#ANYWAYS final organization and shoving my socks into the drawer before work!!

[shiningstages]

If I ever buy a piece of clothing again, please apprehend me ( aka I finished my laundry / closet cleanout...for now ).

[smugzayn]

Roomies

“So, what’s that mean?” you ask, trying to keep the bite out of your voice. Whether it’s apparent or not, it’s easy to read all over your body. Your hands are on your hips, your right toe taps violently against the floor, and your neck is jutted just ever so slightly forward in irritation. 

“Well,” your R.A. starts gently. “There’s nothing that can be done for you right now. All the assignments are full and there are no empty beds. You’re just going to have to room with him for a while”

You stare at her, hoping that she’s going to change her mind. Or maybe she will start laughing because certainly, this is some sort of joke. After thirty seconds of her falsely apologetically soft smile, you huff. 

“So, I will just live with him, then? Just live with Harry? There’s nothing you can do. I’m just - just roomies with him.” 

She nods, already inching her way back into her room, slipping behind a gently closing door. 

You nod, tersely, disbelief painting over your irritation. This is not at all going to plan.  

OR somehow you and Harry are assigned a dorm room at university. 

One.

You had been waiting all summer for university to begin. Every prep course, accelerated class, and extracurricular had prepared you for this very moment. You had even made sure to check every box on your roommate application that guaranteed your new bunkmate would be just as focused, driven, and ambitious as you. 

As other girls on your co-ed floor were popping into the boys’ rooms or flirting in the corridor, you were arranging your highlighters on your desk, flipping through your planner, and making sure the reading lamp was fastened tightly to your headboard. You didn’t have time for distractions. 

You were just ruffling out a lump in your duvet, the final touch of settling in, when a loud thump sounded from the entryway behind you. 

“Oh,” you turned around to find a tall, shaggy-haired boy standing in your doorway with several fancy-patterned duffles weighing him down. He struggled to flip his black ray-bans atop his head as he looked at you in surprise.

“You must be in the wrong place; boys rooms are on the other side of the hall.”

“Hello,” he grinned, ignoring your comment and looking you up and down, bringing what you hoped wasn’t a noticeable blush to your cheeks. There were two deep dimples next to his upturned mouth, a charming smile twisting his lips and bunching the skin next to his eyes, and a mop of dark hair that looked like it, at any point, could overtake his whole head. Unceremoniously, he dropped all his bags to the floor and shoved a hand into his pocket to un-crumble a tattered piece of paper. 

“Room 212?” he asked, pinching the plump of his bottom lip between his thumb and index finger as he scanned his paper. His voice had a long, slow drawl to it. “Right? This is room 212?” 

You shook your head in confusion. 

“No - Well, yes,” you agreed hesitantly, scrunching your brows together in confusion. “It is, but the boys’ rooms are on the other side of the -” 

“No,” he interrupted. “This is right.” He held the paper out for you to inspect. You read it over: Harry Styles - ID#1D-557819, Room 212. When you looked up at him in disbelief, he just shrugged his shoulders and smiled joyfully as if the matter was settled.

What was wrong with him? This wasn’t going to work? You couldn’t bunk with - with him. You were no prude, but it wasn’t really proper to just live with a boy you didn’t know. And he just looked like a distraction. 

You stood there in shock as he lugged his duffle bags in one swift motion onto the empty bed beside you. With no concern for the situation, he started pulling out a very haphazardly packed luggage full of flannel shirts, graphic tees, pink flamingo stringed lights, and at least three different bottles of vodka.

When he turned around to dump a handful of mismatched socks on his desk, you noticed his grey sweatshirt read Margaritaville University. Oh god.

“What are you doing,” you sputtered from where you stood with your arms tight across your chest, clearly flustered.  “You can’t - we aren’t - You can’t be my roommate. You - you have to move.” 

He grabbed a pile of shirts with a big fist and stuffed them into a drawer. “Look, roomie,” he drawled lazily, just barely glancing over his shoulder towards you with an easy smirk. “It’s happening. Embrace it -” 

“Absolutely not,” you huffed, looking at him in disbelief. 

