moaned when you did too, your noises resonated in the otherwise quiet room. “Give it to me.”

Your legs were open wide, tensing up. You had one arm reaching behind you so that you could grip on his short hair. Your breathing matched his.

He brought both of your left hands up to your left breast and squeezed it while his fingers worked you over the edge. He pulled on your nipple again, you helped him pull even further, twisting it too. “Keep going.” He repeated your words, like you had a choice at all.

It was leaning on the painful side a little too much, a little too fast. Davis was taking you far beyond your orgasm, to the point where tears pooled at the corner of your eyes that were rolled back. You tried to squirm out of his grip, but he managed to catch all of your attempts. “Fuck, fuck, Davis, fuck!”

“You say fuck a lot.” He chuckled.

Your ears started to ring and when you opened your eyes, you noticed little white spots floating in the air. Air. Right. You remembered to breathe, you put your efforts into taking a deep breath, but it remained stuck in your throat.

Davis was rubbing you to a second orgasm, it was a rough one. It was like he pulled it out of you with the way he rubbed you, still over your now ruined panties. He was not giving up, he kept going despite the growing cramp in his wrist, despite his own hard-on getting painful from the lack of actual touch, despite the veins bulging on his arm and his muscles turning into flames from the lack of break.

He got you to cum a second time, to push you until you could no longer take it, both physically and mentally. It drained you, you soaked your lingerie and his fingers with your wetness.

“So fucking pretty.”

Slowly, your bodies shifted. It started by how you pulled him for a kiss despite being out of breath and by how your body was still shaking at the force of your two orgasms.

It continued with Davis wrapping an arm around you and helping you lay down.

Then, Davis was on top of yours, laying between your tired hips and tired legs.

Next, it was a battle of teeth and tongue while he kissed you like he had not seen you in an eternity.

Davis started to rock his hips against you. he had managed to take his boxer briefs off, you did not even know how. His cock was hard, reddened by the pressure of his underwear. You felt it rubbing against your sensitive folds.

You caged him in, your legs wrapping as best as you could around his waist.

The grunts that emanated from him were delicious, they were enchanting in a way. They were guttural. He was so sensitive, he could not do anything but hump against your covered core, sometimes between your thighs, sometimes above and against your lower stomach.

There was a rush. You needed him to cum as much as he had needed you to do it too.

And he did, fuck he did. He came with a long moan and barely audible begs for you to keep him close, safe, in your arms. He unloaded on the fabric of the delicate panties and he still jerked his hips against you, humping you until his own body decided he had enough.

You helped him come down from his high, with kisses and rubs along his back and flexing biceps.

“Oop.” Davis exclaimed when he pushed himself up on his exhausted arms. He looked down between your bodies, beyond the layer of sweat and the scratching marks he left earlier. It was a mess. “I guess I’ll have to buy you new panties.”

You chuckled, exhausted and content. You agreed. “You knew it would ruin them.”

“Well, I wasn’t positive, but I was hoping it would ruin them.”

The smile, that goofy smile. You kissed his lips and he kept smiling. His smile spoke more words than a thousand letters signed with the warmest of regards by Davis C. Mitchell.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Simon Schama: art versus the tyrants

From Václav Havel to Ai Weiwei, writers and artists have led the way in the fight for human rights

* * * *

Simon Schama: art versus the tyrants

From Václav Havel to Ai Weiwei, writers and artists have led the way in the fight for human rights

* * * *

I know a poem can’t stop a tank. But the reverse is also true. As I’m writing this, the streets of China and Iran have been alive with infuriated, chanting crowds, so tired of being institutionally deceived and robbed of any personal agency or independence of mind that they are prepared to risk arrest and imprisonment rather than be silenced by regimes demanding obedience to lies. “Culture wars” ought not to be confused with the laborious woke-baiting that has become the default position of populist media in the west. The women’s revolt in Iran is a culture war; Ukrainian resistance to the militarised fantasies of Russian imperialism is at root also a culture war, a refusal to accept Vladimir Putin’s contention that their nation’s language and history are a delusion. It is not accidental that one of the most powerful weapons that the actor-writer President Volodymyr Zelenskyy leading Ukraine has at his command is the gift of candid human communication.

Growing up in the 1950s, my baby-boomer generation assumed that the screamers of hate, the destroyers of culture, had gone with the war. “Well, boys,” our school history teacher confidently proclaimed around 1958, “we don’t really know what the rest of the 20th century has in store for us, but you can at least be sure of this: religious oppression and rabid nationalism are things of the past.” When, in that same year, Boris Pasternak won the Nobel Prize for Dr Zhivago, we thought that even the adamantine rock face of Soviet authoritarianism could somehow be cracked open just far enough for truth, memory and a faint breeze of freedom to be admitted. Even if Pasternak was demonised as an enemy of the Soviet people and forced to decline the prize, we believed that, sooner or later, light would return, as for a while, 30 years later, it did.

Becoming a historian was, we thought, a vote of confidence in the victory of the Enlightenment. When the civil rights movement in the US flowered in the 1960s, we bought into Martin Luther King Jr’s conviction that “the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice”. Often enough, though, it snaps. Four days after he spoke those words in 1968 at the National Cathedral, Washington DC, he was murdered in Memphis.

My new BBC2 television series is the fruit of sombre, late-life reflection that the History of Now was prefigured in the History of Then; that what we had imagined to be things of the past have returned to shadow the present and future. Shrieking, whether online or on platforms, is back; hate is sexy and stalks the world as “disruption”. So those old battles need to be refought, and with the help of the unlikely weapons that once opened eyes and changed minds: the soft power of culture — poetically charged words, images, music, all of which can, in some circumstances, exert a force beyond the workaday stuff of politics. Culture can do this because it can connect with human habits, needs and intuitions in ways that expose the inhuman hollowness of official propaganda.

...

What Václav Havel, in his most original and penetrating text, called “the power of the powerless” is capable of putting despotisms on the back foot, simply by being in sync with the simplest and most natural human instincts. Authoritarians can mobilise their heavy artillery of terror, torture, imprisonment and persecution; but in the end, Havel argued, they are not that well equipped to fight the asymmetric battle between lies and truth. Havel believed that the vast majority of people are not content to be forever walled within a prison of falsehood, where the price of material security and domestic safety is the unconditional surrender of personal freedom.

For a while — perhaps many decades — punitive disincentives against disruptive truth-speaking can prevail, especially when reinforced by visceral appeals to tribal loyalty: the demonisation of hate figures (such as George Soros) said to personify foreign manipulation. In the end what Havel calls the “trapped air”— a natural human wish to be able to speak one’s mind in a café, dress as one wishes (including visible hair), listen to unauthorised music, all the innumerable small acts of social defiance — can build into a rising tide of disgust. When Czech police infiltrated the underground concerts of the Plastic People of the Universe in the 1970s — concerned, as their saxophonist Vratislav Brabanec remembered, that the music was some sort of “black illness” that would grow and generate disaffection — they only guaranteed more risible contempt. But there was a price. In 1976 the band was jailed for months, a wound Brabanec says you carry for ever. Why the wound? “Because I was innocent,” he says over his morning beer. “I was jailed for playing the saxophone.”

[MORE]

[wroteasongabouther]

can’t stand to see you lonely: part 1

a/n: oh my god guys it’s finally here!😬 i really hope i didn’t hype myself up too much and that you guys actually like it. overall i just wanted to put out a story that revolved around christmas and this is what i came up with! so without me babbling too much, i hope you enjoy part 1 of my new story and as always any feedback/reblogs are very much appreciated.

and of course, thank you to the lovely jess @arrogantstyles and jill @havethetimeofyourstyles for beta reading this part for me and giving this rusty old writer the help i needed lol

word count: 17k

warnings: mentions of alcohol, some sexual tension, and an over consumption of starbucks holiday drinks.

fic page // let’s chat // cstsyl playlist 

“What floor?” Harry asks, eyes stuck on the many buttons in the elevator instead of seeing who had entered the small space with him. He can tell it’s a woman, and they smelt lovely.

“Six please,” her soft voice replies.

Harry looks over his shoulder in what he hopes is a smooth motion to get a quick peek at who was behind that sweet voice. Her eyes were squinting slightly as she smiles at him. She must be my new neighbour, he thinks as he hits the number six button and it lights up before the elevator begins to move. He steps back, standing in the opposite corner of the young woman. Harry assumes that she is maybe a few years younger than him, but one thing he knew for sure was that she was very pretty. He may even say she was stunning. She's all bundled up with a long coat and a thick scarf as he guesses she had just gone out for some shopping, judging by the few large white paper bags hanging off her arm.

“Did you just recently move in?” He questions, catching her eyes switching from gazing at the wall to his own instead.

She smiles again and nods, “yeah.”

“I thought I heard someone move in beside me,” he exclaims. He was certain that someone had moved in beside him. It caused him a bit of a headache hearing all the moving around. And then on top of that, his new neighbour had decided to get right to hammering in on the wall they shared. Little did he know, there was a determined and beautiful girl on the other side.  

“Oh you’re my neighbour then?” She says, bringing Harry back from his memory of a few days ago.

“Harry,” he introduces himself, reaching a hand out into the space between them. She switches her Starbucks holiday cup into her other hand in order to shake his. Her hand is warm from holding the drink and it causes Harry's stomach to erupt with little bitty butterflies.

“Y/N,” she says in the same gentle voice as before. He wanted to hear her talk more. There was something about the soft tone of her voice, like he could listen to her speak into the late hours and early mornings and never once get tired of it. He blinks a few times and drops her hand at his intimate thought.

Harry didn't believe in love at first sight per say, but he was known to develop an infatuation of sorts very quickly. A crush as some would call it. Well, to be precise, Mitch teases him the most of his little crushes. There was that one time that Harry fumbled over his words over and over again when they had gone for dinner and had a rather attractive waitress, having asked for her number at the end of the night too. Mitch mocked him for days about it, asking if she had ever texted him back - she didn’t. And Harry didn’t even want to think about the time he spilled an entire blended margarita on his white vans when a certain handsome lifeguard had winked at him during their trip in LA last summer. Mitch still doesn’t let that incident go either.

The elevator doors open, and Harry gives her a smile and motions with a hand for her to walk out before he does. His mom must’ve raised him well, Y/N thinks at her new neighbours mannerisms. First holding the elevator for her, then offering to press the elevator button, and now letting her exit first. Suppose it was just minor things, but growing up in this lovely city that is New York meant she was used to the rudeness of people and sadly the simplest of gestures can make her heart beat just a bit faster in her chest.

“If you uh,” Harry pauses as Y/N stops at her front door but looks back at him as he speaks. Harry slows his steps to keep eye contact with her. “If you ever need anything, don’t feel shy to knock on my door.”

Y/N smiles again, nodding at his offer while she twists her key in the lock and opens her front door. Harry's walking backwards now, just a few steps to that same door he’s saying she can knock on. His eye contact is intense, but addicting, like every word she had to say to him mattered. His eyes are green, just green, nothing crazy and yet she found them very endearing. Would it be cliche of her to say she swore she saw them sparkle?

“I’ll keep that in mind, thank you,” she says and before she can say anything else, she steps into her new apartment and shuts the door behind her.

Y/N finds herself standing there for a moment, remembering every word Harry had spoken to her as she slips out of her shoes. She then remembers his facial features while undoing her coat and hanging it up along with her scarf. The bit of facial hair he was sporting, how it seemed like it may have taken a while to grow so he kept it minimal. Or that little mole by his mouth, she even took note of that in their short time together. He had a cute nose too, she thinks. Harry takes up every inch of space in her mind for over an hour before she’s brought out of whatever dream state fog she was in. She lets out a deep breath and shakes her head a little before going about wrapping the presents she had bought earlier in the day while sipping her Christmas Starbucks drink, falling back in love with the holidays all over again.

“No, no, no, no,” Y/N groans as she twists and turns the knobs for her shower, and yet, nothing happens. Only a few drops fall to the tiled floor causing her to let out another string of curses. “This can not be happening,” she says.

But it was. Y/N’s hair was a mess, beyond greasy and a bit matted from her sleep last night. Not to mention she smelt like sweat from bringing up the box that held her new fake christmas tree this morning. She had been tempted to walk down the hall and knock on Harry's door, but she didn’t want to be annoying and fall into the stereotypes of the helpless young female living on her own for the first time. So instead she grabbed a cable knit sweater, tugged on her old dirty ugg boots, and went down in the elevator to meet with the Amazon delivery person. Little did she know that the box was way too tall for the elevator. So, she ended up bringing it up herself. All six flights of stairs, Y/N pulled and dragged that box up to her floor which caused her to break quite the sweat. Thankfully, it wasn’t so heavy, but she couldn’t help but think that she went through all of this just so she could get her new fake christmas tree up. Freaking fake! Not even a real one because apparently that wasn't allowed at her apartment building. Oh, how she was going to miss the smell of a fresh christmas tree. And oh, how she wanted to get rid of this disgusting smell of sweat she embodied now.

“Why me?” She winces, looking up at the ceiling and letting the glass door for her shower close as she gave up on the water magically appearing.

Is this the most appropriate time to not be shy and knock on Harry's door? Suddenly, her Apple watch vibrates, and she brings her arm up to see the reminder she had set before to tell her of the tight schedule she’s on for the day. With only 45 minutes left to get ready, she needed to get moving quickly. Y/N curses herself for wasting the past fifteen minutes on her phone, reading over her newest Instagram comments and aimlessly scrolling through her feed. So she tugs both sides of her purple robe that she had changed into anticipating a shower in her own home. Y/N pulls it tighter and ties the belt around her waist into a bow, and before she can give it a second thought, she’s out the door of her own apartment and starting down the hallway.

Harry didn’t know when he thought Y/N would eventually knock on his door. A part of Harry was hoping that she would have knocked sooner than a week later. But nonetheless, when there was a frantic knock on his door, he didn’t miss how his heart skips in his chest as he imagined Y/N standing on the other side. Peering through the peephole in his door he saw her standing there - in a bathrobe? Harry's brows pull together in confusion as he unlocks the door and heaves the door open.

“Is your water working?” She asks, her voice sounding as panicked as her knocking had been. But before Harry can answer she starts talking a million miles an minute. “Cause mine’s not, like not a single drop and I need to shower. So badly. And I know it’s probably super weird and rude of me to just bang on your door and ask to use your shower. Honestly, I can’t even believe I am but I am in such a hurry and I have the busiest day ahead of me with work and going to the-”

“Y/N,” Harry cuts her off abruptly. Y/N rolls her lips into her mouth and blinks up at him. “You need to use my shower? Is that what you’re getting at?”

Harry is a bit thrown off, not once did he think she’d come knocking for this reason. He glances down the hall awkwardly. He hopes that that noisy neighbour of theirs across the hall wasn’t peeping into their conversation, or seeing Y/N in this bathrobe. Mr Matthers can be a bit of a creep, Harry thinks. At the thought he hears a creak come from behind the door that’s across the hall.

She nods, “I know it’s like super strange to ask but mine is not working and I don’t have time to figure it out.” When Harry looks back at her, he notices she’s staring down at the ground between them, her eyes blinking rapidly as if she’s realizing what she’s gotten herself into. Harry didn’t want her to feel uncomfortable.

“S’alright, really, come in,” Harry says while opening the door to his apartment wider.

Y/N gives him a smile of appreciation before stepping into his home. The layout of Harry’s apartment is really just the opposite of hers, but the interior design he’s gone with is a lot better.

He’s gone for the classic monochrome look with blacks, white and greys. But with pops of colour where it matters, like a blanket over the back of his large L-shaped couch that looked handmade. She wonders if a family member made it, quite liking the light blues and pinks blended together. He’s got the same hardwood flooring like her own apartment and the plain off white paint on the walls - but with a few very unique paintings hung up on them. There’s two tall shelves, full of vinyls and novels and some picture frames too, that are on either side of his large flat screen tv which he took the time to hook up on the wall. It’s got a TV show paused on the screen, in her quick glance she can’t tell what show he was watching before she knocked but it looked like a cooking show. The corners of her lips twitch up into a smile at the thought of Harry being into cooking or baking maybe. He’s got a matching chair to his couch in the living room too that looks like she could fall asleep in it within a second. Overall it simply seems more grown up than her apartment - more put together and clean, that’s for sure.

To give her some credit, she has just moved in while she’s sure Harry’s been here for a while. Harry steps away from the door after locking it again, taking a few steps in order to be in her line of sight. With an arm thrown up, finger pointing down the hall, he gives Y/N another smile. He can’t help it, she looks rather adorable in that purple bathrobe. Was that all she was wearing? He thought to himself. He clears his throat as his mind goes on to imagine what’s under that plush purple material she’s wearing.

“Bathroom’s the first on the left,” he states, “did you bring your own soap or anything?”

“Honestly, no, I just kind of ran out of my place in quite a hurry and didn’t think twice as I got the sudden nerve to come over here.”

“Well, lucky for you I care about hair care, so there’s some good shampoos and even a nice hair oil to put into your hair afterwards when it’s damp. It’s in a small clear bottle with a white and gold label, by my toothbrush,” Harry explains. Y/N nods and starts towards the bathroom. With each step further into Harry’s home, she realizes what exactly she’s done. She can’t believe it really - just asking a complete stranger to let her shower in their home. She could be a murderer for all Harry knew, and he just opened his home up so freely. She steps into the bathroom, switching on the lights and the fan, she shuts the door and sighs. Lifting her arm up her Apple watch lights up to show the time. She had twenty minutes tops to shower, that’s all.

The bathroom is clean, very clean actually. Y/N lets her gaze wander around the space for a moment. There’s matching hand towels and all his skin and hair care are placed neatly on the small counter space too. She assumes he’s a bit of a neat freak. Turning to the shower, she opens the glass door gently and instantly reaches for the silver knobs. As she turns them water falls from the showerhead above her.

“Thank God,” she whispers while looking up at the water.

Y/N adjusts it to her preferred temperature and then she works on untying the knot of her robe. Words can’t describe how grateful she is that it held together in front of Harry. Him seeing her in the robe and with her hair in the state it’s in is embarrassing enough. Honestly, she can’t believe she even knocked on his door in it, and without any clothes to change into afterwards too. Stupid, she thinks while opening the glass door once more and stepping into the shower.

As Harry had said, there’s many bottles littering the built in shelves of the shower. Her fingers lazily turn the bottles so the labels face her. They’re all scented lavender of some sorts, helping with curly hair and volume. Well that explains why his hair looks so lovely, Y/N thinks as she opens a bottle of shampoo and squeezes it till a good amount falls into her other hand. As she hums ‘Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas’ she lathers up her hair and massages her scalp. Rinsing it out after and then doing the same with the conditioner. While she lets the conditioner sit in her hair she scans the few other bottles on the shelves for a body wash. She didn’t want to come out of the shower smelling like a pre-teen boy, but she also did not want to smell like sweat. Goats milk and lavender infused, Y/N reads the label of what looks to do a locally owned product. She can’t help but smile as she reaches for it and pours some into her hands before rubbing it over her skin. There’s something so sweet knowing that Harry supports local businesses. He really doesn’t seem like the guys that Y/N is used to.

Three sharp knocks on the door startle Y/N, bringing her out of her day dreams. She quickly brings her arms up to her chest, trying to save herself some modesty if Harry did walk in. Because of course she didn’t think to lock the door. God, what if Harry is a murderer? Y/N thinks. She doesn’t know him, he could very well walk in here with a large kitchen knife and stab her multiple times in the chest while the water begins to run red and she dies right here all because she thought his dimpled smile and green eyes were enduring. Didn’t she learn anything from the whole Ted Bundy thing? Hello, hot guy doesn’t immediately mean nice!

“Y/N?” Harry calls out from the other side of the door, raising his voice just slightly so she could hear it over the running water. She shakes her head from her ridiculous thought - no more Criminal Minds at night for her, she takes the quick mental note.

“Yes?” She responds.

“I just realized I didn’t give you a towel,” he says, his voice sounding strained as he closes his eyes and tries to not imagine his neighbour naked in his shower. Harry’s fist tightens around the towel as his mind ignores him and thinks of how the water is dripping down her skin.

“Oh, yeah,” she breathes out. Looking around the bathroom beyond the foggy glass. There weren't any towels that she could see. Maybe they were under the sink.

“So I uh, I grabbed one for you. I can just open the door really fast and drop it in, I wouldn’t look in I swear, I’d face the hallway and just reach through,” he clarifies, “wait, you locked the door didn’t you?”

“Actually, I didn’t,” Y/N says, “so yeah just drop it in, please and thank you,”

Harry nods, regardless of the fact Y/N can’t see him. He takes a deep breath before turning the doorknob and opening the door just a crack. The towel doesn’t quite fit through, so he opens it a bit more. His eyes are on the towel as he makes sure it gets into the bathroom. He notices the steam pillowing in the small space and just before he looks the other way, he sees Y/N’s purple bathrobe on the floor. Only her purple bathrobe. Harry swallows and drops the towel to the floor and quickly shuts the door again. Y/N jumps at the sudden slam of the door, her heart having been beating out of her chest as she stood under the warm stream of water and listened to Harry deliver the towel.

He spins around and walks away from the bathroom in a brisk walk, making it to his kitchen in record time. He takes a few breaths and blinks at the view from his kitchen window above the sink. It’s beginning to snow. Something tells him this will excite Y/N - just a feeling he has. He hardly knows the girl and he’s been conjuring up versions of her in his head these past seven days. He’d heard her play music through the walls Tuesday night, he recognized the artist after a few moments. Van Morrison, one of his favourites. What were the odds? He had thought. But then he quickly shut that thought down because many people liked Van Morrison, and just because his very cute neighbour liked the same music he did, that didn’t mean she was meant for him.

Then on Thursday in the middle of the day he had seen her running across the street from his apartment. One thing he loved about his apartment facing the front of the building is how he got to see people coming and going. That day it looked as though she was carrying a take out bag from his favourite restaurant. Again, what were the odds that she liked the same place? But again, he had another hard conversation with himself saying that it was a rather popular place in this area and lots of people liked to go there. Y/N was still a stranger to him. A naked and attractive stranger who was in his bathroom right now.

Harry breathes in deeply and leans both hands at either side of his sink as he watches the large snowflakes fall over New York City. He still couldn’t believe he lived here sometimes. Having grown up in a rather small town in Northern England, where the most exciting thing was the bakery he used to work in as a young teen or maybe the fun graffiti on some of the walls downtown, living in NYC always seemed a bit unrealistic to think of. But this was always a dream of his. To be in one of the biggest cities in the United States and doing what he loved the most.

“It’s snowing?” Y/N’s voice full of irritation catches Harry off guard. He turns around to see her standing in the threshold between his kitchen and living room. That purple robe, which would be making an appearance in his dreams he’s sure of, is back on her now clean body while the towel he had given her is wrapped around her hair atop of her head.

“You don’t like the snow?” Harry questions, both of his brows raised high at how off he was about his instinct of her loving the snow.

“No, I mean, yes I do,” she shakes her head slightly, “I just don't like driving it in. New York drivers already freaking suck and the moment snow starts falling it’s like they forget how to drive altogether.” Y/N explains, crossing her arms at her chest.

“It’s the same in London, nearly got into a few accidents in my early years of driving thanks to it,” Harry reveals. Y/N smiles at the knowledge about himself he had let slip, regardless of how irrelevant it is.

“Anyways,” she sighs, “thank you for letting me barge in here and use your shower.”

“It’s no problem, really,” Harry assures her.

“No seriously, you saved me a lot of trouble.”

Harry’s chest swells at her words, mirroring her smile as he stuffs his hands into the front pocket of his trousers and leans back against the edge of the counter. Y/N takes this time to look over Harry’s outfit. He’s got on a cream collared ribbed t-shirt, a beaded necklace adorning his neck, a pair of brown pants that flare out and nearly hid his white sock covered feet. He doesn't dress like the men Y/N sees day to day. It's different, kind of old school, but she likes it. Suits him, she thinks, despite the fact that she barely knows him.

“You’ve got to drive somewhere?” Harry questions, unsure if he’s prying.

“Yeah, JFK unfortunately,” she frowns.

“That’s going to be a nightmare,” Harry says.

“Thanks for the reminder, yeah,” Y/N teases him while fighting back the smile pulling at her mouth.

“Sorry, I just meant that it’s sort of a long drive and airport terminals are a pain, that's all.”

“I’m just bugging you. It most definitely is going to be a nightmare,” Y/N agrees with a chuckle, “and I’m going to be late if I don’t hurry.” She adds while jabbing a thumb over her shoulder in the direction of her own apartment. Harry nods and notices how her robe’s a bit looser than before as she drops her arms and it falls a few inches down her shoulder - exposing more of her soft looking skin. Harry has to look away and walk towards his front door with Y/N before his imagination gets the best of him.

Harry unlocks the door and holds it open for Y/N to walk out of his home. He liked having her in his space. Harry internally curses himself for yet another intimate thought about his neighbour fogs up his mind. Just as she steps over the threshold of his apartment, Y/N spins on her heels quickly and reaches up with both hands to grab the twisted up towel around her hair. Harry nearly comes undone right then and there. The sight of her wet hair falling down effortlessly around her freshly washed face causes Harry’s mouth to feel dry suddenly. But as she makes the move to reach up, pulling it off of her head, and then holding out the towel in front of her, all of this causes her robe to fall even more off of her shoulders. Now both of her shoulders were fully exposed for him to see. Which Y/N notices right away and blushes, rushing to try and readjust herself, then only holding the towel with one hand while she bares her other arm over her chest to keep the robe from falling open completely.

“Nearly stole your towel,” Y/N breathes out.

She’s distracted by how her robe is slipping apart and how Harry’s eyes are falling with it. Harry clears his throat and takes the towel from her, giving her a chance to fix her robe, and he leans against his door for support as his head spins from the scene he has played out in his head. Her robe falling apart, seeing the swell of her breasts, how her nipples must look. He imagines they’re hard from the chill in the hallway, pebbling into little buds. Then he’s imagining how he’d pull her back into his apartment, kissing and touching all over her skin till she’s left breathless and begging for more.

“Thanks,” Harry says and drops his arm to hold the towel down at his side.

“I owe you one,” Y/N states, “for letting me use the shower,” she adds. She’s not sure what else he would think she’s talking about, but she just felt the need to clarify. And she really needed to get back to her own apartment and finish getting ready. “See you around, Harry,” she says with a smile before walking away and hurrying into her home.

Harry thinks of how he should've wished her a safe flight, or even said goodbye. But instead he heard her door shut and followed suit by closing his own. Harry walks into his living room - discarding the towel on the back of his large arm chair, before moving his acoustic guitar from where it was laying on his couch and taking a seat. He then reaches for his cell phone that was left on the coffee table. Opening his contact, he finds the building's maintenance number and calls them.

