#10 beautiful postcards | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

harrysonlylover · 4 months

Text

Checkmate (Part 2)

Summary: The tension between Poppy and Harry gets cut. What really happened a few years back and do assassins have hearts?

Trope: Assassin H/ LHH

WC: 11k

Warnings: Assassins’ stuff…? Murder, injections, angst.

A/n: This is NOT a Standalone Oneshot. Part 1 must be read first.

Part 1

In all her years, Poppy never made a mistake or went out of line for something less than perfection. She is both beauty and brains. Everyone she ever came across envied her starting from the girls at the institute during her childhood, to random passers in the street who got struck by her charming aura.

Her moves are well calculated to aid her in any mission or even plans concerning her personal life.

Gaining a reputation in the Assassination field was barely an obstacle for her. It is not the clients that ask for her, it’s quite the opposite. She knows how to catch someone’s attention and when to do that…

It wasn’t long before she got one phone call after the other, postcards, and letters begging her to take their offer.

But this. This is nothing close to sanity or well thought plans. This is madness, the forbidden apple, her heart’s dominance.

It is her Harry.

Harry whose lips touched hers at the ripe age of sixteen, taught her how to throw a deadly punch and gave her the name she goes by.

Out of all the assassinations she’s done, she was never taught to look at someone who had a piece of her with him and pretend to be fine.

She held an ache in her heart for years and years, never even dared to scratch at it—but the mere idea of being Harry’s crime partner has her vessels bursting.

Poppy; strong, resilient, poisonous, turned into an ordinary soft tulip in the presence of her angel.

The angel of death.

The name accredited to him was not a coincidence nor a fun passive nickname made by friends (not that they had any).

He earned it with both the sweat on his forehead, and the blood of a stranger that painted his hands, more often than it should’ve.

In the same year, he lost his soul and took another. First, when he pressed his lips to Poppy’s, she snatched it out of his body and rumor has it that she would keep a hold of it until eternity. Then, his first mission came. With a confident posture, increased heartbeat, and a lucky charm, he took away a life for the first time.

The angel of death is invincible, untouchable even—yet his soul does not belong to him. It is hers.

After that, not only did their circumstances change but their fates as well. Harry grew hungry for power. The praise he received from everyone at the institution deemed him a successful young assassin who was highly requested.

They had him training day and night, sent him to missions with more experienced assassins, and strengthened his stamina in unimaginable ways—but the cruelest lesson of them all was separating him from Poppy. The keeper of his soul.

The mentors were intellectual and observant. They knew beforehand that Harry would have a successful path, but they also knew that his attachment to Poppy would render him weak.

The loneliness that haunted assassins was nothing but a protective shield, as ironic as it may sound. Love someone and prepare to experience loss. It even stretched as far as not having partners to avoid emotional ties. This is why they were considered solo ravens.

In the present day, Poopy and Harry do not belong to any organization or institution. Therefore, no one can stop them from being partners.

But in the past, their separation was orchestrated by older mentors who believed that it was for Harry’s benefit. And the twisted truth? They made him take the blame for it.

10 years ago, somewhere in London.

Poppy was told that she wouldn’t know anything at a young age. She agreed—to some extent. She knew her life path and who she was destined to be, she knew that there was something out there waiting for her in between baths of blood. But to word it correctly, she’d say waiting for the both of them.

She wouldn’t consider herself gullible, Harry also included her in everything as they confessed fantasies and dreams.

Except that it felt like a lifetime ago since he used the word “we”.

She liked to think of him as her guardian angel, of course, this thought came from an incident back when they were barely ten years old. She was new at the institution after her parents died in a car accident.

It was cold, bitter and dull. No one warned her of what was to come, no one asked her if she wanted to hold on to a photo or a toy. She was resting at the hospital and the next thing she remembers was being picked up and dropped into a huge institution.

She didn’t know where she was, no one responded even when she kicked them and hit the door repeatedly. But during one night, she saw the shadow of an angel outside of her locked room. A kid wouldn’t realize that the light bulb had a role in making him appear as an angel—and even though she put two and two together throughout the years, it didn’t make him less of an angel. Especially when he opened his mouth.

“I’m Harry. Do you want to be my friend?”

The next eight years were ones for history. But looking back, she should’ve known that sneaking out of rooms isn’t easy. She should’ve anticipated a lot of things. That some traits stick with someone till adolescence. So maybe, she isn’t so knowledgeable.

It wasn’t long before Harry took her under his wing and explained everything to her. It felt like a lie at first, but that lie soon turned into reality.

The board of mentors relied heavily on the children’s education and physical strength. However, all the cruel acts and brainwashing did not start until they turned 14. Despite that, she liked to remember that age as the time when she sneaked away with Harry to the rooftop to gaze at the stars. After all, he was good at escaping.

“Look up—do you see it?” Harry whispered in her ear, making her heart beat faster.

“No!” Frustration began to fuel her body. They’d been looking at the sky for a while now and she still couldn’t see the stupid constellation he was pointing at.

His fingertips found her jaw that he held so delicately as if one of the stars above them would explode at the action. He slowly moved it toward the constellation despite his body begging him to direct it towards his mouth.

“There, that’s Cassiopeia. Isn’t it pretty?” He asked while looking at her.

Their stolen moments under the stars were precious, she would learn to hold on to them like a dove clings to its tree in winter. Yet, no matter how hard she tried, the storm would inevitably arrive.

Harry’s wish came true two years later. It had its price of course, but for her, he’d pay anything including his freedom.

During one of their star-gazing nights, he sealed their lips under the protective eyes of Cassiopeia right as he surrendered his soul to Poppy. Maybe that’s why he’s so cold-blooded towards others—because his soul is with her and for her.

As soon as the news of Harry’s first mission spread, Poppy knew nothing would be the same anymore. She felt an innate desire to keep him safe, they were both just kids.

Resources were scarce at the institution, they couldn’t obtain whatever they wanted, but Harry made sure to at least try and steal something for her every time he sneaked out. He was unbelievably valuable to the mentors—so instead of killing him or throwing him away on the streets, cruel punishments did the job.

Still, the scars on his back and the growling of his stomach after being forbidden from food were nothing compared to seeing her smile. He’d promised to give her a Poppy flower and he did.

Realistically, she was no witch. She could never guarantee his safety out there but a good luck charm wasn’t a bad idea. She spent weeks collecting spare pieces of fabric, threads and stole a scissor to make it work. A small dried petal—left from the flower he gave her tied to a thick thread that would be wrapped around his wrist.

Harry grew a habit of kissing it before every mission—from his first one to all of the upcoming ones.

They were young and unaware of the evil that was awaiting them, even when they were subjected to torturous training and brainwashing, it was nothing compared to what they would endure over the years.

Poppy chose to be softer around him but she was unbelievably resilient and powerful. She had a visual memory that was perfect for missions, physical strength that outpowered all her female colleagues, and a high IQ. By all means, Harry and Poppy were it for each other. No one really knew that they were in love, not even them—but a small observation done by a mentor had the board acting quickly to stop something dangerous before it developed.

“15, you’re wanted in the main room.” One of the gym trainers announced loudly, making everyone’s attention shift to Harry. That was his number. They didn’t have names.

He dropped the equipment from his hand as he tried to regulate his breathing and process the order given to him at the same time. No one was requested to the main room unless something was on. He wasn’t even sent there when they told him about his first mission.

He moved with unwavering confidence as everybody’s eyes zeroed in on him till he was out of the room. The same trainer who gave him the order accompanied him to the main room, where he was left to knock on the door before being told to enter.