You watched him force a too full drawer shut by throwing his shoulder into it- you think it was a mix of pants, shirts, and beanies - before he walked over to stand in front of you. He sighed heavily, running his hands through his hair, leaning back to crack his spine and letting a sliver of skin at the bottom of his torso peak out. 

You hate that his smirk deepens when your eyes are drawn towards it. It’s infuriating.

“I’m Harry,” he says once again, flashing a sideways grin at you and holding out his hand in greeting. Shaking it would feel like some sort of agreement or a surrender to the situation. You’re not so easy to give in, so after you stare at it for a minute, he laughs dryly and shoves both hands into his pockets. “Do you have a name? Or should I just call you ‘roomie’?” 

“I’m going to go talk to the room advisor.” 

You storm out of the room, but his chuckle of “...nice to meet ya” still follows you out the door.  

.....

It takes about an hour after Harry moves into your room to find out that he’s terribly, terribly social.  

The university move-in date for Freshman is a Friday because they want Freshman to have the weekend to get “acclimated” before classes begin on Monday. So, you spend this time planning your routes to each class, visiting the library and booking a private study room for the semester, and starting an email chain to organize study groups for your courses. You go to the university bookstore and buy your books, begin taking notes on the introductory chapters, and hungrily read through the course syllabus listed on the online platform. 

Harry, on the other hand, well you’re not quite sure what he spends his time doing. He darts into your room to quickly change into a new top, or you pass him with a big group of people in someone’s room, or some girl pops by saying, “Oh, I didn’t know Harry had a girlfriend.” You are always quick to inform, begrudgingly, that you two are just temporary roommates. 

When the Sunday night before classes begin rolls around, he taps you on the shoulder from where you’re studying with headphones in at your desk. 

“What do you think?” he asks, modeling a black top and matching black jeans. He looks genuinely curious, like for some reason he truly wants a stranger’s input on his outfit. It’s disconcerting. “I’m worried it’s too much black.” 

You’re confused. 

“Is this what you’re wearing to class tomorrow?” 

He laughs loudly, falling back on his bed in the process. He starts shoving on a pair of black sneakers. “Class? What - no! I am going to a house party with a guy across the hall.” He flutters his eyelashes at you, “You want to be my date?” 

You rearrange your highlighters as an excuse to look away but still noticeably sputter, “I’m studying - and classes start tomorrow -” 

“Oh, god,” he groans, pretending to push a pair of glasses up his nose. “You are seriously going to have to loosen up. It’s the first weekend of university! What in the hell are you even reading?”

“It’s coursework -” you rebuke defensively. 

“Courses haven’t even started,” he interjects, reaching over you and snagging the book off your desk. “What even is this? Historical Particularism? Functionalism? Neo-What?”

“Classism. I’m pre-law.” You stand up to snatch your book back, but he plays keep-away and holds it with one long arm behind him. It isn’t until he pointedly clears his throat with a big, stupid smirk on his face that you notice you’re practically climbing atop him to get at it. 

You lean back, straightening out a wrinkle in your top, and holding out your hand impatiently. “Gosh! If you’re going, then just go.”

He rolls his eyes, but the amused smirk doesn’t falter. Teasingly slow, he gives you your book. “You’re going to be my date at some point,” he decides, as you look away. “You can’t be like this all semester.”

“I’m on scholarship.” You sit back down at your desk. “I have to get good grades.” 

You can tell he doesn’t really understand. He’s posh. From the moment he walked in you could tell it like he was wearing a public school uniform. He had the holiday tan, and his luggage was all the same matching, expensive print, and he had that confidence of someone who knows they belong. You’ve never had that assurance. You were the first in your family to attend college, you were proper working class, and you were here because of you. Not daddy’s money, or mummy’s network, or some sort of legacy connection. You were here because you had worked damn hard. 

Harry clears his throat from where he’s fixing his hair in the mirror. “But I still need your opinion.”