“Hey Phil, how are you doing?... Good, I’m good yeah, uh, I’m just calling because the water in 602 isn’t working...Yeah Y/N, she actually had to leave in a bit of a rush, so I just wanted to make sure someone got in there as soon as possible to check it out,” Harry explains the situation to the building’s head maintenance man. “I’m not entirely sure when she’ll be back home, maybe you could give her a quick call and double check... Just being a friendly neighbour, Phil… Thanks Phil, have a good day and say hi to Georgia and the kids for me… Bye.”

Harry hangs up the phone and sets it back down onto the table, looking at the open notebook beside it. He hadn’t written anything all morning. Just had a few good cords stuck in his head. Harry picks up the guitar once more and plays the cords.

“Tangled wet hair, soft silk skin, looking so good it should be a sin,” Harry sings softly. It’s not his best and it’s not even that good, if he’s honest with himself. But it seems that Y/N sparked some inspiration inside of him. He grabs his pen, and starts scribbling down the words that now flow through his mind. Finishing with writing ‘Plush Purple Robe’ in capital letters before dropping the pen and going back to strumming the guitar.

He wrote nearly an entire song, thanks to how Y/N looked in that damn bathrobe standing in his apartment, and he just knew this would result in some teasing words from his friends when he brought it into their studio session next week.

Y/N was tired and her third Starbucks of the day wasn’t helping her out at all. She brings a hand up to cover yet another yawn that escapes her. Her eyes feel heavy, drooping as she blinks slowly a few times at her screen. She feels as though she might doze off if it wasn’t for the loud bang of the mail cart smacking against the elevator doors signalling it’s arrival for the day. It jolts her upright once again and she takes another big gulp of coffee, and sends a prayer up above, before she begins clicking away again at her laptop trying to finalize her schedule for the upcoming month of December.

Fittings, photoshoots, buyers meetings, and more fittings, there was rarely any free time in the first two weeks of the month. But thankfully her boss isn’t a complete Grinch and gave her minimal work during the last two weeks. Plus Y/N really did love her job. She lived for the magic world of fashion. The way her bustling office just meant that the designer’s creations were coming to life as A list celebrities and New York's elite fell in love with the pieces she’s gone through lengths to get for them.

She also loved Christmas just as much, if not more, as her job. Even thinking about everything she was looking forward to this holiday season made her feel all giddy inside now. Growing up in the city meant she knew the thrill of skating in Central Park and seeing the Rockefeller Christmas tree being lit up. Her smile was as bright as the lights. She loved going to the annual Christmas markets that were held; walking around with hot chocolate in her hands as she browsed the many homemade soaps and ornaments, and even clothing too. Y/N even enjoyed shopping at the Macy’s down the street and gasping at their holiday displays, and found herself buying a few too many decorations for her home while there. Over the past few days - with any free time she had off work - she had gone into full blown decorating mode in her apartment. It was like Santa’s village and it filled her with so much joy as she set everything into its rightful place in her new home, smiling from ear to ear at the twinkling lights and tinsel lining the perimeter of every room.

“Earth to Y/N,” her co-worker, Sammy, sings while leaning back in his desk chair to try and make eye contact with her.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, zoning back into reality and turning her own chair away from her desk that was up against the large floor to ceiling windows.

“Daydreaming about that hot new neighbour of yours?” Sammy teases her with a smug look on his face. Y/N rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest.

“No, I was not,” she says, “I’m regretting telling you about him already,” she adds. Sammy returns the eye roll.

“There’s no shame in having some eye candy as a neighbour you know,”

“Yeah there is when-“

“Y/N!” Her name suddenly being yelled across the room cuts her sentence off and makes Sammy and herself look over to where it came from. They both see their boss, Amanda, standing in the doorway of her office with both hands up in the air and a look of annoyance across her face. Y/N’s watch vibrates just on time to remind her of her meeting with Amanda. She’s always at least five minutes early; suppose daydreaming about the holidays - not her hot new neighbour - had put her behind schedule a bit.

“Better not keep her waiting,” Sammy says as he rolls his chair back over to his own desk while Y/N closes her laptop, taking it and a notebook with her quickly before slipping her feet back into her black heels. She always took them off when she sat at her desk to give her poor feet a break. As she broke into a speed walk across the office space, nearly avoiding the mail cart, she internally went over what today's meeting entailed.

“Sorry Amanda,” Y/N apologizes as she steps into the office, closing the glass door behind her quietly.

“It’s alright, you’re rarely even a few minutes behind that schedule of yours, so I was more surprised than anything,” Amanda states as she smooths her dress out and takes a seat at her desk. Y/N takes a seat in the chair across her desk, setting her laptop on her lap and then the notebook on top of it while she keeps her favourite pen in hand. It had a cheesy Christmas sweater snowflake pattern on it, which Y/N had bought a whole set for her and Sammy at Target last week.

“I wanted to quickly talk about your time with Miss Woods a couple days ago,” Amanda says, referring to one of the clients from North Carolina that had visited recently. “She said you showed her great hospitality and were a true New Yorker in her eyes, her words exactly.” Amanda gives Y/N a proud smile. “So, great job. She ended up purchasing those Gucci purses we had bought in hopes she’d like them even though she didn't ask for them. All thanks to you putting her in such a good mood, really.”

“Well she was a blast to be around, age really didn't slow her down,” Y/N and Amanda share a laugh. “She turned up my radio every time we got in my car, ordered doubles at dinner and brunch, and even talked about boy issues with me. It was a great time,” Y/N explains while adjusting herself in her seat and crossing a leg over the other casually.

“I think it’s your energy. Your love for this city can be infectious sometimes Y/N,” Amanda says. Y/N’s lips pull up into a smile at her words, they made her feel warm inside.

“Thank you,” she says softly with a nod.

“Now, onto what’s happening over this next week, let’s see how our schedules look,” Amanda starts as she opens her large planner than was always either on her desk or brought home in her large Louis Vuitton purse.

“I got an email from the lovely Mrs. Archibald this morning,” Y/N states. Amanda shakes her head as her face twists up at the mention of one of their bigger clients who happens to be married to the richest man in New York City. It’s just too bad she’s a real bitch sometimes because her attitude could make doing their job a bit harder at times. But Amanda and Y/N loved a challenge, and Mrs Archibald was just that. “She has a last minute dinner party tomorrow and she needs the newest item from Gucci that we can find immediately,” Y/N explains.

“Shit, our new stuff from Gucci doesn’t come in till next Monday,” Amanda curses, eyes roaming around her desk as if the answer to her problem would pop up somewhere.

“I know, which is why I went ahead and called Greg at the store on Fifth and Fiftieth, he said they just got a handful of exclusive holiday pieces early and would gladly have one of us pick a couple items up for Mrs Archibald,” Y/N says. Amanda’s sour look fades instantly and is replaced with a wide smile.

“What would I do without you, honestly!” Amanda exclaims. “Head over to Gucci after lunch today, and then we’ll get Mrs Archibald in first thing tomorrow.”

“Will do,” Y/N says while jotting down her after lunch plans onto a blank page in her notebook.

“How’s your influencer work going for you?” Amanda asks, her eyes on her planner in front of her instead.

“It’s been good, getting closer to five hundred thousand every day. I think the holidays will push me over the mark soon enough,” Y/N states.

“Great, make sure you’re getting close up shots of the dresses Greg shows you. Tease the people of what an exclusive holiday gown looks like,” Amanda suggests. Y/N smiles and jots down the note.

Having an audience was never the goal for Y/N. In fact, she thought of suspending her Instagram account all together once she got the promotion at work. She was worried that it would cause a conflict of interest, but Amanda and the rest of the team saw it as a plus. Having so many people follow Y/N’s life, being interested in what she’s interested in, wanting to get their hands on what she had, all lead to good publicity for the company. It even got them a few A list celebrities because of her account as they saw the company’s name in her bio, which led to contacting the company about setting some fittings up.

And with that set up, they settle into the rest of their itinerary for the week, making note of who needed to be involved with what, and who would be coming into their offices. Jennifer freaking Aniston was scheduled for a fitting this Friday and Y/N was praying she made it back from picking up an order of Louis Vuitton scarfs in time to see her in her custom grown that their team's seamstresses had been working tirelessly on with Prada’s team.

By the end of her and Amanda’s meeting, it was time for lunch. Sammy was waiting by her desk with his black Gucci backpack in hand that Y/N was sure held a Kardashian sized salad. Y/N was glad she meal-prepped teriyaki chicken and rice, so she didn’t have to eat yet another salad seeing as Sammy had gotten her into the over sized salad eating last month; she’s had enough of it.

“I’ve gotta head over to Gucci on Fifth Ave after,” Y/N states with a smile as her and Sammy walk into the conference room that they used for lunch sometimes, shielding themselves away from work a bit - even if the walls were glass and they could still see everyone working around them.

“Lucky bitch,” Sammy grumbles, “Greg always hooks you up with some free pieces when you go there, I swear.”

“Hey it’s only been a few items, nothing crazy,” Y/N defends herself before taking a bite of her lunch.

“Oh I’m sorry, two rings and a pair of tights are nothing crazy? Every other influencer would kill someone for those tights. Firstly, they’re so cute. And secondly, those rings cost my monthly rent.”

“I’m not complaining about any work perks. Maybe you could come with and get to know Greg a bit and get your own ring or two?”

Sammy chews his mouth full of salad, “no thanks, it’s so freaking cold out there. I’ll stay inside where it’s warm,” he says.

“Then don’t complain when I get another pair of tights and you don’t,” Y/N scowls playfully.

“I’d look so much better in those tights, you can’t even deny it,” Sammy says and pokes his fork at Y/N. She raises her hands up in surrender.

“Oh I wouldn’t dare to deny it, ever,” she smiles. They eat a few bites in silence. Y/N starts to feel a bit more energized by the protein she’s eating, thankfully. She now had a long journey to the Gucci store and back as well as a ton of emails to filter through too - which she’s sure will follow her home till the late hours of the night.

“What are you planning to wear for the Christmas office party?” Sammy chimes in, his eyes still on his phone.

“I don’t even know,” Y/N sighs and brings up her Pinterest app on her phone. “I found this outfit and am dying over it every day but I really should just find something in my closet and restyle it, I'm getting more broke by the day.”

“Blame your excessive christmas shopping habits,” Sammy deadpans while glancing at her phone screen.

“I’m aware of why I'm broke, thank you,” she deadpans back, narrowing her eyes at him. “Maybe Greg will have it in his heart to lend me a special piece for the party,” Y/N taunts Sammy with a smile on her face.

“Shut up,” he groans. Y/N laughs and is just about to shut her phone screen off when a phone call comes through from her apartment building maintenance.

“Hello?” She answers. “Hi Phil… Oh that’s awesome news thank you so much for getting it fixed so soon… Yes, I’m glad Harry called in about it right away too…” Y/N notices how her friend's eyebrows fly up at the mention of Harry’s name. “Lovely, thanks again Phil… Have a great day… Bye,” she hangs up the phone and sets it on the table in front of her.

“What did Harry do now?” Sammy questions without a second to spare. Y/N rolls her eyes, but can’t stop herself as she smiles.

“He called in about the water in my apartment like right after I made a mad dash out of his place to go pick up Mrs Woods in time. I hadn't even thought of calling about it and then I got a call on my way to the airport from the head maintenance guy saying Harry told him about it and asked for verbal permission to enter my apartment while I was out,” Y/N explains to him. She was still shocked by Harry’s kindness. Not only did he offer his shower to her, but he then got hers check out that same day. She probably wouldn't have called about it till the next day, if she was lucky to have any free time to stop by her house between entertaining Mrs Woods.

“What a neighbourly thing to do,” Sammy says smugly.

“Shut up, he’s just a nice guy.”

“Mhmm,” Sammy hums while stabbing his salad again for another bite.

The two of them continue to enjoy their lunch break and catch up on what’s been going on in the office. Their fellow associate Kate was trying to sleep with the mail cart boy. He seems freshly twenty one, if that. Just seven years younger than Kate, but she’s a well known cougar - it’s been a thing for, like, two years now. And Julianne was sick again, for the third time in two months. That was the extent of the office drama, sadly. Y/N packs up her bag with her left over lunch, notebook, and laptop before heading back to her desk with Sammy to get her coat and bundle up to brace the cold weather.

At least it wasn’t snowing.

The snow is coming down like a blizzard, making it hard for Harry to see in front of him. It was a colder day, his weather app had called for cloudy skies and a chance of some light flurries - but that all changed  in a split second and had Harry racing home from the coffee shop a few blocks away. He’s just praying his notebook full of new song ideas, based off his people watching this afternoon that’s now in his tote bag, doesn't get wet in the short trip he has to walk. Just as he’s about to turn left down the last block till his building, he sees a young woman struggling to walk along the sidewalk in her heels just in front of him. She’s carrying a large beige garment bag, having it folded over her arm as she tries to maneuver around the busy sidewalk and everyone is rushing to get out of the storm. Harry’s just behind her now, that’s when he recognizes the jacket and scarf.

“Y/N?” Harry says, trying to not startle her. But of course, as Y/N turns around to look behind her at whoever had just called out her name on the busy streets of New York, she slips.

“Oh my god!” She squeals, trying to keep the garment bag up so it doesn’t damage the dresses inside, but that means she doesn’t have any hands to throw out to catch herself. Harry sees her begin to fall and reaches out without hesitation. “The bag,” she says, trying to get Harry’s attention to saving the garment bag rather than her. But of course he manages to wrap his arms under hers and hold her upright, standing straight to get her back on her feet once more.

“Shit, I’m sorry, shouldn’t have scared you like that,” Harry says.

Y/N squints at him through the thick snowflakes, he’s standing so close though that she doesn’t have troubles staring into his enchanting eyes. She smiles, adjusting the dresses and her bag before motioning to their apartment building only a couple blocks away. “Let’s get out of this snow storm,” she suggests.

“Right,” Harry agrees and lets her start the walk - that way he can stick close behind in case those death heels of hers cause her to slip again.

Y/N regrets her decision of wearing heels so much right now. She’s sure her cheeks are still red from embarrassment of nearly falling on her ass in front of so many people. Harry’s seen in her purple bathrobe, which is already  embarrassing, but falling in heels in this snow storm would’ve only added to her list of making a fool of herself in front of him.

When she arrived at Gucci it was  just cloudy, but then after nearly two hours inside the store - mostly chatting with Greg and his associates, she walked outside into the blizzard. Her office was too far of a walk, she knew getting a cab or an Uber during the storm would just be a nightmare  and she didn’t want to wait around. There was no way she was going to risk taking the subway while carrying the garment bag that said Gucci right on it and have some lowlife steal thousands of dollars of designer clothes from her. So, she went with the most obvious option of getting these pieces out of the snow storm and headed  to her apartment building that was only a few blocks away, thankfully.

“Thanks for saving me back there,” Y/N says with a sigh as Harry uses his key to let them into the building. They both brush the snow off themselves as they walk across the lobby and to the elevator. “I would've been dead if this fell into a puddle or something,” she states while lifting the garment bag.

“Does that say Gucci?” Harry asks, eyebrows raised as he looks at the label on the bag.

“Yeah, I just had to pick up a few things for work,” Y/N explains vaguely. Harry has followed Gucci on Instagram for years, he loves their pieces and finds what they make to be so wonderful. He wishes he had the money to spend on a shopping trip there and yet here is his neighbour - who he may or may not be crushing on - with a large garment bag with Gucci items inside. “I can’t even imagine what Mrs Archibald would've done if I messed these up, god she'd have a fit,” Y/N says with a chuckle, looking at the floors lighting up as the elevator moved.

“Your boss?” Harry questions.

“No, a client, super rich and super bitchy,” Y/N answers, emphasizing both times she says super to really get her point across. She moves the garment bag from one arm to the other, leaning back against the elevator wall.

“Client? What kind of work do you do?” Harry tries to ask casually, not trying to seem creepy or invading in any way.

Y/N smiles, “I’m a part of the, oh so lovely, fashion industry.”

“You don’t like it?” Harry questions, eyebrows furrowed together.

“No, I do,” she corrects him.

The elevator opens then, Harry motions for Y/N to exit first as he had before. She smiles and walks down the hall to her apartment. Just as she fishes her keys from her coat pocket she turns back and looks at Harry when he walks past her. “I owe you, again, for saving my ass, literally from falling,” she says. Harry stops walking and looks at her, she smiles and tilts her head to the side. “And for calling the maintenance guy for the issues with my water,” she adds. Seems Phil spilled the beans, Harry thinks.

“I um, I wasn’t sure how long your trip was, and I just thought it’d be the nice thing to do by making sure they could get it fixed as soon as they could,” Harry explains.

“I actually didn’t go on a trip, I just had to pick someone up from the airport. But regardless it was very nice to know you thought of it for me. So thank you, I owe you, Harry,” she says again, giving him yet another one of her dreamy smiles. Harry’s heart did a little pitter patter in his chest as he looked over her face, taking in how her wispy hairs were wet from the snow that had melted on her head and how her eyes seemed to sparkle under the dim lighting of the hallway. But her lips, he’s been imagining those lips for two days now. Along with that purple bathrobe being on his floor again - his bedroom instead of the bathroom though.

“How about dinner?” Harry blurts out. Y/N had turned back to her door, having it unlocked and open as he had fallen into one of his daydreams about her. She pauses mid step and looks back at where he had stood still, her eyebrows are furrowed together as she thinks he misheard him. Oh shit, abort! Abort! Backtrack and say nevermind before she flat out rejects you, Harry thinks while he waits for her response.

“I, uh, I,” Y/N stops her stuttering and closing her eyes for a moment. She lets out a sigh and opens her eyes again to meet his nervous stare. “I have to hang this up, and change these shoes first,” she says.

“Of course,” Harry nods.

Y/N ponders over it for a moment before coming to the realization that the weather outside was truly frightful and they shouldn’t go out anywhere. “Honestly we shouldn’t go back out there. What if I just ordered something in and you came over? You like pizza?”

“Love it,” Harry smiles. Y/N nods and opens her door further, stepping in to survey the state of her apartment. It’s not messy, thank God. She had time this morning to put away her clean laundry that had taken up her couch over the past few days. There’s a couple hoodies draped over the back of the couch though, a half full glass of water on the coffee table and her kitchen has a pile of dirty dishes beside the sink that she hadn’t gotten to putting in the dishwasher yet. She quickly bends down to put away the few pairs of shoes that were kicked off in whatever direction they went, and turns on the two light switches by the door to light up her living room and hallway.

“Well, come on in,” she says as she turns back to Harry. He smiles as she lets out a deep breath and opens her front door for him.

He should’ve guessed that it would look like Santa had thrown up in her apartment. It was traditional, which Harry loved opposed to the new all white or all gold themes some people went with, but there was a lot of it. A red and green checkered throw blanket over the back of her grey couch, a decent sized tree filled with lights and tinsel and ornaments that all matched, a family of snowmen in one corner of her living room, and many little vintage looking nicknacks along her tv stand, and few shelves around the space. Not to mention the priceless looking tiny christmas village that was set up on top of the desk by her front door, fake snow laid on top to really pull it all together. So much Christmas, and he was only looking in one room. He imagined this festive feeling went throughout her entire home.

“It kind of seems like a lot whenever someone new sees all of my Christmas crap,” Y/N says, breaking Harry’s stare away from her living room and back to her now. She had hung up the Gucci bag on the closet door to her left, and had slipped out of her shoes and was now undoing the buttons of her coat. Her eyes are on the decorations around them though, looking unsure as she takes it all in.

“It’s lovely, honestly, not crap at all,” Harry assures her. Y/N turns back to look at him and mirrors his smile.

“I just have a big soft spot for the holidays, I can’t help myself from buying four Christmas themed throw pillows if they make me feel all warm inside,” she explains, motioning to the couch that did in fact have four pillows on it.

“If it makes you happy, you don’t have to have any reason for buying ‘em.”

“I suppose so,” Y/N hums, finally taking off her coat and hanging it up.

Harry quickly takes his off too as she reaches for it, to hang it beside hers. He gives her a small thanks and then takes his shoes off, setting them beside hers . Y/N has walked into the threshold to the left that led to her kitchen. He notices the tinsel hanging from the beam and smiles before taking a quick peek into her kitchen. As he guessed, it’s all decked out in Christmas stuff too. Towels and nicknacks that seem to replace everyday things like salt and pepper shakers and her soap dispenser that was spaced like a snowman.

“I’ll order a pizza right away. Hopefully this weather won’t slow them down. Have you ever eaten at Sal’s down the street?” Y/N questions.

“Tons,” Harry says. He leans against the threshold to the kitchen and watches as Y/N sets her purse on her small kitchen table and fishes through it for her cell phone. She’s got this crease between her brows as she can’t seem to find it, but it instantly goes away and is replaced with a smile as the iPhone is in her hands.

“Do you like anything on your pizza?” She asks, eyes on her phone screen and she brings up the menu. She typically just gets a cheese, sometimes spices it up with a vegetarian pizza cause she likes the green peppers and red onions.

“I’m actually a vegetarian,” Harry states. “Well, I eat fish on occasion so I guess I’m a pescetarian.”

“Oh cool,” Y/N says, looking up to see Harry’s watching her from the space between her kitchen and living room. The way he’s leaning against the small space of wall, arms crossed at his chest and head tilted to the side - he looks good. He’s dressed in a pair of beige trousers, straight and baggy as his last ones were too, and has a white tank top tucked into the waistband while he layered with a fun patterned button up shirt. She can’t quite make out what is printed on the shirt, but the little squares seem to each have a picture in them.

“Where did you get that shirt?” Y/N can’t stop herself from asking, the fashion lover in her wanting to know.

Harry glances down at the short sleeved shirt on his body, then shrugs, “I think I thrifted it back home in England a few years back,” he says.

“I like it,” she says, then brings up one shoulder in a shrug to make it seem more casual. It’s not weird to compliment your neighbours clothing, Y/N thinks as she glances back down at her phone. “I’m going to order a cheese and they have a great vegetarian pizza too that I like,” she tells Harry while punching in her order on her delivery app.

“Yeah, I’ve had it before, it’s pretty great,” Harry agrees. Y/N can’t help as her body reacts to how low and slow Harry’s voice is. How she gets small chills throughout her body, as if threatening to pebble goosebumps along her arms, and how her mind feels foggy almost as she listens to him speak. She rolls her lips into her mouth and stuffs her phone into the pocket of her fitted black pants. He could tell her the most pointless story and she would let him, just to hear his voice and that accent that went with it. Moving to her fridge, she finds the bottle of red she had opened last night. It’s such a normal thing for her to have a glass or two after work that she doesn’t even think of her guest. He might not even like wine.

“Do you drink?” Y/N asks, looking over her shoulder to see Harry still in the same spot but his hands now in the front pocket of his trousers.

“What are we drinking?” He asks with a smile.

Y/N smiles back, as she always does, and reaches for the wine she had her eye on. “I opened this bottle of wine last night, it’s red. Would you be interested in a glass?” She asks, holding the bottle up for Harry to see.

“I’d love a glass, thanks.”

“Perfect,” Y/N nods and sets the bottle down on the counter beside her fridge. “You can get comfortable on the couch, I’ll bring our drinks in a moment.”

“Sounds good,” Harry nods. With one final glance up her body as she reaches high in her cupboard for two wine glasses for them, he shakes his head and turns around. He has to stop checking her out, he has no idea if she’s into him or not. She’s simply being a nice neighbour, and here he was, fancying her so much he’s checking her out like some horny teenager.

Harry runs a hand through his hair, walking around the back of the couch to take a seat on the corner furthest from where the Christmas tree lit up Y/N’s living room. He really did like all of her joy that she’s put into decorating her home. There’s no doubting her love for the holiday, not a single space feels like it was forgotten as she must have spent all day setting it up. He especially liked the framed photo on the side table to his right, where there was also a rather plain lamp and a Santa spaced coaster too. Inside the frame was a small child who he knew immediately was Y/N. There was no mistaking that smile of hers even at such a young age. She’s sitting on a man’s lap, a man dressed as Santa, but it’s truly the most realistic mall Santa he’s even seen. Harry thinks back to his home in that moment, imagining the many photos of him and his older sister with many variations of mall Santas that must be littering his mum’s house by now. Truthfully, many of them didn’t leave the shelves during the year.

“Here you go,” Y/N says as she holds out a wine glass nearly half full of red wine to Harry. He takes it from her, his fingers brushing hers for a moment and sending those childish tingles through his body.

“Thanks,” he nods and brings the glass to his lips to have a taste. If he wouldn’t be so infatuated by Y/N, he would have told her that he typically didn’t drink red wine. He typically doesn’t drink at all, except for the occasional night out with his mates. But he saw that look on her face that said ‘I need a glass or two’ and he couldn’t say no, knowing it’d make her feel awkward and  end up not having a glass herself.

Y/N lets out a long sigh as she takes a seat on the other side of the couch, relaxing alongside Harry as if they aren’t complete strangers. He liked that she felt comfortable around him. She did in fact enter his apartment the other day in a bathrobe and use his shower after all. After she takes another long sip of wine, she sets it down on a matching Santa coaster that sits on the coffee table - Harry notices now that she had brought the bottle of wine with her too.

“Long day?” He questions. Y/N nods, tucking her legs under her as she gets comfortable on the couch beside him. She clears her throat softly before answering him.

“Uh, yeah, work’s just been a lot lately and I’m actually looking forward to some time off,” Y/N says, running a hand through her hair, and then leans her arm on the back of the couch. Harry watches her movements, bringing his glass of wine to his lips to have a small sip, which he notices she watches him do. He likes her eyes on his lips, he thinks before turning his body slightly and setting his wine on the side table. When he turns back and looks her way he notices the slightly tint of pink flushing over her cheeks. Harry fights the tug at his lips to smile at how she seemed to catch on that he caught her staring at his lips.

“That’s always the worst, feeling as if you’re counting down till the days off,” Harry exclaims.

“I typically don’t, to be honest. I love my job,” Y/N states. “It’s my career so I better,” she adds with a chuckle.

“So you’ve already found your career at such a young age then, that’s awesome. Have you always known you wanted to be involved in the fashion industry?” Harry asks, his eyebrows pulled together as he does find himself very curious of how she herself a career so young.

“First off, twenty four is really starting to not feel young anymore so let's not label me as a youngster or anything alright-“

“Um, twenty four is young but okay,” Harry cuts her off with a playful look on his face. Y/N rolls her eyes and chooses to ignore his teasing. He’s always hung out around people older than him and typically dated women older too. But Y/N doesn't seem young. From what he’s seen from her, she doesn’t fit the mold of any twenty four year olds he’s known before - most being rather rude and partying their youth away while it’s obvious that Y/N worked hard during those years. Y/N looks as though she's got the whole world figured out already, and he admires that a lot.

“And secondly, yeah, I guess I sort of did know, not at first, of course, but it was always an interest of mine,” Y/N states, bringing Harry back to their conversation.

“What did you want to be when you were a youngster then?” He questions, using her choice of words back at her which makes Y/N chuckle. She shakes her head and looks up at the ceiling for a moment as she falls back into memories of her childhood. She remembers being emotionally attached to a pair of plastic pink princess slippers and how she slept in her matching tiara for nearly a year before her mom put a stop to her fantasy.