The room would forever be engraved in his mind—he walked in like a lamb to the slaughter as he was met with the board of the institution, waiting for him in high chairs. There were four men and one woman.

“15, you have been a great trainee. Quick-witted, amazing stamina with a thirst for blood. Perfect characteristics for an assassin.” One of the men spoke to him while others stared. Harry stood with a fixed posture, looking straight ahead as a sign of respect.

“You are one of our best trainees and we wish to keep it that way. Of course, you are aware that whatever we ask of you is for your own good.” This time it was the woman speaking.

“Your new order is to stay away from trainee number 20. Under no circumstance are you allowed to approach her, speak with her, or think about her.” Harry flinched from the invisible slap that went across his face. His jaw clenched and his nostrils flared in response.

They want him to stay away from his Poppy?

“I do not understand—“

“In here you do not understand, you obey!” Her voice echoed in the room.

“You may leave now. Continue your training.” One of the other men spoke, noting Harry’s pale face and clenched fists. He wanted to use the skills they liked to praise him about and rip their skin off their bones for this stupid order. But instead, he turned around with shaky knees and headed towards the door.

“Oh and by the way…” He stopped in his tracks and tilted his head to the side.

“Dare to disobey this order, and she’ll be dead.”

That moment tipped his entire world upside down. The clock forgot to tick, he forgot to breathe and his soul would forever be away.

He would learn what it actually meant to be an assassin the hard way. Over the years, he’ll look back and wish he had been braver—his courage only stretched as far as punches and shots.

He willingly twisted a knife inside his heart by letting a certain series of events unfold. In some way—he played a role in shaping Poppy’s personality as an adult.

The coldness that he projected on her warm heart fired back at him every single time. He almost lost it when he saw her tear up for the first time. The second would be ten years later, as they reopen the wound.

“You’ve been ignoring me lately.” She leaned her body against the door with her arms crossed. He could see from his peripheral vision that she had a few loose hair strands, a look that he adored on her.

He couldn’t even look at her.

A part of him would remind him of what he had done and the other—would urge him to burn the world for her.

She stood as calm as a dove, pleading him with her eyes to say or do something. The response on his end was the same as his previous ones, cold, bitter, and dark.

“Harry! Why are you doing this?” He allowed himself to catch a glimpse of her this time, only because his heart cracked like her voice.

“Stay away from me. I don’t want anything to do with you.” He uttered with a thousand needles prickling his skin.

“Why!” She couldn’t find any reason as to why he despised being around her.

“Because I said so! You’re weak— and stopping me from going forward.” That moment could’ve been an audition for some movie that would grab him fame—but due to a series of unfortunate events, no one said “cut”. And if not for the burning flames of his heart, one would believe that he meant his words.

The look in her eyes was embedded in his brain like a tattoo inked on skin but with an immeasurable amount of pain.

“Maybe I really didn’t know you—” A single tear fell from her eye, slid down her rosy cheeks that he loved to kiss, and onto the floor where it left an echo that only he heard.

She left him standing alone with darkness closing in on him, as he felt the meaning of loss for the first time in his life.

A trainer had observed his interaction with Poppy which he immediately reported to the board. Harry obeyed his order.

Poppy would be safe but at a huge cost.

Harry’s actions did not make sense to her. She felt like something was off, he wouldn’t turn into someone else in between nights. She tried to reason with him but he only fired back.

It was something that would happen sooner or later, a trainee would get a taste of power and act almighty. It wasn’t a dilemma because no one was close with anyone, they were encouraged to hate each other. It would benefit them to be emotionless in the field.

No matter how cruel her upbringing was, Poppy couldn’t bury her emotions, leave a flower then walk away. Harry was her everything, she never expected him to turn into someone hideous.

The gap he left in her heart would remain open for years, yet she rose like a phoenix in just a few days becoming Harry’s number one competitor.

She offered him the same coldness and did not forget to make it sting.

They became competitive in everything—martial arts, shooting & aiming skills, critical thinking skills, physical stamina skills, programming & hacking skills, and archery.

She threw snarky comments at him, gave him bruises if they were instructed to fight, and showed him that she was better off without him.

But behind all this facade, they fooled everyone except themselves—Harry bit back with a rough exterior, turned into a cold-blooded man, and almost stabbed one of the trainees once. But in their world that was nothing—just another training, just another day.

He slowly accepted his new life, her hatred for him, and the mask he’ll be obliged to put on forever. All of that—just to protect her and she was completely clueless. He couldn’t blame her for how she changed, but he was proud of her improvement and he would always admire her for anything she did—but in secret, when no one was watching or listening, not even himself.

Assassins were considered to be ready at eighteen, some needed an extra push until nineteen or twenty, but Harry & Poppy were more than ready.

At this age, they’re sent out for missions. Harry was the only exception who had his first mission before eighteen.

They are allowed a little more independence, to roam the streets but never interact with people. They are aware of how different their lives are—have been taught sociology and psychology but an assassin is always a solo raven.

Above all, they would remain tied to the organization. Something that had Harry overthinking.

His little trips outside of the organization always had consequences, but they also knew that he would go out and they had let him.

Was it the known assurance that he would return? Or the “independence” they liked to boast about just because he was one of their top trainees?

And then there’s Poppy. Within less than five minutes and an order, they forced him to give up eight years of attachment. The hold they had on him was concerning. The same hold they have on every single assassin. If they ordered him now, they will not hesitate to do so for years to come.

He never asked for this life, but he’s too tangled in it to leave. It’s not the killings that he despised, not at all actually. It’s rather the control the mentors had on him that knew no boundaries.

He may not be able to get the assassin out of him, but he surely can leave everything behind. Even Poppy would stand tall with a million emotions going through her body, having found out about his disappearance. She felt like Cassiopeia was laughing at her foolishness from above, but what can she say or do? He had always been good at escaping. She continued her training normally like a good assassin, unaware of the letter he left behind for her that she would never find or read.

Present day, Vienna.

Poppy hasn’t felt this restless in a very long time.

She’s been everywhere and adores travelling even if there’s a dark purpose behind it. But she is unable to immerse herself in the delight and comfort of it.

It’s been a few weeks since that fateful night in Paris. One that brought an unexpected alliance, painful memories, and a twisted fate.

If it had been her first time seeing Harry in a decade, then she wouldn’t have said yes or handled the situation perfectly. But she encountered him more than she would have liked across the years, intentional or not.

Their first encounter was accidental, yet it confirmed two facts: Poppy had fled the institution and is now his competitor in the assassination field.

They both changed personality-wise, which explains the bickering and narcissistic behavior. She became a charming young woman, even more intellectual if possible and he, a rigid irresistible man.

They sometimes sabotaged each others’ operations for fun, chased one another, or crossed paths in missions just like their last one.

The “hatred” lessened, slowly merging into a playful form of poking into each others’ lives instead of saying what was on their mind.

Harry was drawn to her feisty attitude, he loved entertaining it, especially when she talked back at him or gave him a mark or two. He’d tattoo them if he could.

And while they refused to admit it, under the rough shells of their protected hearts, the yearning was pressing on their blood vessels, warning them of its upcoming explosion.

His yearning was less patient than hers. The proof would be the night of their supposed “mission” weeks ago. He tried to seal their lips—needed to. But she backed away before he could. She left him standing alone in the hotel room as she gathered her stuff and fled the country.

Ignorance is a bliss that she can’t have. As much as she would like to stay away from him and pretend that everything is under control—she can’t.

Their mission is due tonight which gives them enough time to discuss and plan since she actually decided to show up early.