You throw your hands up in irritation. “On what?” 

“My outfit!” he growls, leaning back, posing with one foot out and a hand propped behind his head. He looks ridiculous. “Is the black-on-black okay? It’s a new top. I’m not sold on it. I’m going for rough and mysterious yet approachable and -”

“It’s fine,” you interrupt, cutting off the rambling description of his aesthetic. “What do you want my opinion for, anyway? It’s not like I even know you.”

He shakes his head in disappointment, but the smirk he bites back tells you he’s enjoying riling you up more than he lets on. “You’re my roommate. It’s what we do. I need your -” 

You spin around to glare at him, “We are not roommates.”  He makes a show of looking about the room at his stuff and your stuff - all in one room. Not having to say anything to point out the very clear fact that you are very much roommates. “This is temporary.”

“Right,” Harry nods his head in amusement, unwilling to push you any further on the topic. After a moment, he adds, “Then what you’re saying is that it’s too much black.” He grabs a flannel from the mess of clothes under his bed and ties it around his waist. Then, once again, he looks at you expectantly. 

“Oh my God,” you groan, flopping your head down on your desk into your open textbook. “Yes, it looks fine. The shoes, the tee, the flannel, and the black, and your hair all look great.”

He nods his head happily, and snags a bottle of something that he had hidden in some mess of a drawer. He tucks into a pocket, arranging the tied top around his waist to hide the bulge. “Perfect,” he whispers to himself, the smile clear in his voice as he walks to the door, finally leaving you to your studies. 

“You like my hair?” he asks cheekily, slipping into the corridor with a final irritating call of “Don’t miss me too much, roomie!”

The highlighter you throw bounces off the slammed door. 

.....

“Oh,” you say from where you’re reading on your bed. “I didn’t know you were coming back.” 

Harry shrugs his shoulders. He looks hungover. It’s Saturday morning, so he probably is. There have been four weekends since school began - Harry’s gone out for all of them. Even during the week he goes out a few times. You're thankful that he never comes back to your room after; you don’t know where or who he’s staying with, but at least it’s not with you. 

You accidentally squish your nose at him before you register what you’re doing. He reeks of stale alcohol and floral perfume. 

“Do I smell?” he asks, grabbing his towel off his bed and searching through his drawers for five minutes before finding a set of fresh clothes. 

“A little,” you lie, looking away from him and returning your eyes, if not your attention, back to your book. 

“Y’know, you should come out with me sometime.” He grabs the towel off the hook on his wardrobe and slings it around his shoulder. “Oh. Can I borrow your shampoo?”

“What?” you look at him suspiciously, trying to determine how serious he’s being. You’ve noticed Harry likes to say things just to distract you from studying. 

“Your shampoo,” he repeats, nodding to where you keep it. “It smells good - like strawberries, and I ran out of mine days ago.” 

You ignore the silly warmth that burns your cheeks. “Yeah,” you nod. “That’s fine.”

“Awesome. Thanks. And you should you know.” He snags the bottle out of your stuff. “I mean come out with me sometime. It would be fun” 

You roll your eyes and laugh easily. It’s a nice offer, but you’ve seen Harry’s crew. It’s big, the girls all look like they’ve got 5,000 Instagram subscribers, and you’re sure most of the guys do, too. 

“That’s okay,” you assure him. “It’s nice of you, but I’ve got my friends and you’ve got yours-”

“I’m not saying it to be nice,” Harry bites and the tension in his voice takes you by surprise. You look up from your book to see him leveling you with a hard glare from the open doorway; he has one foot out the door. “I’m saying it because I want to be friends.” 

“Harry, this is just temporary. I’m sure we will hear back from the R.A. any day with a new arrangement. I don’t think we really need to force anything.” 

You trail off awkwardly and squirm a little under his stare. He looks irritated, and it’s an unfamiliar look on his face. It darkens his features and makes him look dangerous. He rubs a big hand along his tense jaw and you can just barely hear the scratchiness of his stubble against his skin. 