“I wanted to be a princess-“

“Me too,” Harry says.

“Stop interrupting me,” Y/N laughs and reaches across the couch to smack his arm. Harry's head feels light, his cheeks hurt from grinning at Y/N so much. He hasn’t felt like this in quite a while. Being able to have a light conversion with a pretty girl. How she makes him smile and laugh so easily too, it’s a really nice feeling.  ��But you’d make a much prettier princess for sure-“

“Not at all,'' Harry disagrees, managing to cut her off yet again. She glares at him but can’t help the smile that's still on her face.

“Anyways, I wanted to be a princess and then I wanted to be one of Santa’s elves-”

Harry chuckles, “of course,” he says as he’s not so surprised to hear her say so - seeing as it looked like Santa’s village inside her apartment.

Y/N chooses to ignore his short interruption this time and continues on. “But then as I got older and got ahold of the internet, I wanted to be a model cause I thought it was the most glamorous thing, but I wasn't as beautiful or skinny as Candice Swanepoel so that was out of the question-“

“This is the last time I'll interrupt you I promise,” Harry says, Y/N presses her lips tight together and gives Harry another look as if to say yeah right. “But I cannot let you sit here and say you aren't pretty or skinny enough to be a model, Y/N, because you are one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever seen and your weight is nothing to ever question,” Harry pauses as he looks down at the sofa between them, realizing that he had said all that out loud. He was slightly embarrassed as he’s not sure how she’d take her neighbour saying all that to her.

My heart needs to calm down like now, Y/N thinks as she wets her lips and fidgets with her own hands as she watches Harry. “Y/N, don’t ever think less of yourself,” he adds in a gentle voice that sends chills down her spine.

Y/N doesn't respond right away, because honestly she's speechless. No one has ever said something so kind and so genuine to her. Sure, she’s gotten compliments from people, but the way Harry immediately stopped her from talking poorly of herself had made her stomach stir and her heart race. They had only just met, only had a few interactions - they were all good, great even - but Harry wasn’t like most people she’s met before and she’s beginning to realize that. She looks up to see Harry's watching her, his green eyes staring back at hers. Something switches in the air between them as Harry feels like he should lean in. Should he lean in? Would she want that? Does she want him?

“Thanks,” she smiles, bringing Harry back to their conversation. She clears her throat and sits up straight again, flipping her hair over her shoulders and snuggling into the couch some more. “If I ever feel down about myself again, I’ll be sure to knock on your door and demand you shower me in compliments,” Y/N teases.

“I’d be honoured to,” Harry says. There's another beat of silence, but it's not quiet inside his head. All he’s thinking about is how he should've made a move. She felt it too, right? Harry stops himself before he can go too far inside his head again while thinking about Y/N. “I won’t cut in again. Continue from the dreams of being a model - which you’d be a great model, by the way, don't count that one out just yet.”

Y/N smiles again, not even sure if she’s stopped smiling honestly. “Right, well, modeling led me into the world of fashion. Not that I hadn't known about Vogue or any of the high fashion houses since I did grow up in New York; fashion week had always been a highlight for me. But I actually started to look into the other sides of it. Designing wasn't an option, I just didn't feel original enough. So I did some personal assistant stuff during my high school years at fashion week, working behind the scenes at shows.”

Y/N pauses to lean forward and grabs her glass of wine again, needing liquid to coax her throat before she continued. Harry noticed that she was talking so passionately, probably not even realizing how much she was using her hands while speaking or how her eyes lit up at the world she painted for him. “And then I got a scholarship into FIT, the Fashion Institute of Technology. I was lucky enough to get an internship at my current workplace but quickly got offered a position on my graduation day, and now I'm one of our senior associates.”

“And what does your job really entitled to exactly?”

“We do a lot of things, but we’re really a personal shopper and stylist company. Working with many of New York's elite, even some of the east coast’s elite really, as well as celebrities too, which is always fun to see the dress you styled at the Met Gala or the Grammys. I just do a lot of running around, it feels like,” Y/N explains, “like how I had to rush to the Gucci store on Fifth Ave in order to get some pieces for Mrs. Achibald for tomorrow morning.”

“Sounds like a real tough job,” Harry taunts. Y/N returns his smug look and narrows her eyes at him playfully.

“Right, well what do you do then? You always seem to be home, I’m starting to think you don’t even have a job. Maybe you’ve just got a sugar daddy, hmm?” Y/N jokes. Harry lets out a loud laugh, throwing his head back. Y/N laughs with him before taking a sip of her wine that she had almost forgotten about.

“Definitely not a sugar baby, although that would be the dream, wouldn’t it?”

“Oh, totally,” Y/N nods in agreement. They both chuckle again. Harry reaches for his wine to take a sip before answering her question for real this time. Blame the wine, he thinks, for any longing looks or laughing too much at her jokes just blame the red wine in his glass.

“I’m actually in the music industry, kind of,” Harry states.

“How are you kind of in the music industry?” Y/N questions curiously, her brows pulled together as she takes another sip of wine.

“I am a studio rat, as people in the industry would call it,” Harry says, Y/N’s face scrunches up at his words utterly confused at the term. “I pretty much live in music studios most of the year. Most of my time is taken up by writing. So I guess I’m a songwriter, but I also make demos for my songs with a few people I’ve grown close with in my studio, so I end up doing some instruments for artists' studio versions of songs. I do a bit of producing too, but I mostly leave that to my buddy, Tom.”

“Wow, that sounds like a really cool job. And here I was jabbering on about my job when you’re a songwriter? That’s so cool,” Y/N repeats, another sip of wine going down her throat as she stares at Harry. His cheeks are starting to turn red, eyes avoiding hers as he fidgets with his rings. “Have you written any songs I’d know?” She asks, trying to get more information out of him.

“Maybe,” Harry shrugs.

“You’re not going to tell me?” Y/N asks, brows pulled together.

“Nope,” Harry shakes his head.

“Shouldn’t you be proud of your work?”

“Of course I am,” Harry says, bringing a crooked finger up to his nose before rubbing it twice. “I just know that my music might not be everyone's favourite.”

Since the beginning of his freelance songwriting career, Harry's always been nervous to show people what he’s poured his heart and soul into, especially to people he’s friends with, or people he likes. What if they hated it? He couldn’t bear listening to the fake “it's great” with an even faker smile. Although he knows people do like his songs, those people were mainly artists that bought his songs and their fans, of course, along with his fellow colleagues. He just doesn't want Y/N to hate his work.

“Well, I'm sure it's brilliant,” Y/N says. “And maybe one day you’ll show me.” She adds with a smile, not wanting to force the subject, over the rim of her wine glass before taking another sip and finishing off the red liquid in one small gulp. She frowns at the empty glass and sets it down on the Santa coaster on the coffee table. “Do you write all the time then?” Y/N asks, bringing her gaze back to Harry’s.

“Pretty much, although I’m in the studio less in December due to it being so close to the holidays. I’ve actually got my last session with my mates just in a few days.”

“Counting down the days till you have some time off?” She asks, referring to what he had said earlier to her.

“Not particularly,” Harry says.

Y/N is about to ask why, but then her phone bings from her pocket. It’s then that she realizes she hadn’t thought of looking at her phone once since sitting down with Harry. She had been so engrossed with their conversation, and feeling a light buzz that she managed to forget about the pizza she ordered. The notification on her screen read that her pizza had arrived at the building, and the delivery person would be here any second. Then her phone starts ringing.

“Hello,” Y/N answers the phone in a sweet voice. Harry has to stop himself from staring, instead finding himself grabbing the red wine that he wasn’t too fond of, and has a few sips as he listens to Y/N talk to, what he assumes, is the pizza delivery. She buzzes them up with one tap on her phone before the call ends. “Our dinner is finally here,” she tells Harry, even though he had gathered as much, but he still smiles in response. She stands from the couch and adjusts her pants by pulling them up slightly. They fit her so bloody well, Harry thinks. “And we are both nearly done with a glass of wine each before we’ve even eaten,” Y/N chuckles as she walks past Harry and to the kitchen to her purse.

While Y/N pays for their food, Harry takes it upon himself to top off her glass of wine. He was content with his last few sips between bites. Y/N sets the two pizza boxes on the coffee table before rushing into the kitchen to grab two plates and some napkins for them. They work together in a comfortable silence to get things set up; both boxes open and Y/N settles back onto the couch before they dig into the large New York slices.

Y/N brings a piece straight from the box to her mouth, once she bites into the greasy food she moans around her mouthful of cheesy pizza. Harry is just about to take his first bite as well but stops just short at the sounds that come from Y/N. He dares to glance her way, throat bobbing as he takes her in. Both eyes closed, her head hanging back and lips turned up into a smile as she chews her food. He watches her swallow, utterly mesmerized by her soft skin moving just slightly. Dear god, Styles, get it together, he thinks as he imagines her swallowing something else.

Y/N opens her eyes at the sound of Harry clearing his throat, turning her gaze to him and seeing him lift his piece of pizza to her in a ‘cheers’ manner. “Thanks again for the meal,” Harry says. There his voice does it again, sounding all low and throaty as it makes chills go down her spine.

“No problem,” Y/N nods. She tries to focus back on eating her food, willing the thoughts in her head to go away. But she can’t stop them from entering her dreams later that night after Harry and her had said their goodbye - Harry noticed her yawn a few times and began to clean up their plates and empty wine glasses while he continued to tell Y/N about his time in school before he was writing songs full time on his way to the kitchen. Y/N watched him from her spot on the couch, smiling at how he didn’t think twice on cleaning up after them. She was pretty sure that’s how her dream started too, but then it led to Harry’s voice whispering in her ear, asking if she’s been naughty or nice this year while they laid in bed. Y/N blames the large glass of wine. One hundred percent she blames the wine.

There wasn’t a more perfect day in the year, Y/N was sure of it, as she sat on a bench in Central Park. It was t-minus three weeks before Christmas Day and she had just gotten off work. The sun was slowly setting in the horizon as she stared at the sparkling snow that covered the ground and trees around her.

“Y/N?”

She turns her gaze away from the skating rink in the distance to see who had called out her name. A smile tugs at her lips as she sees Harry a few feet away. He’s dressed in a long dark coat that reaches to his knees, one which was exposed from a rip in his loose fitting jeans. With his outfit he wore a pair of chelsea boots upon his feet that trudged through the snow. Y/N noticed that he was bundled up with a grey scarf around his neck and a matching beanie upon his head too. She liked how his hair flipped up at the ends, sticking out of the beanie.

It has been almost a week since their pizza night together, and thankfully, those wine induced dreams had stopped after that one night, which to be fair were rather innocent compared to some other dreams she had thanks to too much tequila - regardless, it’s making it much less awkward to face him now.  

“Hey,” she greets him as she meets his eyes once more. Harry stops by the bench, motioning at the open space to her left.

“Mind if I sit with you?” He asks. Y/N shakes her head and moves to her right just a bit to make more room for him. “Was going for a stroll, thought I was imagining you sitting here by yourself to be honest.” Harry states.

“New York City can seem rather small some days,” Y/N says with a smile.

“Some days, yeah,” Harry nods. “What brings you out to this lonesome bench in Central Park?” Harry asks, looking out at the scenery before them.

“This,” Y/N answers with a hand out to the park.

“It's rather pretty.”

“Very, and calming. And after my day at the office today, I desperately needed to just sit here by myself and disconnect from the world for a moment.”

“Oh,'' Harry says, bringing Y/N’s gaze away from the couple holding hands across the pond and to him instead. “I'm- I'm sorry if I barged in. I just thought it’d be weird if I didn’t say hi.”

“Oh no, it’s totally okay,” Y/N assures him. “I’ve been out here for a good while now.” As if her body realizes at the same time, she shivers beside Harry.

“Did you want to head home?”

“Not particularly,” Y/N hums. Her eyes falling back to the sights before her. The sky is becoming a soft hue of pinks and oranges before their eyes. It warms her heart despite her entire body is cold.

“How about a cup of hot cocoa?” Harry suggests as he sees the cart serving hot drinks just to their right. An older couple and, what seems to be, their grandchildren are being served steaming cups and candy canes too. That seems like something Y/N would like, Harry thinks as he stands from the bench. He's about to offer his hand but thinks twice about it, sticking both his hands into his coat pockets before he can make a fool of himself. “My treat,” Harry adds with a smile.

“I would love that,” Y/N beams while standing from the bench and falling into step with him.

Harry orders for the two of them as they step up to the small cart. Y/N discreetly takes out her phone and opens her Instagram app, swiping to the right to open her camera before she’s bombarded with notifications. She holds down on her screen to begin filming her pointed Versace boots that she had been gifted from work this winter; they had become a staple as the weather grew colder and the snow kept coming down since they had the thickest heel of all the shoes in her closet. Holding the phone up, she catches half of Harry’s body as she films the hot chocolate cart. His back is to the camera, his large coat and beanie covering any angle she did get of him so she’s not afraid to post the story after adding a quick filter to it and typing ‘pro tip: always get a hot chocolate when you’re feeling chilly in central park’ tagging her location as well before hitting post to her story and feeding her nearly five hundred thousand followers with some content for the first time all day.

“Thank you,” Y/N says softly as Harry hands her a to-go cup without a lid since there’s an abundance of whipped cream on top. Her smile turns into a grin as he also reveals he bought her a candy cane. She gasps and is quick to unwrap it and stick it into her mouth.

“Woah, you’re like a toddler itching for a sugar rush, huh?” Harry teases as they begin walking along the path and away from the cart.

“Candy canes are my weakness,” Y/N states as she pushes it to the left side of her mouth in order to talk more clearly.

“Good to know,” Harry smiles over the rim of his cup before opening his mouth and licking off some of the whipped cream. Y/N has to look away as she’s brought back to her dream.

Shaking her head slightly, she brings her phone back up to her face and it unlocks for her. Since it’s still open on the Instagram camera, she holds out her heaping cup of whipped cream and attempts to take a picture as they walk. The first two turn out blurry, then she stops walking, in hopes it’ll turn out nice before Harry can notice she stopped. Only it doesn’t of course, so she ends up furrowing her brows and sucks harder on the candy cane in her mouth before trying three more times to take the perfect snap.

Suddenly, Harry’s hand is in her shot, a blur over her whipped cream. She gasps and looks up to see his forefinger in his mouth, obviously licking off the bit of whipped cream he managed to steal. She’s surprised he did it, and she can tell he is a bit too, but then she huffs out a short chuckle while her mouth is still agape, which makes Harry grin. He doesn’t think twice as he reaches out to swipes his finger over the sweet cream again.

“Stop stealing my whipped cream!” Y/N glares at Harry as he licks his finger clean once more.

“It’s gonna melt anyways, you're taking so bloody long to drink any of it.”

“I'm busy enjoying my candy cane, jeez,” Y/N rolls her eyes and takes the candy out of her mouth, having forgotten about the picture, her phone screen turns blank. Harry shrugs and reaches forward again to steal more. Y/N is faster this time, and moves her cup away from him while bringing her candy cane up and pointing towards him. “Do it again and I'll stab you,” She warns. Harry throws his free hand up in surrender, but both of his cheeks have those deep dimples showing. I’m beginning to really like those dimples, Y/N thinks.

“You get rather hostile over your holiday treats, hm?” Harry questions, raising a brow before slowly retreating his hand to hold his own hot chocolate with his other. He brings the cup to his mouth with both hands and takes a sip.

“Yes, in fact, I do,” Y/N mutters, looking down at her own cup and notices that the whipped cream is nearly gone now. Suppose Harry was right, she missed her chance to enjoy the extra sweetness.

She takes a few sips as they continue to walk together through Central Park. The sky is beautiful as the sunset is in its full glory with dreamy pinks and purples littering the skies. Y/N debates taking a photo but decides against it as she slips her phone into her pocket. Just as she’s about to return the candy cane back to her mouth, she glances over at Harry and notices just as he brings down his own hot chocolate from his mouth that he’s made a bit of a mess.

She chuckles before saying, “you’ve got a little,” Y/N points to her upper lip, “uh, a whipped cream moustache.” She giggles as Harry pokes the tip of his tongue out and swipes it over his top lip. Y/N chuckles some more and offers him her napkin.

“Thanks,” Harry says before wiping it across his mouth, looking back to her to ask, “did I get it all?”

Y/N finds herself staring at Harry for a few moments longer than it would take to give a simple answer if his face was clean or not. She’s never felt so comfortable around someone before, not even her childhood friends or Sammy honestly. There’s this ease around Harry the few times they’ve been around one another, and it makes her heart swell up in her chest. She rolls her lips into her mouth and inhales deeply through her nose, breaking her gaze away from his face and to the ground. In order to not seem weird or awkward, she looks back up and finds his eyes on her while she nods her head.

“Yeah, you’re good,” she tells him. They start their walk through Central Park once more, heading towards home at a slow pace. Y/N has her candy cane back in her mouth, alternating between it and her hot chocolate before it got too cold. She could live off them both one hundred percent; two of the best things ever invented.

“So, tell me about your day,” Harry says, bringing Y/N out of her own thoughts and meeting his gaze again.

“It was a pretty good day, I guess,” she sighs, “we just have a lot of clients that like to do last minute shopping during the holidays and have some pretty crazy demands, but we want to deliver for them so we bend over backwards to do so.”

“I’m sure that can cause you to be rather exhausted then, yeah?”

“Very,” Y/N nods, “but I’m sure your day was much more interesting than mine, so tell me what kind of songs you wrote today?” Y/N asks with a smile.

Harry chuckles and lets Y/N lead the way to their left on the path home, he wasn’t the most confident with getting around sometimes since he usually stuck to the few places in the city that he was familiar with. While he has learned that Y/N is a New York City Native, he trusts her way direction over his, that’s for sure. He thinks back on what he had done today, including a quick run on the treadmill in the gym in their building that ended sooner than he thought as he got a burst of lyrical inspiration out of nowhere.

“I was in my apartment for most of the morning and a bit of the afternoon, then got in a bit of a rut after writing a new song about love, of course. Then I decided I needed to get out of the house and hope for some inspiration from people watching, which I have done a lot since living here,” Harry explains. Y/N takes a big gulp of her nearly cold drink, leaning to her left to get to the garbage they are passing in order to throw out the empty cup. Harry takes the chance to throw his empty cup out too.

“Do you always write about love?” Y/N asks, not thinking twice if it may be a bit too personal of a question. Harry is taken back at first by how that’s all she got from what he had said, but he only clears his throat and shoves his hands into his pockets now that they are free.

“Mostly, yeah,” he nods, “most relatable thing in life, I suppose.”

“Sometimes, I guess it can be,” Y/N agrees and goes back to sucking on her candy cane. She wonders how many times he’s been in love? How many times has she really been in love? Y/N sighs internally and focuses on her steps, avoiding a puddle by having to step closer to Harry. She sniffles from the cold at the same time and is hit with Harry’s scent - lavender, as it always seems to be how he smells. She still thinks it’s lovely.

The two of them make more casual conversation on their fifteen minute walk home through the busy streets. Harry tells her about an elderly couple he had seen just before seeing her, maybe in their 80s, and looking more in love than he’s ever seen before. He wrote a few things about how they looked before going on his way. Y/N tells him about how her grandparents used to go on walks through the park when she was younger, which then brings them into the topic of grandparents in general. Harry tells her about how his grandpa refuses to retire and how his grandma ends up bugging his mom because of how lonely she is. Y/N is smiling the whole time, loving how he must feel comfortable around her too as he’s able to talk about his family like this. Y/N also yawns many times in their short walk. She’s tempted to invite Harry into her apartment for some wine and pizza again but decides against it and simply gives him a smile and soft goodbye at her door, deciding to get into her night routine earlier than normal due to how she can’t stop yawning.

After hanging up her coat, double checking her door was locked, and slipping out of her boots, Y/N pulled her phone out of her pocket to check out what text she missed while on her walk home. She liked how she wanted to feel so present around Harry, having no want to look at her phone but instead being more interested in his little stories about his grandparents. Her face ID unlocks as she looks at the screen. It’s still on the photo she last tried to take for her Instagram. Harry’s hand was a bit of a blur as he stole her whipped cream off the top of her hot chocolate. There was no way to not know it was Harry’s hand, though, his rings being so unique and noticeable in the photo as well - her favourite being his initials wrapped around his fingers in gold. Some would think it’s maybe a bit narcissistic, but Y/N thought it looked good and really there’s no harm in being a narcissist sometimes right?

Y/N saves the photo but doesn’t post it, deciding to simply keep it for herself instead of letting her many followers see into a small yet sweet moment between her and her newest friend. She could call him that right? They were friends? Y/N did hope that Harry thought of her as a new friend too because she was enjoying this time with him a lot, maybe even a little too much.

It had been another day spent at the cafe down the street for Harry. Marking only one last day off till his final studio time this year, he was itching to get to work in a couple days and see his mates too. Over the almost two weeks, he’s written more than he had expected himself to and he knew he could thank a certain new neighbour, or I guess, a new friend, Harry thinks to himself as he turns towards his apartment building. There was no denying the feeling he got around Y/N. He wanted to become more than friends, eventually, no rush of course - but he couldn’t ignore the feeling he got around her; the butterflies and heart racing nearly every moment together. And he couldn’t forget the constant smiling, which he was doing right now just thinking about her.

Harry walks up to the main doors of his apartment building and notices a man beside the main doors. Harry furrows his brows at him. He didn’t look like some strange man trying to find warmth during the beginning of the evening here in the city that had fallen to freezing temperatures as the first week of December came to an end. In fact, he had a brand new iPhone in his hand and rather expensive looking clothes keeping him warm.

“Hey, did you need inside?” Harry asks the man standing by the intercom system. The man looks up at Harry, eyes narrowing at him. He seems Harry’s age, maybe even a few years older judging by the lines around his eyes. He’s got dark eyebrows which makes Harry think he must have dark hair under the beanie he wore under the hood of his thick winter coat. Harry waits for an answer, staring back into the stranger’s brown eyes.

“Yeah, girlfriends not answering and I know she’s inside,” his voice is low and gruff, he then lifts a Starbucks hot cup up - Harry recognizes the holiday pattern anywhere now since Y/N seems to always have one on her even in quick passing in or out of the building. “Even got me to pick her up this stupid drink on my way too, her fault if it’s cold now I guess.”

“Guess so,” Harry mumbles, kind of put off by the man’s attitude. He decides to give him the benefit of the doubt and holds the door open for it. The man walks in without so much of a thank you. You’re welcome, Harry sarcastically thinks to himself.

They walk together to the elevator in an awkward silence. Once the doors open Harry steps up to the buttons and hits the sixth one, not bothering to ask the man what floor he needs as he steps away. The stranger gives the lit up button a brief look before he’s staring down at his phone. As the elevator moves Harry’s mind wanders off to how he’d assert himself into Y/N’s evening today. Maybe he could make her dinner, then ask if she’d like to walk over to Central Park after because he knows how much she enjoys it there, and when they decide to take a break from walking and find a bench he’d finally get the nerve to make a move - maybe reach for her hand during the walk even. One thing was for sure, he liked Y/N and he needed to buck up and do something about it.

He’s still deep in thought about Y/N when the elevator doors open. The man he let into the building steps out first without even glance at Harry. Typical New Yorker, he thinks. Harry finds himself looking at where Y/N’s apartment door is over the man's shoulder as they walk down the hall, he’s debating just walking right up and asking her to hang out right away. But then the man stops in front of the door that reads 602 - Y/N’s door.

Y/N hears the knock on her front door and blinks rapidly at her laptop screen, unfocusing from her long email that she was to send to her boss, Amanda, within the hour with an update on how the first week of December had gone. She glances at the time and sees it’s nearly four in the afternoon. Took him long enough, she thinks while rolling her eyes and standing from the couch. Just as she’s a few steps away there’s another knock on the door. She sighs and unlocks it, quickly throwing the door open to reveal Mark standing on the other side.

“You are home,” he says, that attitude she knows so well is thick in his voice already. Y/N opens her mouth, about to sass him back, but then she notices a certain tall figure with a mess of brown hair walking behind Mark.

“Harry,” Y/N breathes out, hoping he didn’t even hear it honestly. But he slows his steps and gives her a tight lipped smile once facing her. It’s one she was not familiar with and makes her stomach feel as though it was full of rocks.

“Hey,” he says with a small three finger wave.

“You know this guy?” Mark, her boyfriend, questions. Bringing her eyes from Harry’s green ones and to his brown ones instead. “He was nice enough to let me into this place since you were too busy,” he states.

Y/N tucks her lips into her mouth and looks away from Mark and back to Harry. She knows he’s questioning everything by the look in his eyes. She tried. Well, maybe not hard enough, but she wanted to tell him about Mark, even just casually and quickly. Y/N didn’t intend to give Harry any sort of mixed signals during their times together, she really was just being polite and ended up enjoying being around him so much that she thought there was no harm in making a new friend. But she’d be an idiot to try and deny she felt something more than friendship with Harry.

“Yeah, uh,” she clears her throat and waves a hand between the two young men, “Mark, this is Harry my uh, my neighbour. Harry this is Mark, my boyfriend.”

Well shit, that’s not ideal, Harry thinks as he looks into Y/N’s eyes and prays he heard her wrong. But he knows he didn’t. So, he just takes a deep breath and forces a smile to stay on his face while holding a hand out to Mark, even though it hurt him to be polite to the guy that was dating the girl he’s been crushing on for nearly two weeks now.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Harry says as Mark grasps his hand and shakes it lazily. Shit handshake, he thinks. “I would love to stay and chat but I’ve got some work to get to,” he says quickly after taking his hand out of Mark’s and backing away from the situation towards his own apartment.

Y/N opens her mouth, but the words don’t come out. She just watches as Harry turns on his heels and his posture hunches as he gets to his door and tries to unlock it quickly. Mark is suddenly pushing past Y/N, saying something but she’s too focused remembering the look on Harry’s face just moments ago. She steps back into her apartment and doesn’t look over to where Harry is shutting his own door before closing her own gently.

Really fucked this up didn’t you, Y/N? She thinks as she turns the lock on her door and listens to Mark complain about his day while flinging his belongings around her living room. What is she going to do? What is she going to say? If Harry ever talks to her again, that is. She sighs and closes her eyes before making her way towards where her boyfriend was lounging on her couch, giving him a small smile as he opened his arms for her to sit with him.

“I did miss you these past few weeks while I was away,” Mark says, planting a quick kiss to her hair as she leans into his body - praying he doesn’t question why her heart is beating so fast. She’s sure he wouldn’t enjoy knowing it’s because of her growing feelings for her new neighbour, and seeing the realization in Harry’s face at the fact she wasn’t single kind of hurt to see.

“Missed you too,” she mumbles, lying. Y/N hadn’t thought about her boyfriend all that much these past, almost, three weeks that he was away for a business trip.

“Do much without me?” Mark asks.