They sat in a café, pretending to be a normal couple. They played their roles so elegantly that no one would suspect they kill people for a living. Even the adoration in his eyes was way too good for “pretending”.

She acted like nothing had happened and swiftly sat in her designated chair, tugging down her classy YSL dress, before crossing her bare legs and fishing out a file for him.

“Obviously you already have a copy, but this is a file about the plan.” She explained, not allowing him to understand her facial expressions or eyes that she hid behind Prada sunglasses.

Surprisingly, he wasn’t as chatty and playful. She figured that she hit a nerve that night, but ideally, she had every right to do so.

Their encounters over the years and recent partnership do not erase his actions in the past. She may not hold a grudge for long but she remembers everything.

“Sounds good to me.” He returned the file to her and fixed his posture. He straightened his back and flexed his broad shoulders that could barely fit his tailored suit. The motherfucker was a piece of candy.

His calmness took her by surprise—was it because she pulled away from the kiss? He can’t be that petty, right?

He suddenly stood and fixed his blazer, signaling that he would be on his way. He lowered his body so that their faces were at the same level. His cologne drifted in the air, invading her nostrils and playing with her pheromones. She’s thankful that she had sunglasses on, or else he’d know how much she enjoyed his scent.

“See you tomorrow Poppy darling.” He whispered in a low tone, offering his smug grin before pressing his lips to her cheek—planting barely a peck.

By the time she processed what he had done, the table was empty with only cologne in his wake and a single Poppy flower in front of her.

The day after, 8:30 PM

This was her first mission since Paris and somehow it feels so similar. She’s getting ready in a hotel room again, a red dress hugging her frame—cherry red to be specific since it’s her color.

Something feels amiss, like a piece of a puzzle that isn’t fitting well. Maybe it’s the fact that this is her first non solo mission. She won’t be snatching a soul alone—the angel of death will be present in flesh and blood.

The same angel happens to be someone that she can’t pinpoint her feelings toward. And who’s also knocking on her door.

They bought burner phones to contact each other, along with other supplies she secured during her travels.

The seconds it took to open the door were few, could be counted in milliseconds—but the moment their eyes met lasted for a whole lifetime.

This time was different, away from sudden meetings and glares, Poppy willingly opened the door as they took in each other’s attire shamelessly.

He couldn’t even say hello nor hide his bulging eyes or how they were undressing her. Cherry red looked so fucking good for her—actually, he believed that it was made for her. Everything was, including him.

Her hair, a simple 90s blowout secured with a Poppy flower brooch, cascaded down her back.

Her chest area was covered with white fur to meet the occasion—but he wanted nothing more than seeing her beautiful collarbone, and neck.

She couldn’t be any more beautiful.

How could he focus on being her partner? Do his job that entails killing others when she already killed him with her beauty?

His clothes were simple but radiated power. A tailored black suit that screamed rich and the same cologne that had Poppy’s knees buckling. And while she may not admit it—the way he looked at her like she was his dinner had her heart pumping.

Author’s note: While the staring can last a lifetime, we must move on because we have someone to kill.

“Do you need an invitation to come in?” Poppy raised her eyebrow at him.

“Begging is more of my preference.” He strolled inside with a confident posture.

“Yeah… right.” She rolled her eyes at him, making him smirk and observe her.

As a woman, she was ready but as an assassin—she needed a few touch-ups. She quickly gathered a few items to place in her purse. purse. Two lipsticks, one of them authentic while the other was actually a burning laser, a mini perfume bottle that holds a sedative, an undetectable gun hidden behind the inner fabric of the purse, mini golden binoculars, and most importantly—the weapon she’ll be using for the night.

“Are you gonna keep staring at me?”

“I can’t help but feel like you’re forgetting your knife—isn’t it your favorite?” He was relaxing on the bed, elbows holding his body up as he stared.

“Yes, but if I bring it I won’t be able to resist stabbing you.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time love.” His voice was laced with a flirtatious undertone and a promise—but knowing him, he definitely was not joking.

“Do you have your role memorized perfectly?” She ignored whatever was going on in his dirty mind.

Nothing more than a hum was elicited from his lips. Why bother and focus on replying verbally when he could stare at her bare legs, and the way the cherry red dress fits her perfectly?

“Will you stop ogling my body?” She wasn’t even a bit uncomfortable, in fact, he might be the only man she felt safe around—even if he put a knife to her throat.

But she needed to act uninterested, Harry was like a moth to a flame and hell would set loose if she gave in.

After a loud sigh, he moved away as she finished getting ready. He wanted to push further, maybe play it sweet for a while before reopening the sensitive subject.

He almost had her—was so close to earning his Poppy back but she resisted and rightfully so.

“So, shall we hit the road partner?” Her question had his ears perking, mainly for the last word she used.

Partner.

He could get used to it.

Vienna State Opera, 8:45 PM

Poppy booked the nearest hotel to the Opera house to avoid any kind of delay. She liked being practical and straightforward—besides she doesn’t want to handle being on Harry’s motorcycle again.

It was barely a five minute walk, the cobbled streets of Vienna and the evening breeze brought back memories, the same way every detail of nature does. Vienna was her escape whenever she felt suffocated—if she wished to recall it, this city knew her better than anyone.

“Do you remember that one time you called the FBI on me when I was here?” Harry broke the silence not even one minute into their walk.

“Don’t give me ideas that I can reuse.” She rolled her eyes, preferring to focus on the click of her heels against the pavement instead of his perfume floating in the air.

“Oh c’mon, you said it yourself. We’re partners now.”

He remembers that day quite vividly. It was another twist of fate—he had a mission here and she was spending her time. They crossed paths at the same café they chatted in earlier, where he got on her nerves and teased her.

Next thing he knows, the FBI was outside his hotel—realistically, they can’t catch him. He doesn’t really have a record, everyone at the institution is unidentified. The only record that would show up is the fake name he has on his passport, which is in fact, a John Doe.

He didn’t hate her for what she did, he considered it to be an upgrade of their game. After all, she’s always been so smart.

“Would you ever rescue me if the FBI catches me or something?” He messed with her, no one can get a hold of him. No one.

But the night is long and he can’t help teasing her.

“No. Good riddance.” She scoffed and crossed the street leading to the Opera house. Her walk was so elegant yet powerful. He followed her with slow footsteps to ogle her as she walked no matter what, despite the increasing honking of cars.

He was ready to hand himself in just to know what she’d do. But for now, they have a mission.

As soon as they were inside, their new personalities got to work. Mr & Mrs. Styles had their arms linked together as they walked along with all the prestigious and rich socialites attending the night’s Opera performance.

Good assassins fool others by fooling themselves first. The way Poppy’s body leaned against Harry with a smile on her face—the same one trophy wives display, along with everybody’s eyes on them was a sign that their mission had started and was going well.

It was impossible to not be astonished by the Opera house’s interior, but it’s also funny how Poppy and Harry are always found in artistic historical locations.

Poppy’s eyes darted over every single detail; from the stairs to the high columns and golden chandeliers. The ceiling was another wonderland, spacious enough to hold a universe and decorated with art all over.

The statues stared at them as they walked—as if they knew their secret and what they came here for.

Harry wasn’t exactly impressed, he was here for a purpose and while he does admit that the interior is unique—he’d rather stare at her.

She was more deserving of his attention than any form of art.

The guests moved like a herd of sheep, women with their polite giggles and men with their egos. The stairs welcomed them as Harry tightened his grip on Poppy out of caution.

“Can’t we just skip to the mission ?” He rolled his eyes in disapproval. If things went his way, then he wouldn’t have bothered to orchestrate this whole thing. A simple shot to the head from a roof would have been just fine.