He opens his mouth to say something, decides against it, and slams the door enough when he leaves that the pictures above your bed rattle slightly. 

Two. 

Your side of the room looks like this: your bed is neatly made, your wardrobe is tediously organized, and your desk is arranged for academic success. When you return from the shower, your towel gets hung, your dirty clothes go in the hamper, and your shower cubby gets tucked neatly away at the end of your bed. 

Harry’s side of the room looks like this: his duvet is a mess - always. He has five pillows, and none of them are ever on his bed. In an effort to be neat, the dresser drawers are bursting open with whatever clothes Harry has picked up off the floor and shoved in them. When he returns from the shower, his towel gets thrown somewhere, his dirty clothes get tossed by the hamper, and he returns your shampoo and body wash to you because he’s been using it ever since that day in September. 

You will appreciate that Harry does keep a nice dividing line between your structure and organization and his chaos and mess. He even hung his pink flamingo string lights down the middle of the room to remind himself. You don’t hate them that much. 

Despite the common ground that you two have seemed to find, your R.A. never gets back to you about the unconventional situation and your growingly impatient emails haven’t received their due response. So, five weeks in, it’s October, and you and Harry had fallen into a strange kind of normal. You wake up earlier than him, go to class, spend any free time at the library, and return basically just to study, shower, and sleep. You don’t even see him that much. The only time you really ever run into him is when he’s gaming or sleeping. 

You actually hadn’t seen him for three days before all the sudden you do. 

You’ve been studying in the library for about an hour between your political science and anthropology courses when all a sudden there’s a loud knocking and Harry’s big, dimply smile is waving at you from the window in the door. 

“Unlock it,” he whispers loudly through the glass. “Let me in. I need to talk!” A passerby curiously walks by and Harry adds, “Don’t worry. It’s just my roomie.” 

“Oi!” you hush, standing up quickly to unlock the latch. “Will you be quiet?” 

He clumsily swings open the door and throws his book bag to the floor before flopping down into the extra chair in the corner. 

“Roomie,” he begins, leaning forward to prop his elbows on his knees. “I need your help.” 

“Harry, what are you doing here?” You whisper, moving to shut the door that he had just left open. “How did you even know - Also, stop calling me roomie. It’s just a temporary -” 

“I checked your planner when you were in the showers Tuesday.” He cuts you off before you can object. “That’s not important. I need your help. I’ve got this math test tomorrow and I have no idea what the hell I’m doing. Plus, my literature class it’s just - I have some monster paper about some book an emo lady wrote and I don’t understand anything. I have no idea-”

“What lit class are you in?” 

“133. We’ve got our first paper due Monday, and I’ve got no idea -

“Harry -” you look at him in disbelief. “Please tell me it’s not with Professor Allison.” 

Harry nods, his fringe falling over his eyes until he swoops it back into place. “Yeah. Why?”

“Harry! How can you -” you regulate your voice back to a whisper when someone in the room beside you bangs on the wall. “I’m in that class. I’ve not seen you there once.” 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “That’s why I’ve got no idea what’s going on.” 

You sigh - deeply. 

“Please,” Harry begs, leaning forward until one of his hands is grabbing onto your knee in desperation. “I will do anything. Midterms are in two weeks, and I have to pass these classes. Please, please, please -”

You pull away, ignoring the warmth that flutters in your chest at his touch. 

“I don’t know, Harry. I’ve got a lot of my own stuff I need to -” 

He falls to his knees suddenly, close enough that his pleading fists are nearly sitting on your lap. 

You look anxiously to the window to make sure no one can see the strange scene. 

“Harry, really -” 

“I’ll move out at semester,” he promises, suddenly staring into your eyes. “I will take all my stuff and move across the hall with Daniel. His roommate already dropped, so he’s on his own. I’m sure it would  be-” 

You can’t mask the excitement in your voice. “Really? You will? You promise?”

Harry leans back, the loss of his touch taking a warmth with it. 