Y/N shakes her head, “no, not much at all,” her soft voice replies while she begins to zone out on the wall that was between her and Harry’s apartments, noticing how it made her feel more separated from him now more than ever. 

>> part two <<

thanks for reading, please reblog/leave some feedback if you enjoyed it! until next week 😘

*like this post if you’d like to be added to the cstsyl taglist!*

[unsteadygalaxy]

all is soft inside chapter 12

a miragehound multichapter fanfiction

Also posted on Ao3, my username is the same there!

previous | next

12. give me a piece of your heart

A quick note: I have the Pathfinder's Quest book and I finished it today (Feb 2nd 2021)! It was mind-blowing and amazing and SO, SO GOOD. Unfortunately, this fic can no longer fit into canon because of what we find out about Bloodhound. Don't worry, I won't be spoiling! I had a story set up for them before I read the lore book, and that's the story I'll be sticking to. Maybe one day I'll write some canon things, but for now, this story is no longer canon-compliant. Part of me is sad to have all the answers, but hey! That's what makes canon-divergent fics so fun :)

Elliott practically flies down the street towards the Legends’ apartment complex, bursting with nervousness and energy as he goes. The torrential downpour of rain doesn’t even manage to dampen his mood; he’s got a heavy-duty umbrella and an upbeat attitude that could make the skies clear up in moments. Bloodhound’s proposition hangs in his head, and he clings to it with an embarrassing neediness. ‘Would you like to visit me in my apartment later this evening?’ they had asked, and he thought his heart would burst out of his chest. He feels like a dumbass for the way he had reacted- god, he was so lame. Falling over his words, making the simplest mistakes… What fourteen year old in the area had reached out and possessed him? Whoever it was, he’d have to have a strong talk with them later.

After arriving back to his apartment above the bar, he’d scrubbed himself clean and very meticulously arranged his hair. He’d eventually chosen a deep purple sweater over a light blue button down, a pair of his nicer dark jeans, a black belt, and sneakers to wear for the evening. He’d hemmed and hawed in front of the mirror for at least twenty minutes, rolling and unrolling his sleeves, second guessing each outfit choice he made until he settled. He had decided to keep the sleeves rolled up, but the easy confidence he usually has in himself has chosen to take a pointed leave of absence.

Elliott really does feel like a teenager obsessing over their first date all over again, but he has to remind himself it’s not a date, it’s just a talk. A nice evening in. A nice evening alone with Bloodhound. His cheeks blaze, and the enormity of his crush on them plummets onto his head all at once. 

Ahh, shit.

He finally lets his thoughts race and wander while thinking about them. For the first time in days, he lets himself linger on his memories of their face, though the quick glimpse he had gotten had not left him with much to remember. Their gorgeous red hair, their piercing green eyes, the striking contours of their face… They are so beautiful, and he would do anything to see their face again.

A giddy smile crosses his face when he thinks of all the times they’ve touched him on the arm or on the shoulder, or held his hands so softly. They had exuded kindness and compassion in those moments, the genuineness of which Elliott has not truly felt in a while. Bloodhound’s quiet vulnerability in the bar the other night had struck him as both odd and humbling; their increasing trust in him is something he definitely doesn’t want to take for granted. 

The complex comes into view and Elliott’s heart starts to pound harder in his chest. It takes a great deal of effort to not run all the way to their door… until he realizes he doesn’t know which floor is theirs, much less which door.

Bzzt! His phone vibrates in his back pocket, and he jumps a little before retrieving it. A message from an unknown number is emblazoned across the lock screen:

Second floor, number 14.

-BH

Excitement and happiness surges through his veins, and he immediately saves their contact information. God, is he really that pumped about having their number? A big stupid smile stretches across his face, and he wants to smack himself. Chill, Elliott, chill. You’ve gotta get ahold of yourself before you get up there. He takes a deep breath and sends a quick reply to Bloodhound as he continues down the sidewalk, valiantly avoiding the puddles. 

Nearly there! How’d you get my number?

A reply flashes through faster than he thought it would.

Renee owed me a favor. I hope it is all right that I asked her.

Oh, yeah, that’s fine! No problem :)

He has to physically restrain himself from adding a little heart; Renee or Octavio or Makoa were used to his nonsense, but he figures Bloodhound would only find it strange for him to be adding those things to his texts right off the bat. He’s busy smiling off into space when his phone vibrates again.

I am looking forward to seeing you.

Elliott’s heart practically explodes in his chest, and he steps right into a puddle.

------

Bloodhound can’t stay still.

Ever since those traitorous words had fallen from their mouth, they���d been on red alert, their brain and body a hopeless torrent of conflicting emotions that hadn’t quite settled. They think it’s fitting that it is raining; it seems the Allfather is showing his sympathies in the smallest of ways. The rain patters against the windows in a steady rhythm, and under any other circumstance it would have been very calming. They would have shed the mask and goggles and snuggled into the couch with a book and a cup of tea, but tonight, that isn’t an option. Instead, they’re wandering aimlessly around their apartment- cleaning corners that don’t really need to be cleaned, tending to Artur, and sipping at a glass of water every time they walk by the kitchen.

They’d hopped into the shower immediately after arriving home and cleaned every inch of their skin with an annoying attention to detail. Their anxiety had mounted in their chest until they had had to sit on the cold tiles of the shower with their head between their legs. Everything is going to be fine, they’d repeated to themself over and over again. Elliott would never hurt you.

The thought is ironic because of the stubborn headache at the base of their skull- Boone’s pain medicine had done little to abate the throbbing in their neck. As they think back on their day, they feel a surge of pride for Elliott. It seems that he is finally allowing himself to succeed, instead of limiting himself like he had before. He had truly surprised them today. Where they had once seen hesitation and worry, it had been replaced with deadly precision and focus, and Bloodhound would not change the outcome of the match even if they could. Elliott had been a wonderful sight to behold.

The frantic fear is nearly gone, but it lingers just enough to make them a little self-conscious. Opting not to wear their Games attire, they’ve picked a thick turtleneck, fitted cargo pants, woolen socks, and a slimmer pair of gloves that will hide their hands but not hinder any movement. The mask is laid on the table, ready to be put on at a moment’s notice. They’re already wearing the helmet, their goggles, and the leather cap. They’ve always hated having to pile wet hair under the hood, but their plans left them no choice. Bloodhound hasn’t cared much about their physical appearance in years, but for some reason, the idea of being alone with Elliott again makes them want to hide away in embarrassment.

An eager knock at the door startles Bloodhound, and they very nearly knock over their glass.

Their heart starts pumping in their chest, and their fingers fumble a little as they clip the respirator to the cap. Immediately, their breathing comes easier, and they scold themself for going so long without it this evening. Bloodhound makes their way to the door and opens it, revealing an absolutely drenched Elliott holding a broken umbrella in one hand and a pair of sopping wet sneakers in the other. 

“Hey! I, uh, definitely stepped in a ton of puddles on the way here. I usually watch where I’m going but these ones were sac- ski- scattered everywhere, so I couldn’t see them at all, and then of course the wind picked up and shredded my umbrella, so I’m totally soaked.” He shrugs helplessly and shakes the bent umbrella off a little, showering Bloodhound’s feet with droplets of water. “Ah, shit. Sorry!”

They shake their head at him and sigh, and a shiver goes through their body as they think about being drenched in this weather. “It is of no consequence, Elliott, I can very easily change socks. Please, come in,” they say, and they lead him into their apartment.

They try not to look at him as he takes in their apartment, suddenly insecure about how simple and bare it looks. The apartment had come furnished, but it is not quite to their tastes. Bloodhound prefers a more homey and warm feel, not the modern, sleek look that is so popular these days. The windows in the living room are quite large. Bloodhound had had a tinted effect added to them immediately- for their anonymity and so the light coming in would not be quite so harsh on their sensitive eyes. The furnishings are a combination of aesthetically pleasing colors and fabrics, all tones of white or grey or brown. A couple of plush blankets are draped over the back of the couch, and minimalistic frames are hung on the walls, great white voids containing typeface quotes and old cliches. The fireplace is an inordinate monolith of dark stone, and if Bloodhound had thought of it, they would have started a fire to make it seem less dull and boring. The thought occurs to them that they should have made this place more welcoming, but they are not vain enough to care in the long run. After all, will Elliott even want to return after he receives the answers to his questions? Bloodhound thinks not.

“Wow,” Elliott remarks, leaning his umbrella against the wall by the door. “It’s so clean.” He strips off his socks and rolls up his pants a little so the soggy ends aren’t rubbing around his ankles. The cuffs fit tightly around his very sculpted calves, and Bloodhound blushes before looking away pointedly.

“This space is not to my tastes,” they reply, watching him walk around. “My real home is much more notalegt- cozy- and warm. Not cold and unfeeling like this place is.” 

“Your real home?” he asks, glancing at them. “You don’t live in the Legends complexes full time?”

“I stay in the buildings during the on season, but during the off season, I retreat to a modest cabin in the woods,” they explain, and they realize they’ve made their first confession of the night. That... wasn’t so bad. “There are bookshelves from floor to ceiling, a large fireplace, plenty of furs to keep warm, and a view that would take your breath away. I quite enjoy it.” 

“That sounds amazing,” he grins. That smile… Bloodhound has to take a deep breath.

“Maybe I will show you one day,” they say, surprising themself with how easily they offer. “It is a beautiful place, and I think you would like it.” 

“Really?” he asks, surprised. “You’d, uh… you’d let me go with you?”

“Perhaps,” they murmur, and their heart starts to beat hard in their chest again. They notice he’s still carrying his wet shoes and socks, and they move to take them from him. “Here. Let me start a fire. Your shoes and socks will be dry in no time.” 

“Oh, thank you!” he replies cheerily, and the smile he gives them makes their heart skip a beat. They take the soggy items from him, cringing a bit at the questionable texture, and set them on the mantle for a moment. Overly aware of how closely he’s watching them, they kneel down, turn the gas knob, and light the fire quickly. In moments, a rosy glow emanates from the fireplace and Bloodhound pulls the screens over to eliminate any chance of Elliott’s things going up in flames. They reach up and place the shoes and socks on a small rack in front of the fire, and then they stand and retreat to their room for a moment.

Before long, they return to the living room wearing a fresh pair of socks and carrying a pair for Elliott. “Here,” they say, holding them out to him. “So your feet are not cold. It can be drafty in here when it rains.”

A pink tinge comes to his cheeks, and he accepts them hesitantly. “You’re way too nice,” he grumbles quietly as he sinks down onto the couch. He puts them on and then pushes his floppy wet hair out of his face. “Hey, can I borrow your hair dryer?” he asks, giving them a questioning glance.

“I… do not own one,” they reply, face burning. “Mine gave out a few weeks ago and I have not yet had time to buy another.”

To their surprise, he grins widely and looks away, suddenly very focused on the fire. “That’s all right,” he says, and his voice is curiously flustered. “I can just sit in front of the fireplace for a bit. You’re about to see the fluffiest hair the Outlands has to offer.” He laughs and rolls his eyes, raking his hands through his messy mop. 

The thought of Elliott with an untamed mess of curly hair makes them smile like a lovesick teenager, and they’re so, so glad they’re still wearing the mask. “So your hair is not perfect all the time?” they tease, sitting down on the couch next to him. They leave a respectable distance between them, but the distance is smaller than it would have been two or three weeks ago. “Ah, so he does have a flaw. Artur, can you believe it?”

They look to Artur’s perch where the bird has been sleeping peacefully throughout all of this. The bird shakes his beak and gives a soft caw before shuffling along his branch, completely ignoring Bloodhound. They shake their head at him. Unhelpful creature, they think affectionately.

Elliott scoffs and says, “Psh, no! I’m absolutely fal- flo- fu- perfect. My hair just has a life of its own sometimes.” He flips his hair to the opposite side and gives Bloodhound a ridiculously goofy expression. It takes everything in them to not burst out laughing, and they would have given him a deadpan expression if they could.

“Like your aim with an R-99, then,” they reply, keeping their voice as even as possible.

His mouth drops open, but he’s smiling. “Wh-What? Was that a joke? Did you actually just tell a joke?” A huge, incredulous laugh escapes his throat and he grabs his chest, and Bloodhound almost loses it. “That’s a little unfair though, considering how I absolutely lasered you today.”

It’s Bloodhound’s turn to laugh, and their face hurts from how much they’ve smiled lately. “You are correct, Elliott,” they admit, holding their hands up in a placating gesture. “I was very impressed with your skill this morning. Your precision and focus made you a formidable opponent, and I was honored to fight with you.”

Instead of the cocky, arrogant response they have come to expect from him, Elliott actually blushes. It is a welcome change; his cheeks turn a lovely shade of red and he looks away, biting his lip. “Thanks,” he says simply, and his voice is… bashful? 

Bloodhound does not quite know what to make of that.

------

His face burns fiercely and he can’t meet their eyes. He loves getting praise from his fans and from his friends, but getting praised by Bloodhound somehow means so much more. Maybe it’s because they’re so skilled, or maybe it’s because he respects them the most out of any other Legend, but such high compliments coming from them renders him a little speechless. 

“Hey, I know this is dumb since we’re paid to kill each other, but, um… Sorry about today,” he says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head. “Taking an entire clip of ammo to the head always gives you a nasty headache.”

Bloodhound huffs quietly, and Elliott takes that to be a soft laugh. “Do not worry, vinur minn. I am perfectly fine. It was simply the Allfather’s will for me to lose today, and I am not offended.”

Elliott lets out a small chuckle, relieved. “Well, that’s good to know. I was worried I might have broken your mask.”

They tap their mask firmly, and it makes a solid thunk sound. “You see? Perfectly fine,” they reply, and Elliott can hear the smile in their voice. “It is quite solid and substantial. Unlike much of your humor.”

Elliott stares at them open mouthed. “I’m wounded, Bloodhound, truly!” he rebutts, scandalized. He flops back against the couch dramatically, the back of his hand pressed against his forehead. Bloodhound, making multiple jokes in one night? The world must be ending, he thinks, and he doesn’t even care that the jokes are coming at his expense.

Bloodhound laughs, and God, he’s missed that sound. The gentle lilt, the soft breathiness of their voice… Elliott blushes even as he giggles, and he treasures the noise they’re making. 

“I have been known to be humorous now and again,” they say, still chuckling. 

Elliott can only smile and shake his head in wonder as the two of them laugh, and soon, he’s wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. “Wow. Okay, out of all the things I expected tonight it definitely wasn’t that.”

“And what have you expected for this evening, Elliott?” Bloodhound cocks their head and leans back into the couch, folding their arms.

A thrill of joy runs its course throughout his body when they say his name, and he finds it strange. Bloodhound has surely said his name hundreds of times, but this feels different. Elliott is sure he’s overthinking it, but the way they had said it feels like they were humming a song. 

His entire body glows with warmth. “You promised me answers,” he says carefully as the giddiness starts to drain away. “You don’t have to go into specifics but… still, you promised answers.”

Bloodhound is silent for a moment, and their hands fidget lightly in their lap. Then they nod. “Yes. I do owe you answers, so please, ask whatever you would like.” Their voice is guarded and serious, and the shift in attitude is sobering. 

Elliott notices how discomfort begins to creep into their posture, and so he resolves to not push them any further than they are willing to be pushed. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, the air hissing between his teeth as he leans back and begins to think. “Okay, um… Well, I was worried about your mask breaking because I don’t know how it works or how it helps. Can I ask why you need it?”

The question only makes Bloodhound’s body language tighten up more. They are silent for several long moments, seeming to ponder and consider his question. Was that too much right out of the gate? he thinks frantically, and he’s about to redact his question when they let out a big breath and begin to speak.

“When I was a child, I was… in an accident,” they say, but something about their admission feels shallow, as if they have more to tell. “No. I made a grave mistake.”

Elliott takes a deep breath and readjusts himself on the couch. He can tell this story will be a long one, and he intends to listen to every word.

“In my culture, young warriors must endure a rite of passage that shows our strength and our transition into adulthood,” Bloodhound explains. “My test was to slátra a prowler beast. I was afraid, but... I knew the Allfather would guide me.” They pause for a moment, and Elliott hangs on to their every word. “I followed its tracks to an abandoned IMC facility deep in the woods, but what I found there was far more hryllilegur. Horrible,” they add when Elliott raises an eyebrow. 

“A jötunn had made its home there. It is a terrifying beast, all horns and teeth and claws. It is as large as some of the buildings in Slum Lakes, if you can recall. I began to run away, but I found a prototype Charge Rifle and shot the beast. I thought it was dead. I collected its horn to present to my uncle, but he was... disappointed in me.” They sigh deeply as dread begins to pool in Elliott’s stomach. “I had rejected the sacred laws of the Hunt by using a gun in order to defeat this beast. Artur was steadfast, immovable in his convictions, and no matter how hard I tried to convince him of my victory, he would not validate it.

“I left in anger. I was a child, only fourteen years old, but if the other village elders knew what I had done, they would have exiled me. I was... so ashamed.” Bloodhound swallows, and it sounds like it takes a lot of effort. “I retreated to the forest to be alone, as I often did, and… the jötunn was there. It was not dead, as I had hoped. It sought revenge.

“I tried my best to fight it off. My uncle was alerted to my cries, and came to help, along with many other villagers. They fought, and…” Their voice tightens, and Elliott’s heart breaks. “Many died. Including my uncle.”

Their voice has become achingly vulnerable and soft the longer they’ve spoken, and Elliott wants nothing more than to reach out and take their hands again. He shifts closer to them on the couch, closing the gap ever so slightly. His eyes stay glued to their mask, and the lenses of their goggles reflect the flickering light of the fireplace. He’s always found the mask to be either intimidating or expressionless, but Bloodhound’s sadness speaks for them, and the mask seems to be considerably more morose than usual. 

“I sought the beast out,” they continue, and Elliott is surprised by how quietly angry and low their voice is. “It had returned to the abandoned facility. The halls had been equipped with coolant lines in case of an explosion or other emergency, and I broke them in order to immobilize the beast. But I breathed too much of it in, and… it dehydrated and froze my skin and lungs, leaving me scarred. Fortunately, I was able to find an oxygen mask just before I succumbed to the cold. Once the beast was frozen, I killed it with my uncle’s axe, fulfilling my test.”

Bloodhound is quiet for some time, and it takes Elliott a moment to realize they’re done talking. He knows he’s staring, and he knows he looks like he’s pitying them, and he fights to find an adequate response. “I’m so sorry, Bloodhound,” he murmurs, and he reaches out to them hesitantly. He takes their hands ever so softly, giving them every opportunity to pull away. “I’m so sorry you had to deal with such horrible things when you were younger. That sounds really tra- tor- traumatizing.” He’s struck by an incredible urge to pull them into his arms and hold them close, and a wave of embarrassment runs through his body as he presses that urge down.

Bloodhound’s hands begin to tremble in his, and he’s alerted to their discomfort immediately. Their breathing comes quicker and shallower even through the mask, and he holds onto them tighter. “Hey, are you okay?” he asks, worried.

“I-” Their voice breaks and Elliott’s heart clenches in his chest. “I- I am sorry, Elliott, you do not want to see me like this-” Bloodhound makes an attempt to pull away and stand, but Elliott holds on tight, keeping them right where they are.

“Hey, hey,” he soothes. “It’s okay! It’s all right. I’m not bothered by you being emotional. It’s actually pretty refreshing, honestly. Makes you feel more normal, like the rest of us.”

They laugh weakly, and Elliott sighs in relief. “T-Thank you, vinur minn. I just- I am prone to anxiety attacks, and…” They suck in a huge lungful of air, but they’re still shaking. “That is why I left the other night. When you asked me about Artur, I was overcome and needed to leave as quickly as possible. Please do not take any offense- it was not your fault.”

Elliott’s chest fills with a strange sense of compassion and guilt, and he squeezes their hands comfortingly. “It’s okay, Bloodhound,” he reassures them. “I’m not mad. Just… worried.” The admission makes him feel exposed and overbearing all at once, and he really hopes he’s not making them uncomfortable.

An idea comes to his mind. “Hey,” he says quietly. “Breathe with me.” 

Bloodhound stiffens, and Elliott hopes to God he hasn’t somehow offended them. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, and after a moment, he hears Bloodhound inhale greatly as well. He finds himself rubbing his thumbs back and forth across their rough gloves, just like they had done to him a few nights ago. He lets the air calm him and settle his racing heart. He still doesn’t really know what he’s doing, or if he’s even doing this right, but to his delight, Bloodhound’s breathing begins to slow and even out. They gradually stop shaking, and he smiles. 

Elliott opens his eyes. “Better?” he asks, and he gives their hands a quick squeeze. 

They are quiet for a moment. “Nearly,” they murmur, and they pull their hands away. Elliott’s face falls, and rejection begins to rise in him, but they take off their gloves and reach for him once more. He eagerly closes the gap between his shaking fingers and theirs. The place where they make first contact with his skin- a small place near his thumb- tingles pleasantly, and the warmth of their hand settles in his. He inhales sharply, and beams as their fingers curl into his own. 

“Better.” They are so quiet and soft as they speak, and Elliott almost misses what they say. “Your kindness is a blessing to me, kæri vinur. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he smiles, trying to find their eyes beyond the lenses of their goggles. Despite his happiness, he finds himself wishing that he could search their face for meaning, for emotion, for clarity. He knows why they need and wear the mask. He knows why he will likely never see their face again. But, damn, does he desperately want to gaze upon them just one more time. He doesn’t know what kæri vinur means, but he can’t help but notice the similarities between it and what they usually call him. 

He doesn’t dare to hope it means anything.

...does he?

“Do you… do you want to talk about it, or…?” he trails, attempting to do what they had done a few nights ago. 

“No, Elliott,” they reply, but their voice is not unkind. Their grip on his hands tightens for a moment, then they loosen, and it sends a thrill down Elliott’s spine. “Your help was more than enough to calm me.”

He adjusts himself on the couch, and his knee brushes against theirs. The only light in the room comes from the quietly crackling fire, and it highlights Bloodhound’s features with a silhouette of warmth. His heart starts to pound in his chest once more, and every sense heightens. Elliott suddenly becomes aware of how intimate and vulnerable this little bubble of space is, and his shoulders tense in anticipation of something he knows will never come. He wants to pull them close. He wants to lace his fingers in theirs. He wants to…

“Can I trust you, Elliott?”

They sound so… exposed. So afraid. His breath catches in his throat for a moment. “O-Of course, Bloodhound. You can trust me with anything,” he murmurs, rubbing his thumbs across their knuckles reassuringly. He’s surprised by how rough their hands are, and it’s only then that he remembers the silvery spider web scars stretching across their skin. 

“Then… there is something I wish to share with you,” they reply, and their hands begin to tremble in his again. They let go of him, and to his utter shock, their hands go to their helmet, edging towards the many clasps that fasten it to their goggles and respirator.

“W-Wait, hold on,” he stutters, and he reaches for their hands again. “A-Are you- hey, you really don’t have to do that if you don’t want to, I mean- I mean, are you absolutely sure?” He stares at them in confusion and worry, and his stomach is an unintelligible knot of emotion. Elliott searches their mask and their body language, trying desperately to figure out what the hell they’re thinking.

“If I was not sure I would not be doing this,” they chide gently, and they remove their hands from his grip. “Please, just let me do this. Ég er svo- I am so tired of hiding.”

Elliott can’t argue with that. 

“Okay,” he says, still very unsure. His hands fall back into his lap.

------

The child inside them shakes and trembles horribly as they raise their hands to their head. Part of them screams and begs for them to stop, and it’s only in this moment that they realize that part is the terrified twenty-five year old that had had their mask shattered in front of all those people so long ago. That crowd had been so cruel, but Elliott could never share their vitriol, their hatred. Bloodhound has seen into the man’s heart more than they ever thought they would, and no trace of cruelty exists inside him.

How long has it been since they willingly showed someone else their face? Five years? Ten? Ajay seeing them had been a complete and total accident- one that they had learned not to mind. Boone had grown up with them, of course, so he does not count. But Elliott… At the beginning of this night, they never would have dreamed of doing what they’re about to do. But Elliott is so kind, so thoughtful and accepting that their heart yearns for him greatly, and they can ignore that fact no longer.

Their fingers fumble with the straps of their helmet, but something drives them forward. It drives them to be vulnerable- to be open and take a risk. Elliott has seen their face already, so why are they so nervous? He has seen the scars they bear- why are they trembling like the young one they used to be? They do not know, but they hope that the price of them being so vulnerable is a price he’s willing to pay. 

There is no turning back now, they think. 

With trembling hands, they remove the helmet, cap, goggles, and finally, the mask. 

[bonemarroww]

Something Else - Trans!(O) Amajiki Tamaki x (A) F!Reader

Summary: “You’ll get there someday!” Mirio always says. “You’ll do better next time.” Tamaki doesn’t want to get there someday. And if every Alpha always does, well, maybe he’s something else then.

Warnings : Crochet inaccuracy, probably. Also, confession stress.

Feedback is welcome !

(I do not own the picture)

AO3

Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

——————— Chapter 3

“I j-just don’t know w-what I should do.” Tamaki admitted, his head comfortably against the wall of Nejire’s room.

Ever since he had come out to his best friend (and a little later, to said friend’s mate), things had been going rather well. They had not really changed when out and about, as to most he was still the shy Alpha from class 3-A. He didn’t mind it too much, for luckily, though people identified him as an Alpha from his scent, it was a subject unlikely to be discussed in most contexts. As long as he could be himself around his friends, so far, he was satisfied.  

Since Mirio and Nejire knew, Tamaki had taken to just leaving his nest made in his room, simply locking the door on the off chance that someone else would visit him while he was not here.

One thing bothered him, though, and that was not knowing how to behave around the Alpha that caught his interest. The thought of telling her of his feelings as an Alpha was only slightly less dreadful than that of coming out to her. He was at a dead end.

“I’m pretty sure she likes you.” Nejire shrugged. “She would probably accept any kind of confession, if it’s from you. A letter maybe?”

The shy boy shook his head, sighing defeatedly.

“She’s b-been raised t-to be the best Alpha. I have to be m-more traditional than that.”

From behind him, he could hear Mirio humming.

“So that leaves making her a homemade gift, or asking her to scent something, depending on how you want to go about it.” The blonde thought aloud.

Tamaki shook in his shoes as he remembered his dreadful attempts at any sort of crafting when he was younger. His father had tried to get him to crochet, his go-to practice when nervous, and his mother had tried to take him woodcarving; but young timid Tamaki hadn’t even known how to make the simplest bead bracelets or drawing.  

The intent behind it made the craft feel so overwhelming. He had quickly decided he would wait until finding a potential mate before trying again any of these.

“Maybe I should just s-stay like this. M-maybe if I just keep spending time with her as her f-friend, I’ll g-get used to her presence...”

Nejire was quick to come grasp his hand, pouting.

“Come on, I’ll teach you how to make these cute little thread bracelets! Or Mirio could show you how to patchwork a blanket.” She offered.