Poppy has always been extra and more precise.

“No. This is the plan and you will stick to it.” She sneered, looking around to take mental notes.

“What will you do if I don’t?” He pressed further, aiming to piss her off at a very wrong time.

“I’ll cut you to pieces and feed it to the stray dogs.” She replied with a stern expression, as she continued her observation.

“So romantic!” He chuckled, admiring her.

She wasn’t being paranoid or overly cautious. The reason behind them becoming partners was to join their power to take down other assassins. The assassination they’re here for can be done by only one of them.

The other will have to observe like a hawk, lurk around, and detect suspicious activity. Assassins can identify each other as if they are a wolf pack.

Arthur and Henry—also known as their bosses, who somewhat persuaded them into becoming partners sent them to get this mission done.

It should be a quick in and out—right?

“We should go from here.” She pointed at the right flight of stairs.

These stairs were narrower than the main ones, while socialites supposedly have class, they didn’t mind squeezing each other or pushing lightly and hiding it with a gracious smile.

Harry’s eyes darkened when a middle aged man bumped into Poppy’s elbow. She wasn’t hurt at all, if anything she was disgusted but it wasn’t that big of a deal.

It certainly was for Harry who was about to launch forward at the man.

“Behave.” She glared at him, sending daggers with her eyes. He unclenched his jaw and took control of his facial expression. His breaths were ragged, and he avoided eye contact with her.

This wasn’t a good sign—this is why assassins don’t have partners. Emotions must never interfere, let alone two of the most dangerous assassins with a past. Just like fire and water.

But that also meant that he cared for her, that it went as little as not wanting someone to touch her. All the little actions and remarks were suffocating, and they ought to explode soon enough.

Poppy let out a quick sigh once they reached the 1st floor, Harry’s arm was still linked with hers, tightening at certain moments.

“This is our room.” She reached out her hand to open the door leading to the balcony she reserved for them. It held the perfect view of their target. She hacked into the Opera’s system to figure out where he sat.

“Oh, you reserved a room for us. I knew you wanted me.” He teased in a sarcastic tone, clearly enjoying this more than he should.

“Can you be an adult for a bit? I don’t know you’re a ‘skilled’ assassin.” She quoted with her fingers before scoffing and taking off the fur and hanging it.

“I can definitely give you examples darling. On both, being an adult and assassin.” His voice was laced with mockery and hunger—hunger for something that she couldn’t quite figure out yet.

It is during times like these that she wondered if agreeing to be his partner was a sane idea if they could actually agree.

The anger is visible through her face, and yet he’s still smirking. She dreamed about wiping his smug grins and smirks off his face—but they suited him.

She sat on the chair in the first row, there were five chairs. Three in the first row, two in the middle, and one at the back. She reserved them all for only the both of them.

The balcony was perfect for observation. It had a clear view of the stage and the first five rows. But most importantly, where their target was placed.

Everyone was getting seated as she watched them like a hawk. Harry sat next to her with a sealed mouth and a lingering cologne. Since she took the fur off, her collarbone and chest were uncovered. Her skin was glowing, complimented by the blood red dress that pushed her cleavage.

Harry wasn’t a creep by all means—but his childhood love was sitting next to him looking as beautiful as a blooming flower. Fuck the mission, he thinks.

“Half of the seats are full now.” She glanced at the expensive watch on her left hand. “They’ll begin in five minutes.”

Harry may be playful with her but he’s serious about his job. They don’t have to do much now—in fact, they can enjoy the show. Poppy just has to glance at the target now and then, to notice his movements, his plus one, and how he’s acting.

The real work begins at the afterparty. Parties like these do not happen often, and when they do—only the elite are invited. Mainly it contains champagne expensive enough to end world hunger, and bratty rich people. The fake identities Harry made were easily placed on the invitation list.

Et Voilà.

Despite everything she planned, she didn’t anticipate the uncomfortable silence between her and Harry. It was so loud that even he didn’t throw a snarky remark.

They only pretended to be normal about it, with glances from their peripheral vision now and then. Poppy felt like a weight was moved off her chest when the orchestra came on stage.

They were going to play Mozart—which she learned is their target’s personal favorite. As soon as they started, she took out the mini golden binoculars from her purse and pointed them in a way that seemed to be directed at the stage but was pointed at the target. Their seating was indeed perfect.

As expected, there wasn’t much to take in. The target seemed to enjoy the musical pieces with his wife by his side. He ought to though, he’ll be dead soon.

Poppy’s sharp focus never wavered, she decided to continue watching his every act, and pattern of breathing. Until—something burned at her skin.

It made her flinch, rose goosebumps all over her body, and parted her lips in abrupt shock. The burning sensation traveled through her arteries and formed a clot inside her heart—making her choke silently.

She looked down willingly and spotted Harry’s left hand intertwined with her right one.

She swallowed down her throat and fixed her sight on the audience as if her eyes weren’t threatening to glance at their conjoined hands like it was some sort of instinct.

She couldn’t pull her hand away—even if she wanted to. They were role-playing as a couple, so holding hands should be the bare minimum.

Yet, there was something else stopping her that she dismissed. She only credited the excuse of being a “couple”. Digging memories she buried ages ago was of no use, even if the grief still lingered by.

Call it an exaggeration but the life line on his palm was digging into hers, funnily enough, she knew how it looked better than her own.

As for the heart line, his was straight with the tiniest curve to it, and hers branched out like a blooming flower—as if it was reaching for his.

How long has it been since they held hands like this?

Again, it didn’t change anything. No matter how perfectly molded their hands were—even the greatest sculptures were destined to crack.

The clapping and standing ovation of the crowd pulled her back to the present. The burning sensation was gone and emptiness took its place. A void bigger than the black hole.

Harry was clapping as well, with his stupid smile and perfect curls. She looked down at her hand and saw the lines of his palm imprinted into hers.

“He’s on the move, let’s go.” He was so casual and nonchalant about it. It made her sick. How his attitude never changed after doing something out of hand.

She picked up her stuff and walked ahead of him, body flaming with rage and unanswered questions.

The afterparty was set in a ballroom, not far away from where they sat. She didn’t care if Harry followed behind or not, although his footsteps left an echo.

She heard him call out her name many times, but she continued walking unbothered.

He blocked her path with his body, stopping her from going forward.

“We’re fucking partners, Poppy, whether you like me or not.” He spat with furrowed eyebrows and a hint of fury.

“Do you remember your part—“

“I’m not some child in a play, I’ve been toying with lives long enough to know what to do.” He rolled his eyes, reminding her of his skills.

“Well, let’s go then.” She gestured to the ballroom that everyone was heading to.

Whatever she was feeling at the moment must be shoved away. She didn’t even want to think about how furious this situation made her.

She had no choice but to be professional, like she always was.

Their target—Charles Walton was old money. He invested in stocks and was involved in business matters that threatened their bosses.

This time, Henry and Alex’s request was different. Poppy will kill and Harry will observe. Their roles were equally important, as they suspected that Charles hired an assassin. Poppy was also asked to get Charles’ phone as it may contain things relevant to her boss.

A well dressed man was waiting at the entrance. He collected the invitations from all the guests, and checked their names according to a list in his hand. The invitation cards were white and engraved with gold, sealed with a red stamp.

Harry handed their invitations over and waited till they got the usual nod and smile. The door was opened for them by an another man, who welcomed them inside.

They linked their arms together again and entered the ballroom. It was just as fancy as the entire building, which is no surprise given its history. More expensive chandeliers, renaissance paintings, and low classical music playing in the background.