He runs his hands through his hair, pushing it all out of his face. “I swear on it. You help me pass this semester, and I will move out in December. You will be all on your own by January.” 

He sticks out a hand to shake and this time you don’t hesitate to agree wholeheartedly. 

.....

You step in front of Harry, toss your copy of Frankenstein onto his desk, and hit the power button on the XBox. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Harry blurts, pulling his headset off and looking at you in irritation. “We were just about to storm that -” 

“You asked for my help,” you shove a schedule into Harry’s outstretched hands and pull your desk chair over to sit. He grumbles something, but he drops his headset to the floor and glances at the paper unhappily. 

“Study group? Library? Wake up time? What is this?” 

“It’s your schedule.” You move on despite his grumbling. “There’s a study group for your math class on Wednesday nights at 6 and a grad student gives private lessons every Tuesday and Thursday mornings. I’ve signed you up for both. Also, I’m going to start waking you up for our lit class. There's really no reason that you can’t -”

Harry curses under his breath, but, again, you ignore it and push on.

“Plus, I’ve scheduled you for library time with me every Saturday afternoon. That’s the pink highlight. However, I thought we might start that paper now, your literature one...seeing as it’s due in -” you look at your phone, “six hours.” 

“Shit,” Harry groans, and leans back in his chair, already exhausted with the task. “Okay, roomie, let’s get to it.” 

“Harry -” 

“I know. I know. It’s just temporary,” he smirks, sliding his chair close to his desk and then grabbing yours and pulling you close in one swift motion. “I wish you’d stop saying that.” 

You reach around Harry to grab the book instead of meeting his eye. 

“So, what did you think about Frankenstein?” you ask, flipping through the text to re-read some of your annotations and find your favourite quotes. “Was it the frame narrative? Or the subversive female voice? Or maybe the complex relationship between the Monster and Victor?”

“Well, you see,” Harry drawls, forcing you to hide a smile as his face turns with a boyish smirk. “I would say that everything is my favourite because -”

“You haven’t read it,” you realise flatly. 

“I haven’t read it,” he agrees, his charming yet bashful smile still painting his face. 

You sigh heavily, letting your chest heave dramatically and ignoring the flash of amusement in Harry’s eyes. 

“Well,” you decide, flipping until you are on page one. “Then let’s start at the beginning.” 

.....

“Harry,” you try to keep the whine out of your voice, but it’s no easy task. How can someone that looks as good as he does be so absolutely frustrating? “Harry, get up! Come on!” 

You pull up the duvet so it’s covering his bare shoulder and then push to rouse him awake. “Let’s go! We’re going to be late. Really, Harry!” 

It’s been two weeks since you gave Harry his schedule. He’s attended every study session with the grad student (you checked) and has walked with you to the library for all his study groups. He’s even come and sat with you at the library for the last two Saturdays. Although, you would argue, he’s spent more time pestering you than actually completing any studying. 

This, however, has not been Harry’s easiest hurdle to jump. You spend every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning thinking of new, clever ways to convince him to wake up. Although, maybe you should just be grateful that he’s sleeping in his bed way more often. 

You think you’ve rubbed off on him in some small way, at least. 

“Please, Harry. We really need to -” a strong tug on your arm surprises you and Harry suddenly has you tangled up with him in bed. Your cheek falls against the skin of what was his carefully covered shoulder and his entire torso is bare up against you. 

“Harry,” you squeal, pressing against his chest, but his strong arms are wrapped around you. 

“Shhhh,” he mutters sleepily, nuzzling you into his chest and pulling you close until your nose is near smushed tight against the curve of his neck. “Lay with me for five minutes and then I’ll get up. Promise. Then I’ll get up.”

His voice sounds like gravel. 

You squirm and he hushes you again by promising just five minutes. 

“Fine,” you agree, not really seeing another option. His hold relaxes, and you weigh heavy in his arms. 