The sad Omega shook his head.

“These bracelets d-don’t last forever...” He sulked against the wall.

Tamaki tuned out Nejire’s coos about how much of a closet romantic he was at heart. The obvious answer would be to ask her to scent something for his nest, but he didn’t want to come off as not making enough efforts to court her.

“Maybe you could ask her.” Mirio helpfully decided. “Tell her you don’t know where to begin, have her help you. Maybe she’ll even tell you her favorites.” He coaxed.

With a sigh, Tamaki timidly looked away from the wall.

“Y-you think?” He tried to mask the hopefulness in his voice.

The blonde Alpha and his mate looked at each other, feeling they may have finally breached the shy boy’s defenses.

“I am certain.” The bubbly Omega grinned.

.

Much to Tamaki’s relief; his Alpha friend –and secret flame– had been ecstatic at the idea of helping him in his future courtship. She had first asked a lot of questions, the kind that left him with burning cheeks and ears, as he told her he couldn’t tell her yet.

When asked why, he had panicked and said he wasn’t sure of his feelings yet, and that he wouldn’t want to embarrass himself telling her if it was to be rejected soon after by said potential mate.

She had seemed to believe his lie – as he was positive there was no one else on this planet for him but her and her sweet scent.

The Alpha had given him clues as to what he could try; saying in passing how crochet was her favorite way to go. It took time, dedication, and a lot of love for someone to go through the exercise. Tamaki immediately chose it.

Next was what to do.

“If you were an Omega.” She looked at him in the eyes. “What would you like best from your Alpha?”

The shy boy had thought for a moment, unwilling to make his feelings too obviously out in the open. Looking for words, he fumbled with the rim of his shirt; suddenly aware of how hot the day was. Had his cheeks been this flushed the whole time?

“I-I guess I would w-want something that m-makes me think of t-them... S-something p-personal between us...”

In her smile, he knew he had a given a good answer.

“The key to a good gift is to make it thoughtful. Show the Omega you’re courting that you understand their needs and can provide.”

Early on, as she made him choose what colors he felt could be best for his work, Tamaki knew what he would do. He could not identify a single fault or need in her being, but he could make something that called back to their shared history. A scarf.

He chose a soft green that reminded him of the comfort her smell brought him, and a pretty pearly white that suited her bright personality.

His Alpha chose her own colors, so she could teach him by example.

They settled in her room, in the 2-B dorms. It was the first time one of them discovered the other’s sanctum. Amajiki took in the soft colors of her walls, white and green. She had told him these tints helped to calm her Alpha down, when it proved to be restless. For some reason, Tamaki felt even more nervous to be in her den. Sure, he had already been in Mirio’s dorm room several times, and knew visiting each other’s den was something most Alphas didn’t have trouble doing nowadays...  

It probably didn’t feel any different to her than showing her place to one of her Beta friends, he thought, his Omega sorrowful, as it was simultaneously ecstatic to be shown around his Alpha’s place.

The room was drenched in her scent...

“It’s not easy, but don’t worry too much. You’ll get the hang of it soon.” She reassured him, sitting on her bed and him on her chair, as she showed him how to crochet with her own project.

Her colors were a light blue, a pale purple and white.

She spent an hour showing him different simple knots, letting him decide which ones he preferred. Feeling overwhelmed, Tamaki chose the first one she showed him, internally freaking out too hard to concentrate on the others. She also showed him how to change the colors, and gave him ideas of patterns.

They started immediately; the shy boy afraid he would forget if he was to leave now. He knew he wouldn’t have the courage to ask her again another time.

His beginning was sloppy, and he abandoned his first pattern idea when he struggled to change the color on a bad first try. Still, when they decided they were too tired to go on, Tamaki actually felt proud of what he had crafted.

The Alpha hadn’t asked more questions, so neither did he, but he had noticed while working in comfortable silence that her work was quite wide. Was she making a blanket? These gifts were very popular among Omegas. Easy to scent, soft enough to be put in a nest, warm. Tamaki wondered if she was just making it to accompany him, or if she too had someone in mind to gift it to.

.

Tamaki got his answer the next day, after class, as they had agreed to continue working on their projects in each other’s presence as soon as they could. Mirio had cheered for him as quietly as he could manage, and had batted away his fear of her having an Omega in mind. All in all, after spending the day with his friends and discreetly repeated the moves the Alpha had taught him, the shy boy was quite eager to get his courting gift (he still couldn’t think the words without blushing madly) finished.

At the time they had agreed on, Tamaki made his way to her dorms, hiding his face bashfully whenever he caught the gaze of one of her classmates.

A very tired looking Alpha opened the door to him, and seeing the bags under her eyes, and her hair ruffled from sleeping, Tamaki panicked. Had he mistaken her invitation of the passed day? Should he have checked by text if she was available? Or, worse, had she forgotten about him? His inner Omega wailed at the prospect.

“Oh, come in!” Her gaze lit up slightly when she noticed it was him. “I’m sorry for the state I’m in, I didn’t get much sleep.” She yawned as she moved from the door.

Tamaki nodded, and found his spot from the day before. As he got his halfway project out of his bag (where he had made sure it wouldn’t get messed up), he noticed she didn’t.

“A-aren’t you f-finishing yours?”

A bad feeling seized him then, only confirmed by the Alpha’s bashful expression.

“My Alpha wouldn’t let me sleep until I finished it. She’s very eager to give it away.”  

There was no sound coming from the third year, though he wondered how to talk over the painful crack of his broken heart. His Omega whined, the urge to nest for comfort strong as he contemplated the pitiful work he had done.

“Oh.” he simply said.

He wouldn’t cry in front of her, he decided, as the urge to felt more and more intense.

The girl apparently felt his distress, though she misunderstood its origin.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m still here to help you, and I’ve got plenty more yarn to show you if you don’t remember well the gestures.” She reassured him, voice sweet, her calming scent a bit stronger.

Tamaki eventually managed to keep on his work through the sorrow. If the Alpha noticed his sadness, she didn’t comment on it, as she read over her homework while he crafted.

The elf boy didn’t dare ask her how her mate reacted. Eyeing her when she wasn’t looking, he could see her small smile through the exhaustion. If she had confessed her wish to court an Omega, the lucky person had most likely accepted.

Who wouldn’t? Tamaki got angry at the very notion that someone might not share her feelings. She was the most perfect Alpha, even to those who weren’t her mate –or not even Omegas, to her knowledge. He knew that very well.  

After some time, all his thoughts blinding him, Tamaki realized what was supposed to be the end of his scarf was now a mess of knots not even closely resembling what he had in mind.  

Ruined. His courting gift was ruined .

A tear escaped him, despite his efforts not to let it upset him.

He would never be enough for her. What Alpha, or even Omega, would want to wear such an ugly thing?

The Alpha must have felt his distress in the air or in his scent, for the next moment, she was all over him, her hand on his shoulder and her cheek pressing against his hair as she leaned down to take a look at his failed attempt at a scarf.

“I-it’s r-ruined.” Tamaki choked up, unable to keep the tears in.

Instantly, she coddled him, whispering sweet nothings to make him feel batter. She pried the fabric from his hands, inspecting the place where everything had started to go wrong.

“It’s okay, Amajiki... It’s salvageable!” She smiled at him. “If you only let me...”

The boy took the thing from her, heart on a full-on crisis. What use was he if he could not even make the girl he loved a proper courting gift?

“Y-you c-can't! I-It's supposed to be m-made on m-my own...”

He saw in her gaze that she understood the real struggle. Her eyes became soft, her soothing words becoming cuddling as she took it upon herself to comfort him.

“It’s fine... It’s only the first time you’re making this, you should have seen mine when I first learnt...”

And then, for some reason Tamaki would never understand himself, he told her. He told her in a cracked whisper, voice wet and miserable from his tears and body shaking.

“I-it was sup-supposed to b-be for you...”

As soon as the secret escaped him, two things happened at once.

One, he realized the nature of the confession he had just made, his hands flying to his mouth as if it would still keep the words in.

Second, above his hurried apology, a loud, loud purr was heard.

So loud, he felt it emanating from her chest against his side; so loud, he barely could think above its rumble.

When he dared look into the Alpha’s face, confused, what he found in her gaze was nothing less than joyful excitement.

“Really?” She exclaimed, crouching in front of him to get a better look at his eyes, from beneath his bangs.

His Omega quieted its cries at the excited contentment showing on her face, and the continued purr. Tamaki nodded shyly.

She stood up, practically ran to her dresser, and came back with a grin and a folded bundle of light blue, pale purple and white that she promptly thrusted his way.

“It’s a plaid. You can use it as a loose scarf –I know you don’t like anything too tight against your neck– or as a small blanket. I thought it would suit you well.”

For the first time, the shy boy saw her expression grow bashful.

“That is, if you accept it as my courting gift.”

Tamaki’s cheeks burnt, and he felt like hyperventilating as he felt the honesty in her voice. The purr hadn’t lessened, louder than he knew an Alpha could express their joy. It took him a moment to gather his thoughts, overwhelming as they were.

“I-I do. Ac-accept it, I mean...”

A mess of jumbled words escaped him, and when he nervously stopped talking, afraid of making a fool out of himself, Tamaki only found fondness in her gaze.

“Then I declare you, Amajiki Tamaki-”

“J-just Tamaki is f-fine...” he interrupted shyly.

“-my mate. Tamaki .” She repeated his name as though to prove a point, equal parts amused and tender.

————————

I know absolutely nothing about crochet, and so, forgive me for any unrealistic detail about the making of their courting gifts. I read that a scarf could be made by a beginner in under 6h with favorable choice of yarn; as for the plaid made in one night, let's just collectively agree that she has a side quirk that allows her to crochet faster than is normal.

On a happier note : Tamaki got a girlfriend ! Yay !

PS : it's not the fact that he's an Omega that prevents Tamaki from crafting a gift, but the responsibility it holds that makes him too anxious to do it. ;)

[ringwaldtworldbuilding]

Ringwaldt Deities Part 2

Here are the major Dwarven deities of the Ringwaldt setting.

Vorfahr, God of the Dwarves : LG : Ancestors, Friendship, Glory, Good, Judgement, Law, Repose

Adjective; The Dwarf Father : The First Ancestor

Home;

Favored Weapon; Dwarven Waraxe

Symbol; A Gold Scale

Sacred Animal; Goat

Sacred Colours; Gold, and White

Myths of the Deity

-Some say that Vorfahr crafted each of his children from silver and gold. Ths was the first great act of Investment.  So also are the Dwarve’s own children a great investment that should be cherished.  Glory comes even still for what could be a failure now could be another success.

-Vorfahr instructed those that follow him to obey the words of ancestors, lest their wealth dry as poor judgement would fall.

-Vorfahr crafted each of his sons from different items.  But some say that his first attempt was crafting and carved a piece of silver and white jade crafting Alta the first gnome.  Other versions say Alta tricked the First Ancestor to help craft the gnomish people for him so he could go about playing more tricks upon others.

-Yrka the god of dwarves challenged the Dwarf Father to glorious matches to test his resolve against the gods judgement.  For losing some versions, his Glory domain was taken from him by Vorfahr albeit temporarily.  Others say he lost only to recover in the dwarf kings holds and take with him a orichalcum breastplate to gift to his followers the glorious metal

Rituals, Holidays, and Sacred Days

-Honour the Ancestors in all things, for in them you find Glory. The flaws of the past will persist. Do not Judge those in repose- let them rest.

-Judge all with hardness of stone, and the compassion of friendship.

-Abide the law and do good for others.

-Mead of all kinds is highly encouraged, but the drinking of beer is frowned upon.

-Most temples carry a spirit of one of the Ancestors that consecrated the grounds, to guide and advise others.  Ancestors are of great importance to dwarves as only the most blessed are those whom are allowed to remain behind  to act as wisdom to the young.

-Marry who your father or mother proposes, unless the ancestors speak differently.  Be wed after a year of courtship, and produce at least 1 son and 1 daughter.

-Keep your Book close, and record in it all that transpires a record of your wealth and accomplishments.

-A proper marriage contract for Vorfahr includes acknowledgements of both sides' great deeds, the families the integration of one and/or more members into the other family, the acceptance of certain ancestors and finally the crafting of a large urn to hold the couples ashes upon their deaths.  Many negotiations and deals incorporate large rules for when only a singular partner dies within the space of a year.  In Dwarven marriages one cannot remarry after the death of a spouse until 1year, 1month, 1week, and 1day later with an additional caveat of if the surviving family member is pregnant that countdown does not begin until the birth of their current child.  Grieving widows and widowers are free to extend this grieving period to 11years should they require it.

- ‘The Ancestors Guide My Judgement’

- - - - - The father of all Dwarves is a stickler for the rules in my eyes genuinely meaning well but caught up in making a strong system that can endure, each thing must be recorded.  Well also wanting it to be clear he caught in older views - - - - -

Krieg, God of Honour & War : LN : Honour, Law, Leadership, Legislation, Loyalty, Nobility, Tactics, War

Adjective; Noble Knight : Leader of Dwarves : The Honourable Legislator

Home;

Favored Weapon; Dwarven Longhammer

Symbol; A scroll crossed with an axe with a crown in the foreground

Sacred Animal;  None

Sacred Colours; White

Myths of the Deity

-Krieg is said to have created the laws of society to stop the wasteful expense of battles.  After all, war should happen, but if you gain nothing from it then you lose. And besides, collecting spoils is a great pleasure.

-Krieg created the legal system as a way to do battle without bloodshed. Instead, the cunning general targets his enemy’s resources in a war of dueling pocketbooks.

-Krieg was the first son of the father of dwarves, forged from Iron and Blood.

-Krieg holds respect for his brothers and teaches his followers to not cheat their siblings but always attempt to earn more even if they are provided more.  This is most entailed to Krieg not being forged of precious stones or metals unlike his siblings

Rituals, Holidays, and Sacred Days

-Honour the Leader. Honour the Laws. Honour the Legislation and those who enforce laws. Honour the great men.

-Hierarchy exists to be followed.To disregard leadership is to destroy it. One who is weak or a failure will in time themselves fail.

-Courts are a battlefield of tactics and wordplay. One earns honour in them just as in war.

-Clerics carry hammers and wear heavy white linens wrapped tightly upon their form.

-Marry who your father or mother proposes unless the ancestors speak differently.  Be wed after a year of courtship and produce at least 1 son and 1 daughter. Do not seek beyond your station.

-Battle others with the word of the law as surely as a hammer.  A clever mind, deadly tactics and honour go further then mindless bloodshed.

-Hostile Acquisitions is a valid tactic, temper costs danger.

- ‘Wealth is Honour.’

- - - - - Krieg is probably the most popular Dwarven deity within their home nation and has a large amount of active worship - - - - -

Bilkeit, God of Craftsmen : CN : Artifice, Chaos, Education, Fortification, Knowledge,Protection, Toil

Adjective; Lord Arbitrator of Knowledge : The Builder of Walls : The Toiling Artificer

Home;

Favored Weapon; Throwing Hammer

Symbol; A Gold bee on a rampart or tower

Sacred Animal; Bee’s

Sacred Colours; Gold & Steel

Myths of the Deity

-Bilkeit is Flanze’s brother, born some centuries apart. The two demigods would become gods for their works of craft for the Dwarven people

-Bilkeit is said to have lashed the continents together with great chains and massive immovable rods, working tirelessly to shift and stop the motions of the continents.

-Bilkeit is said to be the second son of Vorfahr, and is forged of copper and ink.

-“Cost is not important, quality is king” is what Bilkeit taught, and rebelled against Krieg’s idea of war being fought by pocket books, instead advocating for education, and protection of those who toil for the community.

Rituals, Holidays, and Sacred Days

-Toil in the fields, in your craft, in learning or just building- but do something.

-Make each day an adventure in  learning new things, not only for yourself but for others. Educate freely, and help protect young minds. Feel free to have them toil for the knowledge they seek until they are ready.

-Gird yourself in the protection education provides.

-Hop and other Malt Beverages are his preferences. He prefers to leave clear spirits for his brother.

-All clerics must learn to craft something,, and most have apprentices for both clerical and forging work, educating both with equal conviction. When not spreading the word, they toil ceaselessly to improve their craft.-Clerics often carry detailed textbooks with them, and make copies of any instructional texts they can find.

-Pick up new knowledge as easily as you put down old lies.

-As a high posthumous honor for those who serve Bilkeit well, their ashes are mixed into the concrete (or other material) for a grand construction project.

- ‘May the Mortar hold for yours and your fellows.’

- - - - - I feel Bilkeit is very much the dwarven ideal of a craftsman a bit mad a bit crazed focused upon their tasks.  His belief in quality a dwarven ideal but his willingness to sacrifice profits aligning him against dwarven tradition  - - - - -

Flanze, God of Medicine : NG : Good, Growth, Healing, Knowledge, Medicine, Memory, Plant

Adjective; The Druidic Dwarf : The Healer of Memory : Lord of Medical Miracles

Home;

Favored Weapon; Dagger

Symbol; A leaf with writing along it

Sacred Animal; Sheep

Sacred Colours; Green & Gold

Myths of the Deity

-Flanze is the older brother to Bilkeit the warm spirited brother to his tempestuous younger sibling

-Though Flanze is the older brother he is subscribed as the 3rd son of Vorfahr and was forged of emeralds and sap.

-Flanze teaches that medicine should be for the people of the people and by the people and that memory is long as a silver vein.  And that to grow a community, cost cutting will only aid one in the short term for anything longer would be failure as a weak foundation crumbles as the roots of a mighty oak

Rituals, Holidays, and Sacred Days

-Grow your own garden to learn and understand the care it takes for each item. Your own growth will come with the memories.

-Some of the most deadly poisons come from the simplest of things- as do cures.

-Take care to care

-Adapt and record, stitch and heal to put each piece back in its place.

-Clerics should always keep a sheep on hand for wool or other uses.

-Clear spirits should be used to steady oneself, and to also clean and disinfect.

-Flanze clerics carry medical daggers, and often keep them in sheaths decorated in his symbology.

-Flanze  clerics dress in green robes with gold embroidery. Their temples are large stone structures with gardens along the outside full of medicinal plants. The insides are part medical facility and part church.

-Flanze clerics use a particular mushroom ground into a paste for consecrating holy places. A variety of this mushroom is also used to brew ‘Black Brew’.

-Flanze sects are divided among, those who wish to teach and protect the communities they care for, and for-profit doctors who wish to fit within greater dwarven society.

- ‘By the Stem of Knowledge’ is a common phrase for making conjecture within the church.

- - - - - I have viewed Flanze as the most like Vorfahr and yet the most opposed to him - - - - -

Overall the Dwarven pantheon is meant to be small insular and part of it is how the dwarves of the setting view the world the other part being the lack of forward motion by the dwarven gods in interacting with there followers.

The only Dwarven deity not included in this section was Honnig

[dibidibifiction]

Criminal In My Mind: Chapter 6

Pairing: Choi Minho x Reader Word count: 1.6k

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction made for personal entertainment of readers. The writer does not ever intend to offend her readers nor does she aim to spread false information about anyone as to pay any disrespect to the real-life persons whom the characters are based on. She also does not claim ownership to any of the images that are being used.

masterlist Chapter 5

MINHO

Last time I saw Y/n was over two weeks ago at the café while I was working the next morning of the night after she got drunk and made out with me. Well, that’s if seeing through her window almost every day at the flower shop before I go to class doesn’t count. 

She was with that guy Kibum and another guy I haven’t seen before who’s, apparently, another close friend of hers. The way I saw it, they were teasing her non-stop for what happened to us two.

I can still picture the way she looked hungover, with her bare face, messy hair despite being in a top bun, and simple clothes. Just like when I saw her for the first time at the flower shop, but homier in the most beautiful way. Don’t get me wrong, I also love when she dresses up and paints her face like the way she looked that night. She smells of fresh fruits and flowers under the clear sunny sky.

“Choi Minho, are you still sleeping? Don’t you have to work?” My mom walks into my bedroom at her house. I spent the night here since her plane was scheduled to land at eleven P.M. last night and I picked her up at the airport.

“Jeez, Mom. I’m not a kid anymore. You don’t have to wake me up.” I sit up to see her bright face. She’s still in her dressing gown, getting ready for the day. 

“There’s something I need to tell you,” I say.

“Is everything okay?” she sounds worried, making herself sit on the bed next to me.

“I’m confused about how I feel. Every time I see her, my world turns into a beautiful flower garden with butterflies and sunny skies. What the hell is wrong with me?

“Oh, nothing is wrong with you, honey. You just started to care for someone else besides your mom,” she giggles. “You’re going to be alright. If you really like this girl, you should do something about it. If you’re scared, just remember that you’ll never know unless you try.”

“Have you ever been in love before?” I ask. 

“Well, I was in college then, taking up my undergrad in business. This was way before you came into my life. There was this guy a year ahead of me. I really cared for him. We got close and fell in love during summertime. When school started again, he chose to study abroad to advance his knowledge. And I never saw him again since. To this day, I still wonder what would have happened if we got together, whether if he stayed or if I followed him,” she tells me with her ever-soothing voice. “But of course I didn’t regret anything because if things happened differently, I never would’ve found you.” She places a kiss on top of my head.

I just smiled at her, hoping she knows how grateful I am for how things happened.

. . .

It’s now later on in the day and I just finished my shift. On my way to school, I pass by the flower shop to see how Y/n is doing. When I finally get to the window, she’s not there. 

That’s odd. I’m pretty sure Tuesday isn’t her day off. I distinctly know that because she got drunk that Thursday night which means she doesn’t work on Fridays. And that one Friday, she was at the café all day with her friends. When I checked up on her last Monday, she wasn’t in either. 

Wow, I just realized what a stalker I am. But where could she be? Is she sick of something?

. . .

When I walk out of the building after my class, I spot Taemin from about half a mile away gathered with his friends. 

I catch up to him, “Taemin.”

“Hey, Hyung. What’s up, man?”

“Do you know where Y/n is? I dropped by the flower shop earlier but she’s nowhere around.” I try to sound as easygoing as possible.

“Oh, she is going out of town to visit her parents today. She leaves at four. Why?”

“My mom’s birthday is coming up. I wanted to buy a personalized bouquet for her,” that’s the best reason I could come up with right now.

“There are other good florists you can talk to from the shop. If you want I’ll call-”

“That’s okay, thanks!” I turn away from him and start brisk walking out of sight. 

I eventually start to run as an idea comes to mind. I text my mom ahead to borrow one of her cars as soon as I find a seat on the bus.

I get off and hurriedly proceed to my mom’s garage, which has a fingerprint and number code system. I pick the simplest car she owns—a white Tucson. I grab the key hanging by the wall, unlock the car and get in.

It’s now fifteen past four so I hope I'm not too late. It’s a good thing I only have one class this afternoon. 

Just as I turn the corner to her apartment building, I already spy Y/n walking down the sidewalk while carrying a backpack and a huge box. Perfect!

I put the car in hazard mode before pulling over to the side of the road. I honk once. 

As per my luck, she stops and turns around. 

I get out of the car and walk towards her. “Hey.”

She looks up, then there’s a pause. She’s just staring at me. Is she too surprised to see me to open her mouth and talk? Maybe she can’t see properly because of the sun’s rays. 

“Oh, Minho, hey.” Finally. “Sorry, I couldn’t recognize you until you blocked the sun.” There’s your answer. 

“Do you need help? I can drive you.”

“Oh, God. No, that’s okay. I’ll just take the bus,” she follows an awkward fake laugh.

“You’ll get that in a bus with that?” I point at the box. “Isn’t that quite inconvenient? Not just for you, but for other passengers as well. I always hate it when somebody sits beside me with a huge package. Well, two.” I insist, referring to her backpack which seems too big for her little body to carry. I'm trying not to sound too pushy but rather funnily charming.

“Minho, my parents’ house is a two-hour drive away. Are you sure it’s okay?” I can already see her sweat running down the side of her face.

So I first take her backpack then the heavy box and place them in the back seat. “Come on, get in,” I say as I open the passenger seat for her.

. . .

The car ride with Y/n has been quiet ever since she got in. I wonder what she’s thinking. I hope she’s not still embarrassed for what happened that night. 

I have to start a conversation if she’s not going to talk any minute now. “So, Y/n, are you close with your parents?”

“We’re alright. They were exceedingly strict when I was growing up, especially my dad,” I’m relieved to hear her talk almost comfortably. “They wanted me to be a lawyer or a doctor or get a PhD, but my only interest is flowers. I thought about getting a degree in Botany but whatever. I hate academics. What about you?”

“I never knew my parents,” I tell her openly. “My biological ones anyway.” I don’t mind telling people that. 

“Hmm. Well, don’t you want to look for them?” she asks but doesn’t seem apologetic like it’s not her first time hearing such stories, which is quite adorably funny to me for some reason. 

“Not at all,” I tell her. “I have my mom, so I’m perfectly content with that. She took me in when I was seventeen.”

“Really? How were you before she took you in?” I’m glad to experience her interest in me.

“I grew up in an orphanage until I turned fifteen.”

“Oh, wow. Really? Good thing you found your mom then,” she smiles at me.

“Well, actually, she found me. I’m the lucky one,” I smile back at her then return my eyes on the road. I’m pleasantly surprised by how she reacted. People always had the same reaction, such as awkward ‘oh’s and pitiful ‘sorry’s. Y/n is just different. 

. . .

One hour into the road and it’s starting to dim. Red Light by f(x) is playing through the speakers and I hear Y/n humming along softly. 

I decided to turn it up and start singing along as well, hoping for her to join in the bridge part.

And she does. “Miracle is coming…” then she points at me to sing the next line.

“But it’s taking so long…”

As we sing Luna’s part together, the car is filled up with our loud high-pitched cries, almost breaking the windows and rearview mirror.

We just carry on singing along together until the song ends.

“You are the red light!”

“That was awesome!” I burst out to her excitedly. “You definitely have a nice voice.”

“Well, I spent all my singing career in the shower, so...” she shrugs. “I didn’t expect for a guy like you to like something like that.”

“Are you kidding? I love f(x)! They’re my favorite girl group.” It’s almost hard for me to find somebody to share things like this with. Somehow, with Y/n, I got comfortable so easily and that face hurts from smiling.