Harry’s body was tense for some reason, he was looking around and observing all the socialites like he was instructed.

They were mingling already with champagne in their hands. The odor of filthy richness reeked off them as they stepped closer. Charles was standing with his wife and other businessmen that she researched beforehand.

She didn’t have to remind him that they must act all lovey dovey, or how he should act. He made it clear that everything was under control, and for some reason, she believed him.

Their legs directed them as they grabbed two glasses of champagne from a waiter passing by. They pretended to be turning around before stopping near Charles and his little group.

“Excuse me, aren’t you Mr. Walton?” Poppy beamed with surprise and happiness(Fake ones obviously).

She became the center of attention in mere seconds because no one could resist her beauty or voice—especially not men.

“Darling, I’m certain these gentlemen are busy—“ Harry faked his politeness which was even more astonishing given his real personality.

“Not at all, Mrs..?” Charles was enamored with her which seemed to irritate his wife.

“Mr & Mrs Styles,” Harry replied on behalf of her. Poppy was still offering pretty smiles to everyone, making them feel as if she was honored to be in their presence.

“Please then, join us.” Charles gestured with his hand, welcoming Poppy and Harry.

“I admire the way you work.” Poppy focused her attention on Charles who forgot that his wife existed.

Harry didn’t like this one bit—in fact, this may be his most challenging mission by far. Getting shot is way easier.

In some sense, he acted like a “clueless husband”. If it was up to him, he wouldn’t let a man look at Poppy.

“My husband and I are doctors for the Royal Family of Spain, but recently we’ve been trying to go into business.” Her demeanour was enough to intrigue all the men standing including their beloved target.

There was nothing better than a woman asking a man about business and finance matters.

Charles’ wife scurried away to mingle with other socialites, including her boy toy. One of the fun parts of being an assassin is learning everyone’s dirty little secrets.

Harry busied the other two men with a discussion about geopolitical issues while Poppy was bewitching Charles.

A tiny slip of the fur on her shoulders allowed him to sneak his eyes into her cleavage.

Men were so easy, weak, and pathetic.

The classical music drifted in the air smoothly, they were both doing an amazing job. Charles was trusting her slowly, it doubled when she batted her eyelashes.

She may love her job—but she doesn’t have to necessarily spend her entire night putting up with rich brats. She pretended to be tipsy and swayed like a clueless woman although she never drank during the job.

One single glance at Harry was enough to give him the green light. She’s sure that if it were someone else, they wouldn’t have understood.

He stumbled towards her, mimicking her “drunk” acts, and slung his arm over her shoulders, spilling champagne on her in the process.

“Oh sorry love.” He laughed and patted her dress as if he could fix it.

“It’s fine. I’ll go to the restroom.” She spoke, making sure to glance at Charles while sharing her location with a pretty smile on her face.

The laughter died out as she made her way through the crowd. The real work begins now.

All ladies and gentlemen around her were oblivious to the crime she would be committing; laughing and chatting in their high society la la land.

She remembered to sway a bit seeing as she should be a bit zoned out. She figured that Charles would be staring at her ass, she just hoped that Harry wouldn’t react and truthfully she doesn’t know why she assumed that.

Every corner of the Opera house is inked into her brain, having memorized its map. Yet, she can’t blow her cover so instead of walking straight to the restroom, she asks a waiter for directions.

She can see Charles staring from her periphery, eyeing her like a piece of candy.

Men, right?

Once she was inside the bathroom, she checked her purse quickly before Charles followed her. She didn’t have to think twice or doubt that he wouldn’t follow her trail like a puppy.

She took out what she needed, hid it discreetly, and glanced at her watch quickly. She’d give him approximately twenty seconds before he barged inside.

She fetched a few tissues and patted her dress, pretending to be busy with what Harry caused.

10 seconds left.

She loved the moments building up to her job, how she made them walk right into her trap—willingly.

The door to the women’s restroom flung open, revealing a way too confident Charles, walking in with a smug smile on his face.

“Oh—what are you doing here?” Poppy chuckled nervously, throwing the tissues away.

“Oh C’mon sweet face, don’t tell me you didn’t want me to follow you.” His Champagne glass was still in his hand as he advanced toward Poppy.

“I—I’m not sure what you’re talking about.” She moved a strand of hair from her face.

Men loved women who acted innocent. It gave them the impression of having the upper hand, the idea that they are more intelligent. Something to feed their inflated ego.

“I saw how you were looking, darling.” He sipped from his glass, leaning against the sink.

“I’m married—“

He laughed as if she just told him a funny joke. “I bet that loser can’t pleasure you as he should.” His voice was becoming more and more irritating with every second.

Her eye nearly twitched at what he spewed. She didn’t anticipate him insulting Harry, nor her response to it. Her hand gripped the sink till her knuckles were white.

Something boiled inside her at the mention of Harry. How dare he insult him and make fun of—

She realized what her brain was doing and swallowed down her throat. What the fuck?

“Ah, speechless eh? Looks like you haven’t got a taste of pleasure in a long time.” He scoffed, daring to get closer.

“Oh well, maybe…” She turned her face away when he became a few inches apart from her.

“I can show you a good time..” He brushed his knuckles against his cheeks.

Half of her focus was poured into his insult to Harry, and how it made her feel. Offended, Furious, Protective.

“You’re married…” She objected with a pout.

“Who cares? Bet you’re sweeter than her.” He scoffed, leaning in closer to her.

She fought the urge to scrunch her nose at his smell. Harry’s cologne was way better. It made her feel warm and most importantly it was familiar.

“You’re just flattering me.” She continued with the innocent girl act.

For the first time, she felt incredibly disgusted with a man. Well, they do disgust her in general—but they never got under her skin. She’s not sure if it’s his perfume, disloyalty to his wife, or his insult to Harry.

It’s most probably the latter, which transformed into some sort of anger towards herself. There was no reason for her to be affected by a stranger making fun of Harry. So why?

A sneaky glance at her watch indicated that it had been three minutes of back-and-forth “flirtation.” Poppy and Harry didn’t wear earpieces, certainly not to missions like this. They felt like it was for beginners and despite uncommon belief—it can be easily spotted.

Instead, they plan according to time. It was something that Poppy heavily relied on because she was never late. Fifteen minutes after Charles followed her, Harry would be waiting at their designated exit. But for now, he’s scanning the area for any other assassin. Charles’ disappearance can urge the hired assassin (if they exist) to come out of his or her hiding place.

She was certainly fed up with this douchebag. It was time for her to have a little bit of fun. Besides, she has ten minutes left, and the clock is ticking.

“Well then, I guess you should lock the door?” She bit her bottom lip earning his attention and compliance. He quickly sealed it shut and strolled to her like a predator.

She balanced the item she was holding between her left hip and the sink, paying attention to not lean in a lot to avoid pressing weight. She pulled Charles in by his tie and slowly unbuttoned his white button-up till a good amount of his skin was uncovered.

“Oh easy there, don’t get so excited—“ He barely got to finish his words. She decided that her ears had suffered enough.

It was barely a few moments of snatching the injection, and swiftly emptying it in his chest. So fast that he didn’t even notice until he felt the sharp sting of the needle on his skin.

Poppy offered him a smile, but not the same as the one she put on all night. No, not at all. This smile was sadistic, vengeful, and powerful. It reflected the real Poppy.

“What—“ He stepped back, hand clutching at his chest where the poison was spreading rapidly. He leaned his body against a stall door as she admired the look of disbelief on his face.

“Cat got your tongue?” She tsked, wrapping the injection in a tissue and placing it back in her purse.

Murder by poison was her favorite. It did the job and left no trails behind—not that her fingerprints would lead the police somewhere. After all, assassins are John Does.

“Inorganic Arsenic. Beautiful isn’t it?” She chatted with Charles who was on the floor, unable to react in any way. She pulled her cherry red lipstick from her purse and applied it to her lips.

“It was used to kill royalty and emperors, and was nicknamed ‘inheritance powder’ ” She rubbed at a smudge that touched the corners of her mouth.

“And do you know who used it a lot back then?”

The arsenic was now traveling through Charles’ bloodstream, she aimed at his chest purposely. She needed a quick death. He was coughing up some vomit, and his hand was clutching at his chest, indicating the sharp pain he was supposed to be feeling along with the rapid heartbeats.

“Assassins.” She smiled at him.

He shot her a look of hate—it was the most he could do, seeing as the large dose of the fatal poison and its symptoms stopped him from fighting back.

“Oh, you’ve got a little something over there.” She glanced at him through the mirror, pointing to the vomit coming out of his mouth.

“Don’t be so dramatic— I showed you mercy and chose arsenic instead of dimethylmercury.” She rolled her eyes and finished her last touches for her lips.

She closed her purse and took one last look at her lips before turning her attention to Charles. His dead poisoned body was flung on the stall door. She liked it when men stopped talking—or breathing.

She kneeled to his level and snatched his phone out of his pocket. “I’ll be taking that, thank you.”

Since he was still leaning—she brought one of her heels to his chest and pushed his body with her leg on the floor. She secured his phone inside the purse , and checked her watch.

Ten minutes had passed and she still had five to spare. The job was perfectly done as usual.

She didn’t worry about someone seeing her—or bumping into a woman because these socialites never let their husbands get away from their prying eyes.

She advanced towards the door to meet Harry at their designated exit. Until a loud band pierced her ears—someone was pushing at the door, and attempting to break in.

Harry is growing more and more impatient by the minute.

He’s quite tempered when triggered, but he was taught to tame it and use it to his advantage. He should’ve objected since she presented the plan to him—should’ve said no to her going alone.

Don’t even get him started on how that idiot was looking at her like she was a piece of meat. Harry wasn’t the best at controlling his facial expressions—and didn’t put an effort into changing that, because he liked his missions quick and fast. Bullet in, and assassin out.

Poppy loved orchestrating her plans down to the tiniest detail. Of course, she could be just like him and finish the job in 10-20 minutes, but she preferred her style.

His urge to protect her never went away, let alone now that she became his partner.

The glass in his hand almost shattered and cut him from his extremely tight grip. He saw how close the man was to her, and how she giggled for him even if it was fake.

It made his throat run dry and stimulated his thirst for blood. At some point, his ears were ringing and he physically held himself back from launching at the man and killing him with his bare hands.

He had to continue conversing with the other two men, which he did surprisingly. As soon as Poppy glanced at him, he stumbled toward her and was quick to wrap his arm around her.

He could tell that Charles thought ill of him and frankly, the feeling was mutual. Poppy’s plan was going smoothly, but when Charles followed her to the restroom—Harry saw red.

Everyone around him pissed him off and all he could think about was her. He excused himself from the men and walked around in the ballroom.

His eyes were trying to detect any sort of unusual pattern between the guests—something that may hint at an assassin.

Physically, he was present but mentally he was with Poppy. He knew her skills and abilities—but that didn’t stop him from worrying about her.

Was the target too close to her? Bothering her? Did she need help?

His mind kept pushing questions at him and urging him to find the answers but his role—

Nothing indicated suspicion at all. His eyes sneaked to every inch of every corner and doted on all the guests. No one was convincing enough for him.

He kept tapping his foot on the ground, gritted his teeth unconsciously, and had his ‘assassin’ facial expression on.

It had barely been 9 minutes—but he stormed away from the ballroom.

“Fuck this.” He muttered under his breath, not giving one fuck to anyone. Poppy was his priority.

If there was an assassin present, he’d kill them. If Henry and Alex didn’t like what he did, he’d kill them. If that douchebag was close to Poppy, he’d give him a real taste of death. Once he reached the women’s restroom, his hand was quick to grab the handle and twist it. But it was locked from the inside—

“Fuck.” He swiped his hand through his hair, and smashed his hand against the wall.

He wasted no time and began pushing the door with his body, his mind was running with all the possibilities. God help everyone if something happened to her.

Thud after thud, the wood started to crack. He didn’t mind the jolting pain he felt nor the bruising that would follow.

Instead of knocking it down, the door was opened on the other side by the one and only.

“What the fuck, Harry?!” He has never seen her this angry before, and she couldn’t believe the sight in front of her.

“Where is he—“ He stormed through the bathroom, and found the dead body on the ground.

“Did he touch you—“

“What in fuck’s sake do you think you’re doing?” She shouted, the anger was heavily prominent in her features and a vein along her neck popped.

“Excuse you? What if he hurt you?” He wasn’t being sarcastic, not in the slightest and it made her light up.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” She shut the door to avoid unwanted situations. She knew that he would fuck up at some point but this? This was beyond stupidness and dumb mistakes.

“You can’t follow me. Your job was to watch the guests for five more minutes!” She was shouting in his face, her hands were shaking from anger and his facial expression wasn’t comforting.

“Well fuck them, I was worried about you—“

“You can’t worry me about me. I’m nobody!” That was his last strike. She couldn’t handle his weird antics anymore.

But she wasn’t nobody. Not at all.

“What are you doing?” He was breathing heavily in an attempt to calm down. He watched her open her purse and tear its fabric, before fetching a gun from inside.

“Covering us you dumb fuck.” They were both angry at each other, the tension was high and Pandora’s box was wide open.

Poppy aimed her gun at the fire alarm box and pulled the trigger. In a few seconds, the alarm was off, ringing through the building followed by screaming and loud shouting.

“Let’s go.” He grabbed her hand and opened the door, leading them away from the crowd.

He knew a short exit that he memorized while looking at the maps. Despite what she thought, he took his missions seriously and did his research.

Poppy’s gun was covered with her purse, she didn’t want to put it back inside . Though she struggled to not shoot him.

She could feel herself physically heating up, he fucked up their mission and spewed nonsense. Now, they have to take a different route to avoid killing someone who’s innocent.

He wasn’t supposed to follow her. In fact, she was done five minutes early which meant that he barely did his role. What guaranteed her that an assassin wasn’t following them right this instant?

“This way.” After lots of turns and doors, he led her through an exit that took them to the back of the building. No one noticed them or glanced their way, they were busy with themselves.

Even after they fled the building, and filled their nostrils with fresh air, Poppy still felt suffocated. She didn’t wait for him and stormed away, fast paced towards the hotel. She ignored his screaming, his pleading and focused on the road ahead.

It was an unforgettable scene for people passing by them, including the hotel workers. Harry was ordering her to stop and listen to him but she was out of sight and mind.

She didn’t want to think, didn’t want to face him or listen to his words that will charm her.

He ruined her mission, which never happened. Her ego was bruised, and her brain was throwing criticism at her. She had everything calculated so well, until he came along.

“I’m talking to you!” He grabbed her to catch her attention, just as they stepped inside her hotel room.

“I don’t want to hear you.” She shot daggers at him, before freeing her arm and walking away.

“Now I’m the bad guy because I was so fucking worried about you?” This was her first proper fight with him. He didn’t give her a chance for a fight ten years ago.

“First for all, cut it off with the worrying bullshit. Second of all, you went against the plan!” She shouted back, as she emptied her purse.