Chapter 7 

[royalminari]

Tsuki Ga Kirei Desu Ne - Prologue (3-Mix)

Jihyo sat at her desk reading a magazine as her students took a test. The cover for the magazine she was reading had her best friend of twenty-seven years, Im Nayeon, plastered on it wearing a simple outfit next to a fence with some flowers while holding an ice cream bar. Although Jihyo would never say this to Nayeon’s face, in fear of inflating her ego even further, the older woman was gorgeous and pulled off even the simplest of outfits. All of a sudden, the silence was broken by one of Jihyo’s students. “Professor Park...” “Yes, Mr. Jung?” Jihyo asked, putting the magazine down. “Was your Mother a beaver, cause damn~.” Kai flirted. The young professor let out a tired sigh seeing as this wasn’t the first, nor would it be the last, time a student has flirted with her. “That’s highly inappropriate Mr. Jung and if you flirt with me again, I’ll have to write you up for expulsion. That goes for everyone else as well, I won’t hesitate to write any of you up for flirting with me.” Jihyo spoke in a stern voice and was about to go back to reading her magazine when another student spoke up. “Professor Park...” “Mr. Kang, this is a test that will count towards your grade for this semester, focus.” “But Professor Park, I’m suffering from a vitamin deficiency that effects my ability to focus...” Concerned, Jihyo picked up her phone and stood to her feet. “Oh no... I can text Mr. Kim to run to the store to grab an orange juice for you, Mr. Kang...” “A-Ah, that won’t be necessary... Besides, the vitamin deficiency I have is a vitamin U deficiency~.” “I see~...” Jihyo chuckled dryly before looking at Taehyun with a straight face. “Get out of my classroom, now.” The furious professor demanded, calmly, scaring the young man. “Y-Yes, ma’am...” Taehyun stuttered, scrambling out of his seat and practically ran out of the classroom.

On his way out, he nearly bumped into a tall woman dressed in all black with her hair in a ponytail and rounded glasses on. “Yah! Be mindful of your surroundings next time, please? You nearly knocked me over.” “S-Sorry ma’am...” The young man stammered before taking off again. “I swear, college kids, they get weirder and weirder every year...” The woman muttered to herself as she entered Jihyo’s classroom without knocking. “Hey asshole, you forgot your lunch...” “Jeongyeon, how many times do I have to tell you, not in front of my class.” Jihyo scolded her best friend of twenty-seven years, Yoo Jeongyeon, and the taller woman ignored her. “Anyway, take your damn lunch, I had to stop writing because of you...” “You didn’t need to bring it, I could’ve went out and brought another lunch.” “No, I took time out of my job to make you this lunch, I was not going to let you waste it...” “I could’ve eaten it later or had it for lunch tomorrow.” “No...” Jihyo grumbled lowly and snatched the bag from Jeongyeon’s hands. “Give me the damn lunch!” The younger girl whisper-shouted at her friend making the older girl smirk. “Good... If you need me, don’t call me, I won’t answer...” Jeongyeon said before turning on her heels and walking out of the classroom. “Aye, yo, Prof Park! Your girlfriend is fine as fuck, just like you Prof~! If y’all were transformers, y’all would be Optimus Fine~!” Jihyo rubbed her temple then looked at Jisung. “Mr. Park, leave my class before I lose it...” “I just wanted to-” “I said get out, Mr. Park!” Jihyo snapped and everyone flinched in fear. “Y-Yes, ma’am... S-Sorry, ma’am...” Jisung trembled in fear before running out the room, barely avoiding the literature teacher Professor Kim Namjoon. “S-Sorry, sir...” Jisung apologized quickly before running off again making Namjoon shake his head. “Mr. Kim, what brings you here?” Jihyo asked, taking a seat at her desk. “I’m here to drop off some important documents...” The literature Professor stated, walking into the classroom and placing the stack of documents on to her desk. “Thank you, Mr. Kim, I’ll have these done as soon as possible.” The older male nodded and hummed in acknowledgement. The male went to speak up about what was on his mind when he noticed a few students staring at them intensely. “Yah. Mind your own business instead of listening to us talk, this is why most of you are flunking your classes.” Namjoon said, flustering the students and making them go back to working. “That wasn’t necessary.” “Eh, college kids are annoying...” Jihyo let out a dry chuckle. “You’re right about that.” Namjoon put his hands in his pockets and looked at the younger woman. “I see you’re still dealing with flirty students.” Namjoon joked and Jihyo sighed. “Stupid horny college students looking for their next lay, nothing I can’t handle.” “Hmm... If it gets out of hand, tell chief. Ok?” “Thank you for your concern, Namjoon-ssi.” Namjoon softly tapped Jihyo’s desk before turning around and leaving the room. Jihyo silently buried her face in her hands. “God, why?” She muttered to herself.

After a long day at work, Jihyo tiredly made her way through the front door of her shared house. “Oh, you’re home, great...” Jeongyeon commented dryly from the couch and she stood to her feet, grabbing her laptop and coffee, and walked out of the living room to go to her home office. Jihyo closed the door behind her and took off her shoes before walking to her room, passing dozens of pictures of the trio together over the years on her way. Once alone in her room, Jihyo slammed her room door and sighed before doing the paperwork Namjoon gave her at her desk. Two hours and a half into filling out documents, Jihyo heard the front door slam open and a shout of “the sexy one has arrived, peasants” which indicated Nayeon entering the house. The front door was quickly slammed shut and Jihyo heard rapid footsteps getting close to her room and her room door was slammed open making Jihyo grip her pen tightly as her eyes widen in shock. “Sup fucker, did ya miss me~?” Nayeon asked, walking into the younger woman’s room and sat on her bed making Jihyo sigh. “What’re you doing with your life, Nayeonie?” Jihyo asked and continued filling out the documents. “Hm, let’s see~. Modeling, getting laid, going to parties, drinking and maintaining my beauty~. What’re you doing with your life, hm?” The younger woman ran a hand through her short hair in frustration. “You’re annoying, you know that?” “Only to people I’m close with~.” Nayeon shrugged, laying on Jihyo’s bed and watching her closely from up-side down. “What’cha doing, Hyo-ssi~?” “Working hard, something you’re not familiar with.” “Wow, ok, asshole...” Nayeon muttered then smirked evilly before banging on the wall that separated Jeongyeon’s office from Jihyo’s room. “Yah, what the fuck, Nayeon!” Jihyo shouted, standing to her feet to stop the older woman. “Can you fucking not?!” Jeongyeon shouted, bursting into the room and glared at her senior. “You... Are you fucking crazy, why the fuck are you banging on the damn wall like an idiot?!” “Cause I wanted your attention, Daddy~.” Nayeon smirked as the younger woman’s face turned red in pure rage. “I’m trying to work, idiot!” “Do I look like I care?” “You’ll fucking care when I fucking strangle you!” “Ooo, kinky~. Didn’t take you for the type to be into choking, Jeong~.” “That’s fucking it, you’re dead meat!” Jeongyeon pounced on Nayeon and they fell off Jihyo’s bed. Jihyo looked over and saw Jeongyeon with her hands wrapped around Nayeon’s neck as Nayeon clawed at the younger girls hands. “Y-Yah! D-Don’t make my room a damn crime scene, get the hell out!” Jihyo panicked, trying to pry Jeongyeon off Nayeon.

A/N: I know I made them different from how they actually are but it’ll make sense in the future.

[spaztronautwriter]

@eloquence-of-felicities said: Either Oliver or Felicity finding a lost cellphone leading to a chance encounter. :)

Felicity took a long sip of her, admittedly, too sweet, sugary latte as she plopped her bag down on the empty table, claiming it for herself and Curtis. He followed a moment later, two pastries and his own black coffee in his hands.

It had been a long week and they were both enjoying a quiet breakfast date at their favorite coffee shop. The two of them had been best friends since their time at MIT, but with their busy jobs at Queen Consolidated and Palmer Tech—not to mention Curtis recently getting married!—they just hadn’t had the time to hang out like they used to. Hence, Curtis declaring Saturday morning’s date night, so to speak.

He handed her her cinnamon roll and sat down in his chair, before jumping slightly. “Ow!”

Felicity put her breakfast down, taking a seat herself as Curtis reached beneath him to pull out a sleek, black cellphone—sans case. She was just pulling in a breath to start in on a lecture—because why wouldn’t someone put a case on their phone? It was a delicate piece of technology that needed protection!—when she noticed the strange look Curtis was giving it.

“Guess someone lost it,” he said with a shrug, placing it on the table.

Felicity took another sip of her drink before reaching over to give the phone a look. It was the latest Q-phone and, despite working for the company that made it, she was a little in awe at actually be holding one in her hands. They were crazy expensive, far outside her budget, but the technology that Queen Consolidated had included in this edition had almost tempted her to splurge.

She tapped the screen with her finger, lighting up the display. There was no personalized background photo, just the blue gradient that came stock. She was about to take it up to the counter to turn it in to lost and found when it buzzed, a green text bubble popping up on screen.

Where are you?

Then another, Ollie this isn’t funny! I’m going to kill you!

She tapped the bubble, a message popping up prompting her for a password.

Ethically, she knew she should just turn the phone in at the counter, finish her breakfast date with Curtis, and go about her Saturday. But, curiosity always had gotten the best of her and today was no different, so, working her magic—she was a computer genius, after all—she hacked into the phone.

The text message app was open to a one sided string of increasingly aggravated text messages from someone named Thea, who apparently had been trying to get in touch with the phone’s owner for the last half an hour. Felicity felt a little bad for the guy, since he’d clearly lost his phone and wasn’t just ignoring this girl. She closed out of the app and tapped the settings icon, hoping the owner had entered all of his contact information. See? She wasn’t just being nosy. She just wanted to make sure the owner got his phone back. Hacking was just the simplest way to do that.

But, the moment the app opened, prominently displaying the name of said owner, Felicity realized just what a bad idea that was.

“That’s Oliver Queen’s phone,” she said, nearly tossing it back on the table.

“What?!” Curtis reached over, grabbing it up and tapping excitedly on the screen.

“Curtis, no!”

“Oh, come on, Felicity.” He grinned at the screen. “How often does an opportunity to snoop on an actual billionaire present itself?”

“And my boss,” she added, trying to grab the phone away.

He ignored her, pulling it out of her reach. “He’ll never know we looked.”

Just then the phone vibrated again, causing Curtis to flinch so hard he almost sent it flying. Felicity swore she saw her life flashing before her eyes.

“It’s from his sister,” Curtis whispered, wide eyes flashing across the screen. “She’s really angry with him.” Then Curtis jolted and looked up. “It’s her wedding. He’s late for her wedding!”

“What?” Felicity was having a really hard time following along, what with the panic attack she could feel coming on. All she wanted to do was get the phone back from Curtis and take it over to the staff at the counter. Or better yet, Queen Consolidated. The guys at the front desk there would get it back to Mr. Queen and she wouldn’t get fired for hacking her boss’s phone.

She glanced up to see Curtis’s fingers flying across the phone screen. Typing. Curtis was typing.

On Oliver Queen’s phone.

She grabbed for the phone, this time successfully, and pulled it into her chest. “What are you doing?!”

“Just letting her know her brother isn’t dead in a ditch somewhere,” Curtis said, like it was obvious. “It’s her wedding day, she shouldn’t have to worry.”

“How do you know it’s her wedding?”

“How do you not?” Curtis countered. “It’s been all over the gossip sites for weeks.”

Heaving a sigh, Felicity looked down at the phone to see what Curtis had sent.

Hi. I just found this phone at Jitters and wanted to know who I could return it to?

Okay. That wasn’t so bad. Forget the fact that he shouldn’t have even been able to open the phone without the password, much less reply to a text.

She placed the phone back on the table and breathed deeply.

“It’s fine, Felicity. We’re just returning the phone.”

She nodded, and tried to concentrate on ripping a piece off of her cinnamon roll. She wasn’t sure she could eat it, what with the somersaults her stomach was doing, but it gave her something to do with her hands as they awaited a reply.

“Why are you getting so freaked out over this?” Curtis asked, taking a sip of his coffee and looking way too nonchalant. “Is this about your crush?”

“This is about me just inadvertently hacking my boss’s phone,” she hissed. “That’s, like, gotta be a fireable offense. And I do not have a crush!”

Curtis snorted. “Really?”

She narrowed her eyes. “One: you have to know someone to have a crush on them, and two—

The phone vibrated again and Felicity’s heart jumped into her throat.

Curtis casually pulled the phone closer so he could read the screen, then smirked up at her. “Well, here’s your chance to get to know him.”

He spun the phone towards her so she could see the text for herself.

Can you meet at St. Mark’s Cathedral downtown? 20 min? Please?

###

“I cannot believe I let myself be talked into this.”

Felicity grabbed the phone from Curtis’s hand as he pulled up to the curb in front of a large cathedral. It was beautiful, but imposing and she felt a flutter of nerves in her stomach.

Curtis wanted her to go in there. Alone.

“Why can’t we just park the car and go in together?”

“Because I’ll never find a spot. Just run in real quick. Thea asked you to come.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “You might want to hurry though, before the actual wedding starts.”

She cringed, and glanced down at her outfit. She’d put on a floral dress that morning. It was cute, but in no way passable as wedding attire.

“Okay, fine.” She clenched the phone tightly, then popped the door open and climbed out.

She took the stairs up into the cathedral and slipped inside the slightly open door. She could hear strums of music echoing through the vestibule and snuck a peek into the church. There were loads of guests moving to take their seats, but she didn’t see Thea or Oliver Queen anywhere. A man, maybe thirty, with dark hair and an overly charming smile spotted her and she suddenly felt like a deer in the headlights.

Tommy Merlyn.

She recognized him from paparazzi photos with Oliver Queen. Not that she spent much time looking at paparazzi photos of her boss. She didn’t. It was just… sometimes when she was perusing the internet during lunch, she’d stumble across a gossip blog or two. It wasn’t her fault Oliver Queen and his friends frequently made headlines.

“Why, hello,” Tommy Merlyn purred as he approached her. He stepped out of the church and into the vestibule, forcing her to take a quick step back. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Tommy.”

“Felicity,” she said, clutching the phone tighter. “Smoak.”

“Do you need a seatmate, Felicity Smoak?” He shot her another too charming smile, eyes drifting down as he took her in. “Because, not to toot my own horn, but I’ve been told I make an excellent seatmate at these things.” He reached into his pocket, pulling out a handful of wrapped candies. “I bring mints.”

Despite the heavy flirting, something about that gesture put her at ease and she smiled. “No, I’m actually just here to drop off this phone I found.”

She waved it around for him to see and recognition spread across his face.

“You found Ollie’s phone!” He grinned, conspiratorially. “He’s been freaking out about it since he showed up. Wait here, I’ll get him for you.”

“Oh, no, you can just—“

But he was already gone.

Her stomach fluttered nervously and she stepped back until her bare shoulders came into contact with the smooth stone wall of the vestibule. She was about to meet Oliver Queen. Oliver Queen, who, yes okay, she’d had the silliest crush on since she was a teenager and he’d made headlines just for being the attractive son of rich, tech moguls.

It was stupid to be nervous. Felicity felt stupid. She closed her eyes, pulling in a steadying breath to try and calm herself.

“Hi.”

Her eyes shot wide and there he was, standing in front of her, looking like something out of a movie. His tuxedo was tailored perfectly and pulled taut across his shoulders in a way Felicity would have loved to admire had he not been standing right there, clearly waiting for her to respond.

“Hi!” she blurted way too cheerfully in order to hide her nerves. She didn’t think she accomplished it. “I think you were looking for this.”

She held up his cellphone and he smiled, stepping closer.

“Thank you so much.”

He took the phone, their fingers brushing as he did, and Felicity pulled her hand back quickly, ignoring the spark that coursed through her.

“Of course,” she said, feeling a babble coming on, but completely helpless to stop it. “I can’t imagine what I’d do if I ever lost my phone. Well, no, I actually have an app that will ping its location if it’s ever lost so I’d just go back and get it, but…”

Noticing his wide-eyed stare in the face of her malfunctioning brain to mouth filter, she slammed her eyes shut and counted backwards from three in her head before looking back at him.

“Sorry. I should go.”

“Wait!”

He reached out as she turned to leave, brushing his fingers along her wrist, causing another spark to shoot up her arm. This time he must have felt it too, because he pulled back like she’d burned him.

“I… um.” He blinked at her, looking slightly confused, like he’d lost his train of thought. “I’d like to thank you for bringing it by so quickly. My sister is getting married today, as you can probably tell.” He smiled, gesturing behind him. “And she wanted me to give a speech during the ceremony, but I typed it out on my phone, then… lost my phone.”

“You didn’t save it in the cloud? This model should do it automatically.”

Oliver Queen blinked, a slight tint rising in his cheeks. “Oh. I didn’t… I didn’t even think of that.”

Felicity smiled, a little bit charmed by his embarrassment. Guess even sexy, billionaires get embarrassed from time to time.

Suddenly, Oliver’s expression shifted, the bashful quirk of his lips lifting into a flat out smirk.

“Sexy, huh?”

Now it was Felicity’s turn to pink up, or, in her case, turn beet red. Frack her broken brain to mouth filter. Oliver was still smiling, though. He stepped closer, pushing his hands into his pockets.

“I was going to give you a cash reward for bringing it back, but…” His smile turned soft and infectious. She found herself smiling back. “Would you care to get dinner with me instead?”

“Oh.” It was about all Felicity could articulate at the moment.

“Felicity! I actually managed to find a parking spot—Oh!”

Felicity didn’t look away from Oliver long enough to see Curtis, but she could picture his expression. Oliver looked though, his expression falling as he realized Curtis was with her.

Frack.

“Curtis, this is Oliver Queen,” she said, pulling herself back together. “Mr. Queen, this is—“

“Please,” he interrupted, “call me Oliver.”

“Oliver,” she said softly, as if tasting his name on her tongue. She shot him a slow smile, never breaking eye contact. “This is Curtis, my best friend.”

Oliver’s eyes skipped to Curtis for a moment before landing back on her, his smile returning. “It’s nice to meet you both… Felicity, was it?”

“Felicity Smoak.”

He extended his hand and, this time, when the spark shot through them, neither let go.

“So… Dinner?” He shrugged, looking somehow both confident and nervous all at once. “It’s the least I can do.”

Behind her, Curtis made a small sound that she could only imagine would turn into many large sounds as soon as they were back out in the car, but for now Felicity only had eyes for Oliver.

“Dinner sounds great.”

Send me a trope!

[kingqup]

Noises

Word count: 3019

Pairing: Steve x Insert

Summary: Steve hears his next door neighbor in distress, and tries to befriend her in the process of helping her

Warnings: Platonic feelings, anxiety, hinting at domestic abuse

Note: this story is based off of the song Must Have Been The Wind by Alec Benjamin

The noise coming from his neighbor’s apartment made Steve uneasy, to say the least. While it wasn’t exactly inappropriate, it still caused his stomach to twist as he sat quietly, trying to focus on the book he had picked up. But the sound of shattering glass and the crying that followed only made it that much harder to focus on his task. 

This wasn’t the first time, unfortunately, that he had heard these cries. And in fact, he knew that others in the apartment complex heard them too. The landlord that ran the place was very open about what was going on with his tenants, and so the first time Steve had walked down to ask his landlord to check on them, the old fool just replied, “ain’t the first time, kid. We’ve had enough complaints about the couple, but other than the noise they are good tenants. They are stickin’ around.” The fact that it was so common made Steve tenser. 

True, while he had settled down and he did enjoy the place he lived, every once and a while the noise would start back up. Steve found his apartment to share walls with the noisy neighbors, so he heard most of everything. It followed a pattern, too. Which of course, only boiled his blood even more. The couple contained a man and a woman. He often heard the woman through the day, but not her male counterpart. He would hear her laugh, sing softly, clean 

(that of which she seemed to do often. It wasn’t uncommon to hear her vacuuming a few times a week. It was more of a hum, so he didn’t mind it.) He would leave his balcony doors open, and around 4:30 every other day a new, delicious smell would waft in from her doing the same. She seemed to enjoy cooking, as it was a bit different every time. Knowing the man she lived with got to try the food she made caused a bit of jealousy in Steve. Not that he would say much. 

But then 6 PM would roll around. The man in the apartment was never quiet nor courteous of the neighbors. He was one to slam doors, talk loudly, and stomp around. Steven often left to work around this time just to break away from it, but some nights that wasn’t possible. He assumed his neighbor was speaking to his female roommate, as he would hear him talking, then quiet, then him talking again. He was thankful the girl was much more hushed. 

But Steven could tell when the man had a bad day. Around an hour later, the man would begin to get louder. He would shout at the girl. Usually about how she was “ungrateful that he was the breadwinner and spoiled her like the bitch she was.” He usually complained that while he was the one who put food on the table, she couldn’t perform the simplest of things. As he would go on, his words often muddled together. It wasn’t uncommon to hear something break. Often, Steve noticed, it was glass. After a few hours, when it was completely silent, he would hear a few hiccups from the girl, and the night would be quieter than the dead. 

And Steve despised it. 

Today, it started similarly. The man seemed to leave very early, nearly 4 AM. And Steve knew that because the door would slam, and he would stomp down the hallway every day at that time. Around 9 is when Steve would leave to head to work, greeting a few neighbors who were on their way to the store, walking their dogs, or leaving to work themselves. Oddly, while Steve had made this his home for the past few months, he had never actually seen the couple. Around noon Steve would come home for a bit, some days he wouldn’t get back until late. He enjoyed eating lunch on his balcony, and he would take note that the doors of the neighbor’s ledge was open every day. Often, rugs or clothes were hanging over the railing, and Steve noticed it would be around the time she cleaned. Later in the day, those items would be gone, but the plants would be moved a bit and the doors still open. On nice days, he could hear the girl sing. Her voice was very nice, and she sang songs he recognized from the radio, and some he didn’t. He enjoyed it all the same. 

At 8 AM, stepping out of the shower, Steve dried his hair and was quick to pull on his T-shirt and tan pants. He stepped into the kitchen to pour himself a cup of coffee, and, being ahead of his schedule, he stepped out to relish in the crisp, chilly morning air. The doors of the neighbor’s balcony were open, and it was quiet. Sitting down, Steve inhaled slowly. His chest filled with the city air, the sun just peeking over the awakened population. It was relaxing. 

So when he heard a potted plant move next door, he jumped quite violently at the sudden noise. 

Looking over, a young woman was adjusting the plant, watering can in hand. Her hair was long, a gorgeous shade of (your hair color). Her skin seemed to glow in the early morning light. Her pale lips were parted slightly as she breathed, and as she poured water slowly into the soil that kept her plants alive, she seemed to mutter, as if talking to them. She continued for about 3 plants before glancing up. Her cheeks flushed a beautiful shade of scarlet as her eyes met Steve’s who was staring. She swallowed but grinned a bit as she raised a hand and waved nervously. Steve blinked, realizing his staring. He nodded back, returning the smile. 

The girl tucked away her hair behind her ear, considering going back in. But, he was just her neighbor. So, she continued to water her plants. Steve counted as she did. She had 7, all different types. A few flowers, a few herbs, and a few simple decorative ones sat happily in the sunlight. Steve tried to look away, but when she wasn’t watching, he found himself looking her over again. 

After the last plant was watered, she turned. Flashing a shy smile at the man, the girl walked in, and it was quiet again. 

Quiet except for the beating of Steve’s heart in his ears. 

Steve found himself a bit distracted while working today. Sam and James picked up on it quickly, but Steve was mostly quiet about the thoughts in his head. He would simply say he had a change in routine this morning, and it threw him off. He wouldn’t go into detail, but his friends still kept an eye on him as they worked. 

Steve didn’t get to go home for lunch, so he walked into his apartment at about 4:30. It was quiet, and for a moment, he thought about calling his friends over. It was now the weekend, so it most likely wouldn’t be a bother. A resident of the apartments appeared to be a college student, one who threw a party every Friday. It was common to hear muffled music and laughter on Friday nights. So having a few friends over most likely wouldn’t annoy anyone compared to that. 

Cleaning up the apartment, Steve had text Sam and Bucky to come over around 7 that evening. The apartment complex was becoming lively, a buzz of socializing coming into the building. Since he lived alone, Steve found himself cleaning up rather quickly. He and his friend agreed on just ordering food, so it was quiet for him once again. 

Until 6 PM rolled around. It was different than before, just like this morning. The moment the door slammed shut, he started shouting. He was shouting low enough that Steve couldn’t make out every word, but he was able to put it together. She had said something to upset him. He said she was ungrateful. Steve slowly lowered himself on his couch, listening with a pain in his chest. Eyes closed, he heard the shouting, anger, the evil in the man. 

And when he heard glass shatter and the girl cry out, he was on his feet, making his way to the door. Steve didn’t even bother to put on his shoes and he stepped out, and walked over to their door, and knocked. 

It was suddenly quiet. Steve felt anxious, but he straightened his shoulders as he squared up in front of the door. It was a moment before the door was answered, and the young woman stood there, a bit surprised to see him standing there. 

“Pardon the intrusion ma’am, but I just wanted to make sure everything was alright,” Steve explained. The girl nodded her head quickly, and Steve couldn’t help but notice her eyes widening slightly. Steve glanced behind her a bit, but couldn’t see anything but a coat rack. He lowered his voice. 

“I was hearing a bit of noise from your apartment ma’am. I just want to make sure you are doing alright,” he said lowly. The girl’s cheeks heated as for a moment, she glances down. But a small smile forced its way onto her lips. “Must have been hearing things,” she said softly. Steve blinked in surprise; true, he hadn’t expected a particular answer, but that certainly wasn’t it. He slipped his hands into his pockets, relaxing a bit. He studies her for a moment, and her eyes locked with his. Then she shifts nervously. “I need to get back inside now,” she said, her voice just above a whisper. “Thank you for the concern, but I - we - are alright,” she pushed to Steve. He sighed quietly, but nodded, waving a bit at her as he turned and stepped back into his own home. 

The apartment next door was just as quiet as it was during the day and something about that made Steve want to panic. He rubbed his face while standing behind his door, trying to process. He had a pretty good idea of what he had heard, but he didn’t honestly know what was going on. It wasn’t his place, but at the same time, something in his stomach was begging him to go back. To go back and check on that girl. But another part of him begged him not to get involved. And the thought of that terrified Steve. 

An hour rolled by before Sam and James stepped into their friend’s apartment, a bag in tow. Steve was sitting on the couch, lost in thought. He hadn’t even noticed that the sun was starting to set, and all the lights were still off. He sat in the dusk, eyes glazed over as he let his mind wander. 

Sam glanced at Bucky in a bit of concern, who only shrugged his shoulders. Sam walked to the kitchen, putting down the bag. Bucky kept walking, soon finding a seat next to his best friend. Putting a hand on his arm, Steve looked at him, and they shared a small smile before looking away. Bucky relaxed into the couch, staring at the wall as his friend had done a few minutes before. “Are you going to explain to us what is on your mind?” he asked. 

Steve shook his head, and Sam leaned against the counter with a raised eyebrow. “It’s pretty rare for Captain America to be so silent about his fights,” he commented. Bucky chuckled, and it was all so contagious even Steve managed a grin. But he sighed and shook his head again. “It’s nothing. Just got some house stuff on my mind,” he said. It wasn’t a complete lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth. 

Sam rolled his eyes, tossing his friends a small can of alcohol each. It wasn’t long before Sam was slightly buzzed, and the two older men were relaxed. They chatted of mindless things - how work was going on different missions and tasks, what the government wanted to get after them for this time, how the family was doing - easy topics. Jokes were shared and laughs rang out, and soon Steve forgot all about the neighbor girl. 