“What the fuck do you mean? Is it so hard to believe that I care about you?” His fists were clenched by his side, his shoulders were tense and he felt like the blood wasn’t pumping through his body properly.

“Are you even listening to yourself?” A few hair strands fell on her face due to her rapid movement around the room. She was frantically packing her suitcase.

“I know what I’m—“

“Did you care ten years ago?” She glared at him with pain in her eyes. He parted his lips, tried to conjure something—anything to say but he couldn’t.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” She turned her attention back to packing. He didn’t understand why she wanted to leave so quickly. It’s not like they’re threatened—she did her job perfectly and the target was terminated. So what if he didn’t continue his job for a few more minutes? But it wasn’t his lack of professionalism that infuriated her, it was his emotions.

“It’s different, you don’t understand.” He shook his head, with the look of defeat painting his face.

“Of course you’d fucking say that! It seems like I never understand anything. Not at 18 and not at 28.” A sharp pain hit his chest the moment her voice wavered. Harsher than the coldness that he felt upon remembering what unfolded a decade ago.

“It was out of my hand—I couldn’t do anything.” The memory of what went down—his helplessness and escape pained him.

“What the fuck are you on about?” She rolled her eyes in irritation. Most of her clothes were wrinkled as she was quick to throw them in a suitcase.

“You didn’t believe what I wrote you, right?” He scoffed in disbelief. No matter what he did, the organization still left its print, and he would always hold the blame.

His conscience always taunted him and forced him to stay awake on countless of nights, simply rethinking the day he fled. Maybe he should’ve fought back, or even taken her with him. All he wanted was to keep her safe, and in the process he caused her to resent him.

“Are you trying to trick me or something?”

“I’m talking about the goddamn letter Poppy.” His replied in a low monotonous voice with his hands placed on his hips.

“What letter?” One of her shirts slipped from her hand and fell on the bed.

The silence in the room was bigger than the both of them. Harry felt paralyzed, unable to move but he could see the plead in her eyes begging for the closure she never got. All these years, he thought that her “hatred” stemmed from her after she read the letter, and decided how she would feel about it.

That she used the steps he left her so she could flee just like him. He waited for her to find him for years, and accepted her loathe for him once he saw her at a mission for the first time.

He learned how to love her from afar, because he knew she would never reciprocate the feelings back.

“What letter Harry.” He didn’t immediately register that she was now standing in front of him, barely a few inches apart.

She searched for something in his eyes that could give her a hint, buy all she could see was the sorrow and ache hidden behind his emerald irises. She knew that this was a complete turning point—it would either change her life for the better, or make it a living hell.

“I left you a letter that night—I explained what happened.” It took him a while to utter a full sentence. Who knew that the deadliest assassin was weak for her?

“What happened?” Despite clenching her muscles and digging crescent marks into her palm—she couldn’t help the tear that fell from her cheek.

His thumb was quick to catch it, like it was an innate reflex he had in him. His hand shivered upon contact with her skin. He never wanted to see her crying.

“They told me that if I don’t stay away from you, they’ll kill you.” He swallowed down his throat, with a thousand knives going through his body.

“I told you how to escape in that letter and where to find me.” His hand couldn’t contain the silent tears that fell. All this time, she loathed him silently and he didn’t even know.

“No—no.” She shook her head frantically, like it pained her to hear the truth.

“I’m not lying.” He laid his forehead against hers, picking up her tears with both of his hands.

“I—“ The emotions that hit her all at once tired her body. She had been living a lie for ten years now, with no one to tell her.

She always wondered how he was able to look her in the eye and act like everything was just peachy. She envied him actually—she wanted to forget just like him and act unaffected but she always remembered.

Is that why he always doted on her? Every single thing that he had done must have been out of hope while she believed that he simply wanted to piss her off.

“Please leave.” She closed her eyes as more tears fell into his palms.

“I can explain—“ He was quick to answer.

“Not now.” She shook her head in disagreement.

He pulled away reluctantly, before moving his hands away from her tear stained cheek. No one forced him to step back and leave her, she asked for it and it hurt ten times more.

He grabbed her hand and placed something in it. He closed her fist around it tightly, and spared one last glance to her pretty face. She noticed how his eyes were threatening to spill with tears. She never saw him cry before, not once.

He was out of the door in a few seconds, her legs were glued to the ground, unable to run after him and ask him everything she wanted to know. Instead, she opened her palm and glanced at what he gave her.

It was the lucky charm she made him. It was as new as the day she made it, the dried Poppy petals were untouched. Her body fell to the ground, tears staining the thin fabric of the bracelet.

Checkmate.

Feedback is really appreciated!!!

Fic divider from @firefly-graphics

Taglist: @prettythingsworld-blog @slut4marvelmenn @cherrycokeslay @wandas-lawyer @tbsloneely @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @missmielyhoran @harryssideboob @harrysficreblog @itslottiehere @hsonlyangelxo @gem1712 @adachhi @tpwkkkkk @hrryberry @summertime-pills @lhhrryismyhome @marzhshaim @harrystylessslut @keepdrivingkisses @rideeonstyles @matildasatellite @a-strange-familiar @greivingfortheliving @babyyangel111 @soblavk @straightnogayhs @awesomenavy @infinatetatie @be-with-me-so-happily @harrysrockstarsgf @cherrys4suckers @straightontilmornin @stilesissaved Red tags didn’t work!

234 notes · View notes

werentwethestarsinheaven · 8 months

Text

our hearts.

matty healy x female reader

a/n: here’s a small something i wrote as a little part 2 to at your back door as a thank you for giving it so much love!

You were hesitant at first. You were scared. Scared to lend him your heart again, not realising it was already permanently etched into his hands.

You and Matty soundtrack your seasons to the EP he wrote for you. He strums his guitar and hums softly, competing with the singing birds in the Spring and the icy rain spitting on the windows in the Winter. He’s told you now, of course. He's famous. He's an international rockstar who gets on stage in front of thousands of screaming fans desperately reaching out for him. But he’s also yours. Your sweet little Matty. Always there to kiss your heart so gently and hold you tenderly. You miss him while he’s gone. But you miss him even when he’s right next to you. Love simply isn’t enough for you and him.

When he’s gone, he still sends you postcards. ‘To My Darling’.

He still calls you. “Hello my beautiful Darling.”

That's your name.

You sit on your back steps waiting for him to come home from tour. Sometimes a thought poisons your mind and tells you he’s not coming home. Sometimes he doesn’t, and you fall asleep curled in the armchair by the door still waiting for him. You don’t worry though. You always wake to the smell of fresh coffee and cigarettes and you feel a warmth radiating from your heart. He’s home. He’s picked you up and carried you to bed. And you’re lying there in his arms, letting the sun soak into you and your soul.

“Darling, hurry up and come here, I already miss you,” Matty whines for you from the living room. You roll your eyes with affection, knowing you’ve only been apart for less than 10 minutes. Your feet pad down the hallway, hair still wet from your bath, leaving a trail of droplets on the hardwood floors. The day has slipped away into the evening and the sun has said it’s goodbyes. He came home a few hours ago, from New Zealand. Whenever he comes home to you it’s like you’re seeing him for the first time again. His gorgeous curls and his golden honey eyes and the stubbly jaw that’s etched into the softest parts of your body. There was exhaustion eating away at his cheeks as he smiled at you fondly, standing at your doorway with open arms. He’d come home at the perfect time for you to lounge together under the setting sun. He slept softly against your chest and you ran your fingers through his hair. Scraping over his scalp in circles and swirling patterns, reminding yourself he’s home and he’s here and he’s yours.