Around 11:00 PM Bucky helped take Steve to the door, sending goodbyes to his friend. Steve walked them out, and with the door closed behind them, the apartment was quiet once again. 

And suddenly the scene with the girl flooded his mind all over again. 

The soldier groaned, holding his head. He wasn’t much of a drinker, he had only had 2 drinks. It wasn’t that he was drunk, just stressed with the thought of her. But he didn’t want to go back over and bother them. So, he focused on cleaning up, before making his way to bed. 

The next morning was quiet. Steve heard the usual door slam next door, but it was as quiet as a graveyard in the early morning. He needed to clear himself. So after getting up and finding his shoes, Steve found himself running the neighborhood area, trying to eliminate the mindless chatter in his head. 

It didn’t take too long. Soon Steve was sprinting, not having to worry about other runners since it was so early in the morning. The crisp, cold air filled his lungs, sweat dripping from his head to his chest. He didn’t even stop for a break. Veins bulged slightly in his neck from the adrenaline, and after an hour of sprinting around, he made his way back up to the 3rd floor of his complex and into his house. 

The sun was peeking in now, and he threw open his balcony doors to let in the cold air and light. He felt refreshed, and the cold shower he added to the morning only made him feel even lighter. By the time he had his coffee and breakfast out on the patio, he felt happier again. 

Until he looked over and saw the young woman watering her flowers. 

Steve swallowed thickly, eyes on her. She was beautiful, there was no doubt about it. It was annoying how such a pretty woman could be living with such an ugly monster. Steve placed his mug of coffee down on his table, and the clicking of ceramic on wood caused her to glance over. Steve caught notice and waved. 

She waved back, standing up straight. But she turned on her heel, going inside quickly. She closed the doors behind her. Not even a smile. Steve felt like Bucky had just punched him in the chest. 

That night, it was the same. Screaming, crying, and an anxious mess that was Steve. He wanted to go help, so badly. But it wasn’t supposed to be his problem. He couldn’t fix it either since he didn't have all the details on what was going on. But when glass shattered against the wall behind his head, Steve stood, rubbing his face. He wasn’t going to sleep. Slipping shoes onto his feet, he stepped out and walked over again. Something had to be done. 

Knocking softly, he rocking patiently against his heels. A moment later, the door opened, and the girl with long hair peaked out. Her eyes looked afraid. Steve smiled softly. 

“Hello, again ma’am,” he said, speaking quietly. The girl leaned a bit, to catch what he says. “Are you doing alright?” he asked. The girl nodded quickly, stepping back again, hand still on the door. “Ma’am, I’ve been hearing noises often. Are you sure you don’t need anything?” Steve prompted. The girl nodded again, taking a slow breath. “I think your ears must be playing tricks on you, cause we haven’t heard anything,” she said. Steve frowned as his eyebrow cocked.

“I have to go back in now, sir. Thanks for caring, that’s nice of you, but we didn’t hear anything,” she whimpered. “Have a goodnight, sir.” And with that, the door clicked shut. 

They were quiet for the rest of the night, but Steve still couldn’t find sleep as his mind raced for the girl that he heard crying only hours before. The thought of it made him want to through up.  

So the next morning, Steve had come up with something to help, even if it was small. 

He waited until about 8:30, then, grabbing his coffee, he stepped out onto his balcony. The girl was already out, watering her plants. When Steve set down his coffee, standing and facing towards her with his hands in his pockets, the girl grew tense, trying to avoid his eye. Steve could tell. 

“I know something is going on,” he started. The girl froze. Steve continued. 

“I know I don't know what it is, but I know you’re stressed about it. I can...I can hear you cry. I just want you to know, ma’am,” Steve looked down for a moment. When he looked up, the girl was looking at him, gripping her watering can. “If you ever need a friend, you are more than welcome to come over for a bit. We can talk about the noise when your ready, but just know you have a safe place over here,” he finished. 

Picking up his coffee, he nodded to her, then stepped inside, and gently closed the doors to his balcony. 

The rest of his day went by as usual. He got home late, but the neighbors were quiet, even though it was past 7 PM. Steve just shook it off, knowing it was for the best. Showering and warming up something to eat, all was quiet until a gentle knock on his door startled him. 

Walking over, he opened it, and to his surprise and delight, the young woman stood there, playing with her fingers. He looked her over. When they connected eyes, she went to talk but closed her mouth as she glanced at her door. Steve shook his head with a chuckle, opening the door and motioning for her to come in. The girl smiled, relaxing, before stepping in. Steve closed the door, his anxieties lifting. 

[blkmxrvel]

Haven’t Forgotten My Way Home (12) - [CONVERTED]

Pairing: Kara Zor-El x Female!Reader

Summary: In  the D/s society of National City, men and women abandoned by their   Dom/mes or otherwise deemed unfit for life “outside” end up at the Mount   Overland House for Orphaned Submissives. It is here that Kara Zor-El   finds Y/N Hastings, broken and fearful from mistreatment at the hands of   her former Dom. Can Kara coax Y/N back into the world that once so   terrified her, and show her the true meaning of care and submission?

Warnings: Domestic Violence (Flashbacks, Mentions and Descriptions), Misogyny, Domination/Submission.

The first thing a body will require, when it has been worn to its breaking point and is on its way back, is sleep. It was one of the things that Y/N was only just starting to realize: how tired she really was. So many years of her day starting at exactly 4 a.m. had taken its toll, and so when she glanced at the clock and saw that it was only 8 a.m, she thought “Meh,” and promptly rolled over and went back to sleep.

She’d washed the sheets and they were really soft now, and the pillows under her head were nice, if not as perfect as the ones at Miss Kara’s. So no, there really wasn’t any reason for her to get up. Not just yet. Two hours later she was awakened with a start by the ringtone that told her she had a new text message. She tried to blink the sleep out of her eyes, and read Kara’s 6 words through a bleary haze.

Good luck with physical therapy today. :)

Y/N furrowed her brow and sat up, her drowsiness erased by a small feeling of panic that began to rise up within her. Quickly her fingers dashed off the response and hit send.

You’re not coming?

She waited as long as she could for a response, sitting up in bed and staring at the phone for an hour, before she finally told herself that if she didn’t get moving, she’d be late. But it was another twenty minutes before she could actually force herself out of bed and move to her closet to pick out the day’s outfit.

It was strange, having options to choose from, rather than just a pair of underwear thrown haphazardly over a chair… or over her, depending on what position morning would find her in. Then there were the days when clothes weren’t allowed at all… which was hardest in the winter months. But now she could decide, would it be the blue dress with the cardigan, or the pink sweater and a pair of comfy blue jeans? Since she was going to therapy… she reached in and plucked out the jeans and the sweater.

Y/N was surprised to notice that she was smiling. It seemed stupid to smile over something like choosing your own clothes.

But she smiled anyway.

There seemed to be so many things for her to decide now… breakfast was the simplest. Cereal, she thought, rummaging through Nia’s cabinets to find what she wanted. Nia had already left for the House, Y/N assumed, and it was nice, just to sit on the couch with her legs sprawled out, relaxed against the pillows as she waited for the Lucky Charms sugar rush to take hold. She giggled, for a split second feeling like a fifteen year old again, before... before everything changed.

The walk to the House was short, but not short enough that Y/N felt comfortable actually walking it. Luckily there was a concrete pathway from Nia’s front door to the back door of the House, and Y/N’s chair was already sitting outside, with no steps for her to navigate to it. She sat in the chair but didn’t move at first; instead, Y/N simply just sat.

It was a pleasant morning, not too cold and not yet too hot; the birds were still singing and flying here and there, their wings bright flashes against the mid-morning sky. Y/N found herself wondering about them, if they were bringing food to their children or perhaps to their “husband” or “wife”; she watched them eagerly, taking in their every movement and listening to their casual back and forth song. She wondered what it would be like, to be one of those birds: free to go wherever, whenever, but every time returning to the same place. And not because they had to, but because they wanted to. The birds were bound by choice, not by birth or decree, and for a moment, Y/N envied them.

She thought about Miss Kara, then, resting the cell phone on her lap as she slowly wheeled herself towards the House, taking her time so she wouldn’t miss a minute of everything around her outside: the grass on either side of her; the trees that shaded her with their branches, the apples they dropped as food for the insects, the squirrels, the rabbits. What would it be like, she asked herself, to be free forever? To never have to answer to another person? No rules, no chance to break them. No punishment, no pain.

No Miss Kara.

It caused Y/N to stop where she sat, halfway between “home” and the House.

Maybe she could handle the pain, if it came from Miss Kara.

She began to wheel herself towards the House again, even as her hands trembled so hard she could barely hold on. It wouldn’t be so bad, she thought. Kara had been sweet to her so far, but she hadn’t claimed Y/N. But if she did, and if- if she got angry when Y/N displeased her, Y/N could… she could handle it. What would she do, what rule would she break? Maybe there was a certain way Miss Kara liked her clothes folded. She’d wake up in the morning and there would be a crease in her shirt that wasn’t there before. She’d look at Y/N, disappointment in beautifully deep brown eyes. And Y/N would know she’d failed her.

Then… the pain.

Y/N had gotten fairly good at taking herself beyond the pain; she could do that again with Miss Kara, no matter what the other woman would choose to do to her. Or with what. Whips, belts, they were all the same. Y/N could put herself in that space where everything went fuzzy, where the sounds were muted and the blows seemed to be nothing. Her mother had told her, once, about that space; she’d described it as a kind of Heaven, a feeling of being completely in the moment and yet not, as if the only two people who existed in the world were Dominant and submissive. Where thoughts became tangled as if by rope, and where no words could break through except the ones spoken from trust, from love, from hope.

Y/N had decided about her second year with James that her mother was prone to flights of fancy, or was just outright insane. No, her space… her space was curled inside herself, blocking out words and trying to tighten her skin to provide the least amount of canvas possible. Then she’d be ripped out of that space brutally, in seconds after he’d grown tired of her, with just a few words.

“Get your ass up and fix dinner, I’m hungry.”

She tried to imagine Kara saying those words. Tried to picture the petite brunette with the gentle face twisting into bitterness and hate, as Y/N got up from the floor and hobbled to the kitchen. With a blink Y/N realized that she wasn’t in a kitchen, or on a floor; instead she was in front of the door to the House.

She could do it, she thought as she pressed the code Nia had given to her onto the keypad, and the door released with a click.

For Miss Kara, she could do it.

Her phone vibrated in her lap while she made her way down the hall to the PT room, and Y/N paused to pick it up, smiling at the message. She sent her answer, and then hesitated in front of the door, feeling hopeful. Leaning over and pushing it open, she blinked, then felt the wave of disappointment rush over her like the water from the time Miss Kara had given her a bath.

“Here she is!” Nia said with a grin. She nudged Brainy, who smiled politely at Y/N. “Told you she’d make it.”

“That you did,” Brainy said. He’d gotten everything ready for Y/N, she could see everything laid out as he stood there in his black tee-shirt and jeans, still smiling at her with nothing but calm and pleasantry on his face. “You ready?”

“Red,” Y/N suddenly mumbled, feeling herself begin to panic.

Nia tilted her head at her, her eyes looking concerned. “Y/N?”

“Red,” Y/N said a little louder. “I-I can’t do this, I’m sorry, Nia, I’m sorry, B-Brainy, I have to go, I have to…”

In seconds she was back out the door, wheeling down the hall towards freedom as fast as she could go. She couldn’t do this, not without… she just couldn’t.

“Y/N, wait!”

It didn’t take long, because of her ability to walk and her long strides, for Nia to overtake her and plant herself in Y/N’s path. “Hey, what’s going on, kid?”

Y/N shook her head. “I just don’t want to,” she tried. “I don’t… feel well?”

“Yeah?” Nia said, sounding sympathetic. She squatted down, though she wasn’t kneeling, so that she could look into Y/N’s eyes. “I bet I can guess why all of a sudden you don’t feel well.”

Y/N didn’t say anything; she pursed her lips and looked at the white walls, at the dirty green and white tiles, anywhere but at Nia Nal who was staring at her like she knew her innermost secrets.

“She’s not coming, Y/N.”

“I gathered that,” Y/N bit out, and she sat up, a chill running through her as she realized just how snappy she’d sounded.

What would Miss Kara do if Y/N ever talked to her like that? Probably slap her face, Y/N surmised. Tears rushed to her eyes as she thought of it, but she tightened her hold on the arms of the wheelchair.

She could handle it. For Miss Kara.

Why wasn’t she there?

The sympathetic look hadn’t left Nia’s eyes as she surveyed Y/N in front of her. She was quiet for a moment, and when she spoke, her voice had taken a mournful, almost regretful tone.

“Do you know what was the hardest thing for me to learn?”

Y/N shook her head.

“How to go to the grocery store. Before, when I went, I had a list. Everything she liked, down to the brand and the price and what aisle I would find it. There was nothing on there that I wanted or liked, because she thought I needed nothing but what she gave me.”

“I don’t see what that has to do wi—“

“And so,” Nia interrupted, “The first time I went to the grocery store, I stood there in the doorway, looking at all the aisles, all the food… and I had no idea what I needed. What I wanted. But there was one thing I wanted.”

“What?” Y/N whispered.

“To call her. To call her, to have her tell me what to get, what to do, how to do it. But I couldn’t. I stood there terrified, scared out of my mind that she’d said was feeble without her, and I wanted to believe that I couldn’t do anything without her. But I had to.”

“That’s not the same,” Y/N protested. “This is different.”

Nia shook her head. “It’s not, though. You know she called me, asked me to be here with you.”

“But I don’t want you, I want her.”

“I know that,” Nia laughed in response to Y/N’s horrified expression; there was no trace of hurt or malice in her voice at all. “But you’re standing in the grocery store, Y/N. You’ve got all these choices to make, and ain’t nobody but yourself can choose.”

Nia stood up, ignoring Y/N’s confused look. “I know you don’t like being alone with Brainy and so does Miss Zor-el. That’s why I’m here. But she’s not, and you’re going to be just fine in there without her. You’ll see.”

“I don’t think I can.”

“I know you can. And so does Kara. That’s why she’s not here. Because she knows you can do it without her.”

“But I don’t want to,” Y/N said again, her teeth clenched. Who were Miss Kara and Nia to decide what she could do, and who she should do it with? But then again, to know Miss Kara thought she could do it on her own, that she believed in her so much…

Y/N was nothing short of completely confused.

“Well, yeah, and that’s another choice. Just like you have a choice now. Go in and do your therapy like she believes you can, or we call Miss Kara and tell her you won’t do it unless she’s here.”

Y/N scrunched up her face in disapproval, and let out the answer in an exasperated sigh. “Fine. Let’s go.”

“Welcome back,” Brainy said as Nia wheeled Y/N into the room once again, and she gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

He moved her through her exercises while Y/N concentrated on her breathing, imagining that Miss Kara was next to her head, encouraging her with soft words and a gentle touch on her shoulder. But there were two Miss Karas in her head now, the Kara that was Miss Kara, kind and gentle and… loving. And then there was the other Kara.

Mistress.

Her fingers clenched the edge of the cot as Y/N imagined Mistress, pressing her against the wall and lashing her with anger and resentment on her face. Disappointment. She could hear the voice of Mistress, no longer lyrical and sweet, but harsh and growling as she spoke words that had Y/N’s head hanging even as she lay on the cot.

Bad. Wrong. Stupid. Disgusting. Failure.

She squeezed her eyes shut and recalled that morning in bed, with Miss Kara’s hand held softly, tightly in hers. Warmth. Comfort. Y/N took a shuddering breath and opened her eyes when she realized Brainy had stopped.

“Ready to try walking?”

She hesitated, looking at Nia, who grinned at her. Y/N nodded.

The end of the bars was empty, without Miss Kara standing there waiting for her. There was only Nia, sitting on a stool off to one side, and Brody, on her other side, ready to catch her if she fell. But for a second Y/N felt as if she’d already fallen, because the wall on the other side of her was bare and white, and there was no angel in an argyle sweater waiting with her arms open.

But still the first step came.

It was almost as if an unseen force had moved her foot, and Y/N glanced down at it in surprise. Had she done that? She wondered. Brainy and Nia were grinning at her, Nia’s fist pumping in triumph, and Y/N found herself grinning in return. Their reactions spurred her on; she took another step and it was as if electricity had filled her legs and she couldn’t do anything but move. It was an eternity and mere seconds; there was Kara and emptiness, her hands on the bars and her feet at the edge of the mat…

On the other side.

She barely registered Nia’s yell of triumph, or Brainy clapping his hands for her; all she could think of, all she could do, was go for her phone and send a text.

I did it. I did it.

Five seconds later, the response came.

I knew you could.

Y/N was still riding the high of actually making it through therapy on her own (well, with Nia’s help, a little bit) when she wheeled herself out the back door to the House and was met with a smirking girl leaning up against the brick.

“Hey, little H, heard you did damn good in there.”

Y/N tilted her head. “How’d you… it was only five minutes ago.”

Maggie reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone, waggling it at her. “’Y/N went to therapy without Kara! Make sure you say something nice to her about it.’ Kara texts Ma'am, Ma'am texts me… word gets around fast.” She grinned and fell into step alongside her, walking with her towards Nia’s house.

Miss Kara had… bragged on her? That’s what Maggie made it sound like; that she’d texted Alex to tell her how proud she was of her… There was that warm feeling in her chest again, and Y/N blushed and ducked her head, then glanced over at Maggie. “How are you um… feeling?” she asked hesitantly. “You know, since then.” She’d been a little hesitant when Maggie texted her, asking if she could come over, but there was something about her… she’d wanted to check on her, and it might be nice, to have a friend. Still, it felt awkward.

She winced a little, shoving her hands back into the pockets of her jeans and shrugging. “Kind of sore, but it’s just annoying now, not really painful. Ma'am says I don’t need pillows anymore but he lets me sit on ‘em anyway.”

Y/N nodded and fell into silence then as she and Maggie made their way back to Nia’s. When they were almost there, though, she hesitated, causing Maggie to look at her with concern.

“What’s up, little H?”

“Can we stay out here for a little while?” She wasn’t sure she wanted to be alone in a room with Maggie, despite how nice she was being to her. Besides, the sun was warm; as Maggie helped lower her to the grass next to the concrete path, Y/N tilted her face into it and sighed with her eyes closed. “It’s so nice out here,” she whispered. “So peaceful and free. I don’t know if I could ever go back.”

“You talking about going back inside or going… back-back?”

Was she that obvious? Y/N shrugged. “Both?”

Maggie sat next to her with her feet flat on the ground, forearms resting on her knees. “Yeah, I can see that.” Then she was quiet, as she and Y/N listened to the birdcalls, the wind rustling through the apple trees. Finally, she said, “But you know, it’s not really going back. Kind of like, going to something different. Something better.”

Y/N smiled wryly. She’d thought that, at first, and even though she was pretty sure that what she’d said the day she’d left hadn’t changed, that she still wanted to be with Miss Kara, she wasn’t sure just how different it would be.

“I guess so; I mean Alex’s nice even when she beats you.”

“Hey,” Maggie said, a flash of anger crossing over her face before she quickly schooled it behind impassivity. “That’s not all Ma'am does.”

“I-I didn’t mean that,” Y/N said hastily, feeling ashamed of herself. “I-I know she punishes you in different ways, not just by hitting you. I mean, I-I guess she gives you corner time or lines or-or something that’s not hitting, I mean even though she’s harsh she’s—“

“Whoa, whoa,” Maggie held up her hands to stop Y/N’s rambling. “Little H, I don’t know what’s going on but Ma'am doesn’t just punish me, you know.”

“She doesn’t?”

Maggie raised an eyebrow at her. “Uh, no… I mean we have some fucking good sex, that’s for sure.” She laughed as Y/N gasped a little and blushed. She nudged her with her shoulder and winked before she asked a question that made Y/N’s blood run cold.

“Did he ever tell you you’re good?”

She didn’t answer, and Maggie nodded. She ran a hand over her head and down her ponytail, her face looking like she was thinking hard – and that it hurt her to do. “Ma'am tells me I’m good all the time. Even after she punished me the other night.”

“Wait, she told you that you’re good after a punishment?”

“Well, yeah? ‘cause she thinks I am. I mean I fuck up, like, real bad sometimes and I know it upsets him. But she’s never, ever told me I’m bad. She actually kinda gets pissed when I say I am.”

“Do you… do you think I’m bad?” Y/N asked softly. She could hear Sir’s words echoing in her head, and she tried to push them away.

“Does it matter what I think?” Maggie asked. She laid back on the grass with her hands behind his head and stared up at the sky. “I mean I don’t give a rat’s ass what other people think of me, all I care about is what Ma'am sees.” She glanced up at Y/N. “Kind of funny that no matter what I’ve done to screw up before, or what I’ll screw up today or tomorrow or the next day, she’ll still look at me like I’m the best thing since K9s. Well, next best thing.”

She felt jealous of her, then, watching the dreamy smile that was on her face, the pride in her eyes as she spoke about Alex. She tried to remember if she’d ever talked about James that way, and then she smiled a little when she remembered her words to Maggie the night she’d panicked.

“She’s the best.” Words about Miss Kara.

And Miss Kara had sent a text to Alex. Proud of her. And it didn’t matter that Brainy probably thought she was a little melodramatic and crazy, or that Nia probably got annoyed at having to coax her into the PT room. All that mattered was that Miss Kara was proud of her. Which is why she couldn’t bear it if Miss Kara was ever angry at her.

“But what… what does she do when she’s not punishing you?”

Now the look on Maggie’s face told Y/N that she couldn’t believe she’d just asked that, and she felt her cheeks go hot with embarrassment. She looked down at her hands, twisted in her lap.

“Well there’s the really good sex,” Maggie said, snorting when Y/N squeaked yet again. “But there’s other stuff too, I mean we cook together and go to the movies. We went to the theater with Kara a couple of times, she loves that stuff.”

Theater. She loves that stuff. The numbers in her phone. Y/N’s eyes widened. Would Miss Kara maybe… like to go to the theater with her? There’d be a lot of people and she wouldn’t really know what to do; but she could do it, for Miss Kara…

“And a lot of times if I have a good day or week or I’ve done something like really cool, Ma'am lets me choose what we do. Or she surprises me with something she knows I’ll like.”

“She surprises you?”

“Yeah, Ma'am says rewards are just as important as correction.”

“Rewards,” Y/N echoed, lips turned downward as she contemplated.

“Didn’t get a lot of those, huh?”

She shrugged. “She said that discipline was the only thing I needed.”

Maggie shook her head and sat up. “Dick. Good thing Kara’s different.” When Y/N didn’t answer, Maggie reached out and gently touched Y/N’s knee, drawing back when she flinched slightly. “Yeah, sorry about that. But you know… you know Kara’s different, right?”

Y/N shrugged again.

She stood up and brushed off her jeans, extending her hand to Y/N and helping her back into the chair. “I gotta get back home, tonight’s spaghetti night and if I don’t make Ma'am's garlic bread she gets pouty. Sometimes I wonder which one of us is the brat. Don’t tell her I said that.”

Y/N laughed and let Maggie push her wheelchair to the door of Nia’s house. She stopped then, turning to her.

“You know, I think the fact that you’re here, that Kara hasn’t taken you… I think that should tell you how different she is. She cares about you. I know it’s hard for you to trust her, but… look at me, dude. I was a dealer. I should’ve had no chance. But look who I got now.”

Y/N smiled a little. “So think you can find me somebody to love?”

“Nah,” Maggie said with a wink. “I think you’re doing that pretty well on your own. See ya, little H.”

She replayed her conversation with Maggie in her head over and over for nearly an hour; she fixed herself something for dinner and sat on the couch idly flipping through the channels before she finally turned the television off and tossed the remote onto the cushions.

Trust her, she’d said. I think you’re doing that pretty well on your own.

She looked at the phone, resting next to the remote. Things could be different. Things were different. She’d walked on her own, without Miss Kara.

But she still wanted her.

Y/N picked up the phone.

Would you like to see me tomorrow?

The sound of ringing made her jump minutes later, and Y/N hurried to press the answer button.

“H-hello?”

The voice was sweet, pleased, and happy.

“I thought you’d never ask,” Miss Kara said.

[aboldclaim]

29 and/or 30 :D!

Soft™ fic prompts -  pet names + ‘this is my husband/wife/girlfriend/boyfriend.’ (read on ao3)

He likes the idea of being a husband.

He’s always liked the idea in theory, from afar, like marriage was a piece of art to be placed on a wall and admired. He’d thought it was a brave thing to do, a nice thing to do, and that if he could get someone to loiter in front of it with him for long enough, if he could get them to pick it apart and explain it to him, maybe he’d give it a go.

There was no time for explanation, with Patrick.

There was no time for David’s elevator pitch on spending the rest of their lives together. He didn’t get a chance to prevaricate, didn’t take the time to spiral, because Patrick hadn’t loitered. Patrick hadn’t left. He’d run headfirst into falling in love instead, with unmatched bravery, enjoyment without restraint. He’d gone all in, all at once, and up a mountain and down on one knee, asked him to marry him like it was the simplest thing in the world, like it was the easiest decision of his life. It was as if he’d had a firm grasp on the whole thing, even when he was shaking with laughter against his neck, trembling as he’d arranged the rings on David’s hand, shivering when the sun had gone behind a cloud and he’d directed them back down the mountain, limping a little, kissing a lot. It was always like he knew exactly what he was doing. David’s still a bit lost.

‘Are you a bit lost?’

David pulls his head out of the fifth cabinet he’s searched in, as Clint moves into the kitchen. Words fumble and die on his tongue about the maze of corridors that make up the mid-century house, or the baby photos he saw on the journey down this morning, or his fruitless search for mugs, because everything sounds churlish, disingenuous, overeager.

‘Coffee,’ is all he manages to choke out, and he wishes he was wearing a sweater so he bury himself in the sleeves of it, but the house is as warm as its occupants, and he’s really glad he at least put on a shirt. He shakes his head clear. ‘I’ve been sent for coffee.’

‘Mm, by him upstairs?’ Clint offers, rolls his eyes, moving to a cabinet on the other side of the room. He can see where Patrick gets it from, the quick humour, the gentle teasing, always soft at the edges, and brimming with affection. He wishes he had more time than the weekend.

He wishes for more time as he’s shuffled into a chair by Marcy, who arrives in pink slippers, who calls him sweetheart. He thinks if he could just watch Patrick’s parents move around each other in Patrick’s childhood kitchen, at his childhood table, he’d understand marriage, and the hard-earned familiarity of the dance they do on the cork floor, all sleepy smiles and the newspapers and a mug for Patrick, too. They make coffee in the morning, and they do the dishes, pay their taxes, seem to really like each other, still, so maybe that’s it. Maybe that’s being married.

He wishes he’d understood his own parents’ marriage more, or sooner. There’s no dishes or cork board floors or pink slippers, with them, and it still seems to work. In spite of themselves, it seems to have always worked.