His curls are now damp too. He'd climbed out of your shared bath a few minutes before you, claiming the water was getting too cold for him and urged you to take your time, leaving with a kiss on your forehead. He’s standing there in the middle of your living room, cotton t-shirt on his fresh skin and vintage sweatpants hanging off his hips. He stands there with a smile glowing over his face, illuminated by the lamp in the corner and the small candles lit across the room. He belongs here. Just like the couch and the small television and the persian rug at his feet, like the pot plants that spread their vines and roots across the entire house. This is his home.

He pulls you into his arms, and you dig your face into the front of his chest. He smells like lemons and spring and nag champa.

“Mmm you already smell like me,” you muffle. He holds you so closely, chin resting on top of your damp hair.

“I missed you so much, so so much” he says, voice slightly shaking.

“Hey,” you look up at him. His eyes are welling but he’s smiling. He’s got that look of hope and unconditional love.

You’re worried he doesn’t know how much you miss him when he’s gone. How you always choose his mug from the cabinet on the days that are especially cold. The way you put off washing your sheets for weeks when he leaves, never washing his pillow until the day before he returns, making sure you can always smell his cigarettes and sandalwood cologne. The way you lay awake at night, panicking when you realise you’ve forgotten the lyrics for the second verse of the ‘Autumn’ song he wrote for you, desperately raking through your collection of memories with him to remember. The way you kiss and hold every postcard he sends, swearing you can still feel his electric touch through the thin cardboard. The way you stare at the ceiling and whisper to him goodnight every night before you fall asleep, wishing he was there next to you, wishing he could hear you, wishing that he’d appear in your dreams that night. The way you crawl up into a ball on the couch and sob until your eyes are raw once he’s hung up, clutching your phone to your chest and exhausted from trying to hide your anguished yearning for the past hour.

You don’t know that he goes almost mad without you too. The way he snaps at George on the tour bus in the mornings because you’re not there in the cramped kitchen to sweetly pass him his favourite mug and because the coffee tastes like shit. The way he doesn’t wash one of his shirts for the entire time he’s gone, keeping it safely in his suitcase and preserving the smell of your lavender body wash that seeped into the cotton as you wore it religiously to bed every night. The way he spends most of his nights writing song after song in his moleskin, so he has a miriad to sing to you once he returns home. The way he presses a soft kiss to each postcard he sends home to you, hoping his love will still reach you over the vast seas that keep you apart. The way he dreams of you in his sleep, of your giggles and naked skin in the glowing sun and groaning with frustration when he awakens in the morning to realise that you’re nowhere near the blinding sun that blares through the curtains of his tour bus bunk. The way he loses track of time after he forcefully hangs up on the phone to you, staring at his lockscreen of your smiling face, tears wetting his pillow as the thought of you being right there in the pixels of his phone comforts his racing mind.

“There’s not a minute that passes where I don’t think about you, probably not even a single second,” you reassure him, pressing kisses to his beautiful nose and cupid's bow.

“Me too darling, me too.”

You both stand there in silence, breathing each other in and absentmindedly nipping at each other’s faces. After the silence has sunken into you comfortably, he pulls away from you and asks if you’d press play on the record player while he grabs the bottle of wine he brought back for you from New Zealand.

He doesn’t even get to reach the cabinet for the wine glasses when he hears you gasp.

“Matty, what is this?” Tears sting your eyes.

It’s a physical record of his songs for you. You no longer have to wring your brain out of it’s every drop to remember exactly how he sings them for you. The cover is a picture of you both laying on your favourite sunlounger, your head in Matty’s lap and his hand pressed to your chest, right onto your heart. You gather Hann must’ve snapped it with his film camera the day after Matty officially moved in and you threw a party in the garden to celebrate. ‘For My Darling’s Lonely Heart’ is written in his handwriting across the bottom. He’s standing by your side now, hands holding your waist and he leans to kiss away the tears that roll down your cheeks. You flip the record and the back cover is a quadrant of pictures. One from each season, a simple picture of your willow tree. From the deep green flourishes of leaves in the Summer to the piles of orange leaves in the Autumn, its freezing branches covered in snow in the Winter and the wildflowers that welcome the newborn green in the Spring.

“It’s perfect.” You whisper, choking on tears. “I love it.”

The day after Matty comes home from tour is always your favourite. Time stretches out in front of you endlessly, you find comfort and security knowing there’s weeks if not months until he has to leave again. You slip back into your shared life. Two pairs of mugs in the dishwasher and two pairs of boots by the backdoor. Two toothbrushes lining the bathroom sink and two towels dripping, hanging up to dry. Walks down to the park, hand in hand and stolen kisses. Trips to the grocery store, arms overflowing with groceries and each other. Laughter and whispers and moans.

But there’s yelling too. Matty’s only been home for three weeks when he steps out into the garden to answer a phone call, Jamie Oborne’s name glowing urgently. You were both curled on the couch all afternoon watching a movie he had suggested you’d love. It had been paused for 20 minutes as you shredded apart the loose threads of the crochet blanket wrapped around you, watching anxiously as Matty grew more and more frustrated and was pacing aggressively on the patio. Until he hung up with anger and huffed back inside, head falling into his hands as he slumped back onto the couch. Your hand fell to his back and drew circles soothingly, lips kissing at his ear, the blood in his veins immediately cooling down.

“I have to leave for London tomorrow morning, some legal bullshit to do with the label,” he murmurs hesitantly, almost scared for what your reaction could bring.

“Okay,” you whisper into his neck.

He pulls away roughly, standing up to face you. “Okay???”

You stare at him dumbfounded. “Okay.” You repeat again, more emphasis on the casualty of your tone, like he’s just told you he needs to head down to the shops for some more milk. His face is contorted with pain and betrayal.

“What do you mean okay? Do you want me to go or something? Want me to leave you?” His voice is raising, yelling and tears are pooling in his eyes.

“Oh so you want to get rid of me now? I thought you needed me? Won’t you miss me?” He blabbers on.

“Matty, baby stop,” you grab his hands and pull him back down to you.

“I meant okay as in I’m okay. We’re okay.” He grows silent.

“I’m okay with you gone because I’m used to it. My heart is used to waiting for you. And that’s okay and you’re okay and we’re always going to be okay.” You smile at him, continuing, voice shaking. “It’s okay because I love you.”

A tear rolls down his face, his lungs finally expand again.

“Oh Darling, I’m in love with you too.”

It’s the next morning. You’re leaning against the doorway, watching the curls on his head bounce as he walks down the path and to the car on the street waiting to take him to the airport. He stops halfway and abruptly drops his bags, running up the stairs and you giggle as he lifts you up to spin you around in his arms. Your chest is pressed into his face as he muffles, “I love you, I love you, I love you.” Spilling every word from his heart directly into yours and repeating it until your heartbeat starts to mimic the pace of his words. He kisses you sweetly and you both know it’s always going to be okay. He quickly races back down to his bags as the car beeps its horn impatiently. He takes one look back at you and he waves. You blow him a kiss, watching the car peel away and fade over the horizon. You stand there at the doorway so dazed, you think the car is probably halfway to the airport by the time you step back inside.

Your heart is full and as it overflows, Matty is always right there to catch every drop in his open arms. You’re carrying his heart in your arms too.

You walk over to the record player and grab Matty’s record, your record. With a pen and a shaking hand you neatly press it to the glossed cover.

‘For My Darling’s Lonely Heart’

You press play and his angelic voice floods the room.

#matty healy #matty healy x reader #matty healy imagine #matty healy x y/n #matty healy fic #matty healy smut #the 1975 #the 1975 fic

178 notes · View notes