He just wishes it felt less nebulous, that he could lean into reality with Patrick, who makes his barefoot, bed haired, decaffeinated appearance in the kitchen, makes a beeline for the mug with his name painted on it in splashes of fading childish colours.

‘We should scoot,’ Patrick says, between gulps of coffee, leaning against his chair. He feels Patrick’s fingers slip beneath the neckline of his shirt to tuck an erstwhile tag away, feels them still and start there, grazing absent-mindedly as they inhale their coffee. The whole thing feels painfully domestic, like Patrick already knows how to be married, like he’s being doing it this whole time. He wishes he had his confidence.

*

He doesn’t realise how nervous Patrick is until they’re picking their way through the crowded cafe.

He knew he was nervous, armoured himself with a new sweater and four rings and his most sociable smile for the gathering of strangers - cousins, college roommates, friends collected before his time. He thought he had a monopoly on desperation to impress, but Patrick’s whole body seems tense, jaw set and hands shoved deep into his pockets until they reach the gaggle of people. There’s a loud bubble of delighted welcomes from their corner, and David wants to run away a little, wants to keep Patrick closer, wants to have known him for as long as they have - a mess of envy and shyness until Patrick gives his arm a squeeze, offers introductions in a fumble.

‘This is my husband,’ he announces proudly, then swiftly turns a deep shade of red, as several sets of eyebrows crawl up foreheads. David can see him shuffle his feet, like he’s willing the linoleum to crack open so the earth can swallow him up, can see him struggling to recover.

‘To be,’ David offers then, at large. ‘Or not to be.’

‘Definitely to be,’ Patrick shakes his head, and David thinks it’s the best introduction he’s ever had, doesn’t need much more to launch himself into the table of nice strangers.

There’s a script in the back of his mind that he used to recite by heart at this type of thing. There was a discipline to his warmth, a regiment of charms he could fall back on - loop twice around the room and people won’t even notice when he leaves. But Patrick would notice. He thinks people might notice. There’s an ease to their strangeness, a curiosity about him that doesn’t seem intrusive, and it’s only when the food arrives that there’s a brief lull in conversation and he can lean over.

‘So…’

‘Shut up, please,’ Patrick says, between a mouthful of toast, and knocks their knees together under the table.

‘You got a bit ahead of yourself.’

‘Babe.’

‘Oh no, I like husband.’

David likes babe. He’s not opposed to it at all, especially when it’s said the way Patrick says it, without condescension or control, exasperation or exhaustion - but at the end of texts and the start of the day, and into pillows and against his thigh. He had liked it the first time he’d said it, early on and suffixed with blushes.

He’s thrilled about husband. He’s thrilled about the way it fell from Patrick’s mouth, and the way it sounds around his own, even prematurely, even in jest. There’s something solid about it, something steady, like he could bounce between the syllables and not lose balance. He likes the way it fills him up, and that his tongue stops the sound instead of getting tangled around it. He loves that he’s going to be one, soon. He’s going to have one.

Patrick leans closer, tries to quell his grin against the fabric of David’s sweater for a moment, his lips warm on his shoulder. He’s valiantly attempting to feign annoyance, but his eyes are bright when he peers up at him, and laughter bubbles at the corners of his mouth.

‘Husband isn’t a pet name.’

‘It is now.’

David likes these games they play, on and off, day to day. He likes that he knows the rules, this time, likes that they play together. There are boundaries, and they shuffle within them, skirting the edges if it helps them navigate what he would otherwise take far too seriously. They take turns besting each other in rounds, and still like each other at the end of it. He supposed that’s marriage, too.

This round is his. Any lingering apprehension he has at the way the day might go slips away as the rest of the table catches on, and it becomes a group effort to cajole Patrick into saying it again. They’re all just as quick, just as warm, as him and he watches Patrick as the hours unfold, an unspeakably fond expression set firm on his face, steadfast in his resolve to win. He stays tight-lipped and amused, lets David bookend every sentence with it - between mimosas and through the streets, at half-time of a ball game and in the crowded pub afterwards.

He lets David mumble it against his mouth in the car that night outside his parents’ place with their seatbelts off and their hands all over each other. Patrick lets him say it over, and over, and over (husband, husband, husband), until David has to pull away to take a breath, feeling light-headed, half-married.

*

He admits defeat in not so many words, a few hours later, as the mattress in the guest bedroom dips below Patrick’s weight and he’s a bit quieter than David would have liked. He’s worried he’s toed the line too closely, wants to tell him he’s sorry, he’ll stop, he can wait (can’t wait, doesn’t want to wait) to marry him.

‘You okay, honey?’

The triumph is evident from the smile that plays in Patrick’s expression, so he might just be tired. He might have been messing with him, but his hands are restless against the bedcovers, and David watches the words he’s trying to get out spin around in his head until he can put them in the right order.

‘You know earlier,’ he says softly. David knows he’s looking at him, but old anxiety screws his ribcage tight and he fixes his gaze on Patrick’s hands instead, watches him push his thumb roughly along the lines of his palm. ‘Making out in the car. I felt like a teenager.’

‘Me too.’

‘I wish I could have had that, back then.’

It knocks the air from his chest. He’s not sure what he was expecting, to be admonished, maybe, to be teased, but the admission is gentle, said around a shrug, and David doesn’t know what to say. He wishes he knew what to say. He wishes he had Patrick’s composure, looking at him like he always does - soft, close, and kind, and trying to be honest, always trying to be honest. He wishes Patrick could have kissed the boys he wanted to kiss, twenty years ago in the front seat of his car, parked outside his parents’ place.

The things he wants, the things he wants for Patrick, fill up his lungs like water so the breath he tries to suck in has nowhere to go, the long inhale just reaching the back of his throat, lodged against words he can’t seem to get out. He wants to kiss him. He wants to marry him. He wants to cry.

He shuffles closer, instead, buries his head in the space above Patrick’s collarbone. Their bodies are almost flush, save for a tangle of sheets and a mess of pyjamas, and Patrick fights through them to reach the line of David’s hip, give it a gentle squeeze.

‘Husband’,  he feels Patrick say, feels him brush his thumb against the cool skin at his waist, beneath his shirt. It sounds different, now, less fumbled, more reverent, and David presses his lips against the crook of Patrick’s neck to muffle the wet sob that fight its way from his throat.

‘I like the way you say it.’

‘I like the way you say it,’ Patrick echoes, and David cranes his neck to chance a look at him. He’s not looking back, eyes closed, head turned towards the ceiling, but a smile blossoms full and bright across his face, laugh lines bracketing his mouth. He seems settled and unfettered all at once, in the guest bedroom of his childhood home, like he’s tugged the roots from its walls and let them grow elsewhere - into the cracks between the floorboards of Rose Apothecary, and behind the white-washed walls, between piles of boxes, around the sign above the door, flowers pressed between flowers. His name. Their name, maybe. He’s grown his roots around David, and David has grown his roots around him, and that’s marriage too. ‘I just don’t want you to get sick of it before - ’

‘I’m not going to get sick of it.’

‘Before I am your husband,’ he continues. ‘And you end up calling me something else.’

‘What else would I call you?’ David asks, and Patrick opens his eyes, shuffles down on his pillow and twists so he can shift both arms around David, collect the fabric near his shoulder blades underneath his fingers.

‘I don’t know. Pat?’

‘No.’

‘Or like, “hey, you”, you know?’  

He can feel his ribcage expand so his lungs can fill with laughter, and it spills out breathlessly against Patrick’s mouth as he surges forward. His shirt is collected beneath David’s hands, his thigh is pressed between David’s thighs, and he tries to catch his lips but they’re too happy to kiss tidily, and it soon dissolves into a tender sort of chaos, all tongues and teeth and teasing.

*

He can’t find his husband.

‘Maybe he made a run for it after those toasts,’ Stevie offers around a champagne flute, straining her jests above the music, and the thrum of conversation around them.

David is beginning to regret inviting so many people, craning his neck across the room to catch a sight of Patrick. It’s crawling towards midnight, and the room is still swelling with their guest list, fuelled by an open bar and a line-up of power ballads. He needs them to leave. He needs to leave.

Stevie’s face falls when he doesn’t wave her joke away with a dismissive hand, shuffling past her instead and gesturing to the fire door. He wants to tell her he’s had a good day. He wants to dive headfirst into cliche and tell her it’s been the happiest day of his life, because it has been, because it is. He’d always rationed happiness, carved up what he was given and felt it piece by piece like there was some sort of quota on how much joy one person was allowed. But he’d woken up this morning, in his single bed, in his motel room, and felt everything all at once, felt it for the last eighteen hours, feels it now that his family is close by, and he knows every person here, and Patrick, somewhere, wherever he his, married him.

He’s an uneasy recipient for this sort of unchecked love, he thinks, takes and takes and takes it until he feels like he can’t take anymore, exhausted and full to the brim and drowning in it and he can’t, can’t catch his breath. He wants some air. He wants sleep. He wants Patrick.

He finds him at the other end of the long corridor outside the room. He’s a sight for sore eyes, shirt sleeves rolled up his forearms and legs splayed out along the plush carpet, and he wants him, but he doesn’t want to interrupt his peace.

He hovers nearby instead, watches Patrick twist the ring on his left hand, a newly married take on an old telltale habit. There’s an energy about him that teeters on restlessness, a nervousness David’s only been privy to a handful of times, because it’s dampened by a steady charm and irresistible self-assurance. He doesn’t fake it, doesn’t bluster his way into semblances of poise like David does. He just believes in himself, and pours that belief into David, and handles everything until he can’t handle everything, and has to take a moment, take a hike, take a few deep breaths.

It’s David’s own shaky exhale that gives him away, earns him a guilty smile, and a pat to the carpet next to Patrick. He can tell Patrick wants to explain, wants to apologise for disappearing from his own reception, but David shakes his head, sliding down the wall next to him and stretching his long legs out so the tip of his well-polished shoe can tap against the sole of Patrick’s.

He meets his gaze for a moment - soft, tender, tired - before he reaches forward and starts to unravel the tie still knotted perfectly around Patrick’s neck. When it hangs loose beneath his collar, David leans over.

‘Hey, you.’

David can feel the soft laughter build in Patrick’s chest, warm and shaking, as he presses a kiss between each button he teases undone, until he can reach the space near his collarbone. He can feel a smile blossom across Patrick’s face, find its shape against David’s hair, as he drops his head against him.

‘Hey, you.’

[softdreamyhours]

dislike | L.Donghyuk.

pairing: haechan x reader 

genre: angst + fluff

word count: 2.6k

warnings: language?? and violence??

request: yes!! i hope you like it bub <3

You had known Mark Lee your whole life, you had been next door neighbours since forever. He was the first person you made friends with when you moved into town.

You heard a knock on the front door of your brand new home, you raised your head in surprise and put the hoodies you were unpacking and walked to the window of your room. Before you can get a good look at who was at the door you hear your mother shout from the main bedroom.

“Y/n, please can you answer the door?”

You groan, not really in the mood to meet new people.

You open the door and put on your best fake smile, “hello,” you say.

You are a little surprised to see a boy who looked around your age standing there with a tray of brownies.

“U-uh, I-I, oh my god,” he groaned looking down, his cheeks turning bright red.

You let out a small giggle, “may I help you,” You ask, smiling genuinely now.

“My mom said that I should bring these over,” he says holding up the sweet treats.

You smile fondly at the memory of your first interaction with Mark,

“Hey y/n,” you hear a quiet yell come from outside your window, you knew it was Mark.

You get up from your bed where you were reading a book, and open your curtains. When you had first found out that the window into Marks’ room was directly opposite your own bedroom window you chuckled at how cliché it was.

“What’s up Mark?” You reply leaning your elbows on your windowsill.

Mark grinned widely when he saw you and you couldn’t help but beam back at him. This boy was able to make you smile with the simplest of actions, he was your best friend and you were ever so grateful for him being in your life.

“Want to go to the diner?” He raised his eyebrows at you smirking slightly. “I’m hungry,” he whined the last two words.

“Mark it’s almost midnight,” you chuckled shaking your head.

“And?” He questioned,

“Just because it’s a twenty four hour diner doesn’t mean every time we go has to be at all hours of the night.” You say leaning up and crossing your arms over your chest.

“Come on y/n,” Mark whined dragging out your name looking at you with pleading eyes.

You avoid his eyes because you know if look into them you won’t be able to say no, and Mark knows this as well, so he continues,

“Please y/n,” he carries on whining, “look at me.” He slowly begins his attempt to convince you.

You eventually look at Mark and the second you make eye contact with the boy you feel yourself weakening because of his puppy dog eyes.

“Who’s going?” You ask him.

“Why does that matter y/n?” He replies, but he knows why it matters.

“Is he going to be there?” You continue questioning your best friend, “I’m seriously not in the mood to argue tonight.”

“He’s not going.” Mark sighed, “are you happy?” He asks with a small smile, “are you coming or not?”

“Fine, fine.” You say in defeat and throw your arms up in surrender.

You look over to his window when you hear him cheer to see him doing a little celebratory dance and you can’t help but laugh.

Thirty minutes later you and Mark are sitting in a booth at the diner with a chocolate milkshake each and sharing an order of fries. You are laughing at a story Mark has just told you when you hear the front door of the restaurant open and your wide grin is immediately wiped off of your face when you see two more boys walking through the door.

“Mark,” you whisper fiercely, giving your best friend the harshest glare you can muster.

Mark just holds his arms up in surrender and mouths a sorry to you but you just roll your eyes getting ready to leave.

“What is she doing here?” Donghyuk says bitterly once he is standing next to the booth you are seated in.

“Please Hyuk,” Mark says to his friend.

“Hey Jaemin,” you greet the boy standing next to Donghyuk with a bright smile, “Donghyuk,” you mutter not even sparing the boy a look.

Jaemin greets you back with a warm smile and Donghyuk just roll his eyes when he hears you, this causes you to roll your own eyes as well.

“Well, I think I’ll be on my way,” you sigh getting up out of your seat.

“y/n please don’t go,” Mark pleads, “All I want is for you two to get along, I hate the fact that that my two best friends despise each other.”

“I’m not doing anything wrong,” Donghyuk tells Mark.

You just sigh at the boys words before saying goodbye to Mark and Jaemin, you walk out of the door towards you house.

You love Mark with all of your heart and he is such an important person in your life, but he has the most stupid, arrogant and nasty excuse of a friend. You honestly don’t know where Mark had found Donghyuk but when he came home one day with a couple of new friends you were excited to meet them. Unfortunately for you one of them turned out to be an asshole.

When Mark had first introduced you to his new friends, you were shocked to say the least because they were all really handsome and Donghyuk immediately caught your attention, he was, and still is, breathtakingly beautiful. However your attraction to him faded a little when he treated you horribly, you have no idea what you did to make him dislike you but right from the get go the two of you were bickering and constantly pushing each other’s buttons.

The next day you wake up pretty late and see that Mark had sent you a text message asking you to ‘pretty please’ bring him and the boys some food because they wouldn’t have time to get any for themselves as they would be practicing the whole day.

Without hesitation you head over to the diner and get the guys some lunch before getting on the bus and making your way over to the studio your friends, minus Donghyuk, he is not your friend, are practicing in.

“I come bearing gifts,” you say in a dramatic voice as you open the door and walk into the room Mark, Jeno, Jaemin, Renjun, Chenle, Donghyuk and Jisung are in.

You look around the room quickly and see that they are all sitting on the floor looking very tired and they are also breathing very heavily. You hear some of them laugh softly at your voice and watch Mark stand up and walk over to you.

“Thank you,” he smiles warmly at you while giving you a quick hug.

“Anytime,” you reply smiling back at him, “here you go.” You say to the rest of the boys holding up the bags in your hands.

You watch them run excitedly towards you and snatch the food from your grip and you laugh at them before taking a seat on the floor, resting your back against the mirror lining the wall. When the guys are finished devouring the food you bought them, they ready themselves to start rehearsals again and you feel a small smile grow on your face, you haven’t watched them practice in a while and you are excited to see how much they have improved.

“Oh, you’re still here,” you hear Donghyuk mutter when he walks up to the mirror to turn on the speaker you are sitting near.

“I am,” you reply bitterly, “do you have a problem with that?” You ask him.

“I do actually,” he continues to argue.

“Hyuk,” Mark warns his friend, not wanting a fight to break out between the two of you.

“Literally no one asked you to stay,” he spits ignoring Mark, glaring at you instead.

You freeze for a split second, you are used to Donghyuk saying mean things like that to you but today his tone is something else. His voice sounds like ice and your stomach drops slightly when you hear him talk to you. He was right though, no one had asked you to stay but in the past you would spend hours in this very studio watching them dance so you had just assumed that it was okay to do the same thing today.

“I thought so,” Donghyuk chuckles bitterly.

“Maybe I should go,” you whisper standing up, still shocked by how fierce Donghyuks voice is.

“I think everyone would like that.” He says and you look into his eyes and see that his gaze matches the sound of his voice and your heart sinks even more.

You hear the rest of the boys begin to call Donghyuk out for being so mean but you choose to ignore it and make your way to the door.

“I literally didn’t say anything different to what I normally say to her,” you hear him defend himself when you have reached the door.

“It’s not what you say, it’s how you say it Donghyuk.” You say loud enough for all of them to hear before opening the door in front of you and walking out.

You make your way to the bus stop and wait there for the next bus with watery eyes, sure you and Donghyuk tease each other all the time and you certainly would not choose to hang out with him but you never thought that he actually hated you. However hearing him spit those words at you was really hurtful. You had also hoped that one day you and the boy could become friends, you are not a fan of the way he treats you at all but when he interacts with his friends he is such a sweetheart.

When your bus arrives you climb onto it and make your way to the back, put in your earphones and put on some music to listen to on the ride home. Your music is playing so loud in your ears that you cannot even hear yourself think so when you look up from your lap and see every other passengers face covered in panic you get a huge fright, pulling your earphones out you begin to hear worried yells coming from the people around you. Your heart begins to beat at an abnormal rate and you move your eyes to the window, you see the road and trees passing by it very fast and when you look towards the front of the bus and see the driver flailing slightly as he tries to slam his feet onto the breaks repeatedly you realize that the breaks of the bus must be failing.

You can’t bring yourself to scream or cry during the whole time the bus is soaring down the hill, you don’t even make a sound when the large vehicle comes in to contact with a wall. The bus’ speed is suppressed when the front crashes into a school building, the last thing you remember is seeing the front half of the bus being crushed.

You feel a sharp pain in the side of your head, it’s so sore it wakes you up. When your eyes pry themselves open you notice that you are not in your bed at home, instead you are in a bland, white room with your head resting in a very uncomfortable position. After a few moments your mind clears and you remember what had happened, you don’t remember actually injuring yourself so you are slightly confused as to why you are in a hospital but what is confusing you the most is the fact that Donghyuk is sitting in a chair next to your bed. He is holding one of your hands with both of his and his head is resting against the mattress, he is fast asleep. You stare at the sleeping boy for about five minutes before you hear the door open, you look up and watch Mark walk into the room holding some snacks in his arms.

“Hey, you’re up.” He smiles softly and walks over to you, your best friend strokes your hair comfortingly before sitting down next to you as well,

“How long have I been out?” You ask him.

“Only about an hour,” he laughs softly, “Donghyuk just can’t stay awake for more than ten minutes with nothing to do.” He shrugs.

You nod your head and look over at the sleeping boy once again, he looks so peaceful and your head is aching so much at the moment that you wish you were still sleeping too.

“What happened?” You ask Mark another question, still looking at Donghyuk.

“You passed out during the wreck,” tells you.

Just as you are about to answer your best friend you hear Donghyuk stir next to you, when he lifts his head off of the mattress you are lying on and opens his eyes he gasps softly noticing that you are awake.

“Holy…” He whispers, “you’re okay.” He sighs and sounds relieved.

“I am,” you tell him, frowning slightly in confusion, this is the most you and Donghyuk have spoken without throwing an insult at one another.

Donghyuk then suddenly squeezes the hand he is holding of yours tighter than before and begins sprouting out about one thousand apologies, you just sit and listen to him in silence with your eyebrows raised,

“…And I always thought that you liked Mark so I just decided to push you away because I thought you would never like me back but I took it to far and I really hurt your feelings this time and I’m so sorry…�� he continues rambling.

Your heart flutters when he admits that he likes you, “you like me?” You ask quietly, interrupting his mumbling.

“I- Uh- Um,” he stutters with wide eyes, “no?” He tells you but it comes out more like a question, “yes,” he sighs.

You chuckle lightly when you watch the boy press his forehead onto the mattress once more.

“And I’m so sorry that it took you getting hurt for me to finally admit it to you,” he says softly and you almost don’t hear it because his voice is muffled by the mattress.

You move the hand that Donghyuk isn’t holding over to his head and you run your fingers through his hair softly before telling him that it’s okay and that you aren’t mad.

“Really?” Donghyuk asks lifting his head off of the bed.  

“Yes,” you tell him, “I am still pretty upset though.” You finish with raised eyebrows.

“I know,” he whispers standing up, “I will spend the rest of my days fighting for your forgiveness.” He says seriously as he sits next to you in the hospital bed.

You laugh softly at how serious he is being and he looks slightly offended but you can’t help it.

“I’m so sorry y/n,” he says again, wrapping one of his arms around your shoulders and pressing a kiss against your temple softly.

You rest your head against his shoulder and close your eyes, basking in the happy moment but your eyebrows soon furrow and you look over to your left to see an empty chair.

“Where did Mark go?” You ask Donghyuk.

The boy just shrugs in response and you roll your eyes, but to be honest you don’t really care either. The only thing that is on your mind right now is the boy sitting next to you, you smile warmly at him feeling very content with the situation knowing that you don’t have to fight with him anymore.

[runaway-horses]

Together, Let’s Be

Ship: Platonic Moxiety. Technically background Logince but it’s only mentioned once.

Warnings: Talk of depression, crying, food. (It’s a soft fic though, it’s not sad.)

Word Count: 1,010

A/N: So, depression hit me hard over the weekend and my best friend came to my house with bags of food to keep me company/distract me. She helped a me a lot and also gave me a shot of inspiration to write this. Never underestimate the importance of a support system when you’re recovering y’all.

(Also, I’m tagging @randomslasher because this is Moxiety.)

•••

When Virgil woke up, he could already tell it was a bad day. He sighed as he rolled over in bed, pulling the blankets over himself to create a cocoon of warmth and darkness. No reason in getting up anytime soon, he figured.

Virgil napped for the next hour or so, and he woke up feeling more tired than he had before going to sleep. Everything felt muted, the colors in his room and the sounds of his complex building. It almost felt like his head had been emptied out and replaced with cotton-his thoughts felt fuzzy and insubstantial.

He pushed his face into his pillow and wondered how long his limbs were going to feel like lead, how long it would be until he felt like there was a reason to get out of bed.

Finally, he fumbled under his blankets to find his phone, planning to waste away the next few hours on Tumblr or YouTube. When he found it-underneath his pillow; Logan would scold him if he knew- he saw that he had a text from Patton.

Pat: Hey kiddo, have you heard from Logan today? I’m trying to get everyone’s schedules for next week’s dinner.

Virgil rolled so he was on his side and had one hand free to type out a text.

Virge: no, but i just woke up. i can text him later today.

He sent the text and dropped his phone. Logan had flown out to California to surprise his boyfriend, Roman, for Valentine’s Day. What Logan didn’t know is that Roman had already been planning with Virgil and Patton to fly to Florida next week as a surprise for Logan. So now the two were flying back together sometime next week and they were all going to meet up for a classic “Fonderheart” get together.

(The name was of Patton’s invention. All of their last names, Roman Foster, Patton Heart, and Logan and Virgil Sanders, all smushed together. Logan and Virgil always groaned at the name, but secretly they loved it.)

His phone vibrated and Virgil picked it back up.

Pat: That’s fine Virge, no rush.

A pause.

Pat: One of those days?

Virgil sighed deeply. Patton struggled himself with days like this, where everything feels dark and lonely, and the energy has been sucked out of you and replaced with something else. And while they both tended to keep it under wraps-no need to worry anyone else after all. They were fine!- they were both getting better about letting the other know when it was one of those days.

Virge: yeah.

He was too tired to put it tactfully, or say something to try to tone it down. It was one of those days, nothing else to say.

Pat: Are you doing anything today? Did you have any plans?

Virgil wrinkled his brows in confusion.

Virge: no?

Virgil waited for an explanation, but one never came. Whatever. He switched to Tumblr to try to lose himself in something distracting.

After a minute, he finally gave up and put his phone down. It wasn’t helping. He pulled the blankets up tighter and curled his legs into his body. Staring at a wall for hours it would be then.

•••

Virgil was snapped out of his haze by a knock at his door. He couldn’t help the snap of annoyance at the sound. Didn’t the universe know he wanted to be left alone?

Nevertheless, he rolled out of bed- blanket and all- and slouched to the door. He pulled it open to reveal his best friend standing there with a- frankly alarming amount of grocery bags.

“Pat?” He asked, his voice hoarse and tone inquisitive.

Patton’s smile was warm and bright as he stepped into the apartment. “Heyo kiddo,” He greeted, and his voice was softer than usual, but it still held his trademark cheer. Virgil watched in confusion as Patton headed right for his couch and dropped the bags there, placing some on the floor and some on the coffee table. Virgil wondered vaguely where they were supposed to sit.

Seemingly satisfied with the couch-bag invasion, Patton stood and returned to Virgil.

“Uh, not that I’m not thrilled to see you, Patton, but what is all this?”

Patton reaches for Virgil’s hands, and his touch is grounding and soft at the same time.

“We’re going to watch Disney movies and shows that were canceled in the 2000s and stuff our face with discount Valentine’s Day candy, and you can pretend to not cry during the Lion King-” Virgil made a noise of protest- “and you don’t have to be alone today.”

Virgin froze at his words and gripped his hands a little bit tighter.

“So you did all this-” He gestured at where his couch had been swallowed by bags- “For me?” His voice cracked on the last part, and he knew Patton heard it.

“Virgil, of course I did. You’re my best friend, and you’re having a bad day, and I’m here to cheer you up.”

The way he said it, like it was obvious, like it was the simplest thing in the world that of course he would be there for Virgil, had tears welling in his eyes and spilling over before he could stop them.

“Oh Virgil,” Patton murmured as he pulled him into a hug. Patton’s hugs were a favorite amongst their friend group. Patton’s hugs felt like the arms of a loving parent, warm and sheltering and safe and home. Patton cupped the back of his head and held him against him, allowing him to tuck his head against his shoulder and cry.

“It’s alright sweetheart, I got you.”

And he did. He didn’t move, just let Virgil cry and gently held him steady, reminding him that he was there.

Virgil wasn’t sure how much later he pulled away, but Patton didn’t hurry him, didn’t make him feel gross for crying all over his shirt and cardigan.

“Wanna watch The Black Cauldron?”

Virgil let out a wet chuckle and wiped his eyes.

“Yeah, Pat. I’d love that.”