So, you lay there, in his bed, tight up against his body for five long minutes. You can feel his breath against your hair, and the rise and fall of his chest against your cheek, and even his thick, strong legs brushing the front of yours. It makes you nervous, and anxious, and warm, and confused. 

You check the clock seven times before the five minutes is up. As soon as Harry let’s you go, you grab your bag, run a brush through the back of your hair, and make an excuse to wait for him in the corridor. 

You can’t look at him when you walk to class without blushing that morning. You think he notices because he keeps finding excuses to shove his face right in front of yours: you’ve got an eyelash, or a piece of dust in your hair, or a fleck of something along your bottom lip. 

He laughs every time you shoo him away and asks coyly about why your face is so red.

After that morning, he makes you lay with him for five minutes before he wakes up every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday until midterms. He calls it a “roomie alarm” and somehow it becomes a normal thing. 

.....

“Thank god,” you sigh, flopping into your bed. You’ve just returned from your last midterm. The professor has already entered the grades, you aced it. Actually, you’ve aced all of them. You’re going to relax this weekend; you’ve completed your first quarter with a 4.0. 

You had gotten about four hours of sleep last night after staying up revising your paper on Canterbury Tales. You’ve decided there is a special spot in Hell for Chaucer. You’re just on the very verge of dozing off when the door to your room flies open, smashes into the wall, and a heavy mass falls atop you. 

“Oof,” you groan, wiggling uncomfortably until you feel the weight roll off you and thump to the floor. You prop yourself on your elbow and turn to see Harry laying on the floor, a giant grin on his face, a piece of paper held tightly to his chest. 

“We did it,” he laughs, holding the paper up to you. 

You sit up in excitement, grabbing it out of his hand and reading over it. One C, three B’s, and two A’s. You try to push away the thought that Harry had printed off his midterm report just to show you. 

“Oh my gosh, Harry! You got an A on your math and English midterms.” You look down at him, there are happy crinkles next to his eyes, and his dimples are two deep pinpricks. His smile makes your heart flutter. “I can’t believe you did it.”

He suddenly reaches for you, pulls you down by your arm, and hugs you tightly atop him. It’s like “roomie alarm,” but it feels different at this time of day, in the late afternoon light flooding the room. 

“Thank you,” he mumbles into your hair. “I couldn’t have done it without you.” 

You laugh nervously, trying to ignore the feeling of your chest pressed tight against his, and his mouth in your hair, and his hands warm against your back. It’s one thing when he’s half-asleep in the innocence of the morning light. Why does it feel so different now? Like it’s so much more?

“Well,” you mumble, leaning just a little bit away from him. You laugh, “I really want my own room.” 

You can feel his grip slacken slightly, his body freezing underneath yours. 

“Right,” he clears his throat, gently shuffling so you’re sitting beside him now. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and you get up until you’re sitting back on your bed. Putting the distance between you and him before you can even meet his eyes. Even then, after a minute, he clears his throat once more only to repeat, “Right.”

You go to your desk and shuffle around some papers. 

“So,” you try to lighten the mood. “How are you going to celebrate? Get pissed with your friends? Hit the pub? Pull a girl?” You ask, smiling easily at him over your shoulder. “You should go celebrate with your friends! You’ve earned it.” 

He smiles, but it’s tight, and it doesn’t light his eyes. Propping himself up on an elbow from the floor, he laughs, a dry puff of air through his nose, but there’s no humor to it. It sounds sad. 

“Yeah,” he raises his eyebrows, looking at you imploringly. “I guess that’s what I do, right? Go out, get drunk, pull a girl. That’s who I am then, right?” 

“Harry,” you watch as he pulls himself up, grabs a snapback from his wardrobe and throws a plaid top on. “I’m sorry. I just meant that-”

“What? It’s nothing,” he interrupts, brushing past you when you reach for him. “I get it. You didn’t say anything wrong. Don’t apologize.” 

He doesn’t look back when he walks out the door. 

Three. 

After midterms, things continue like normal, except they don’t. 

Harry still meets you to study at the library, but he asks fewer questions, and there’s less touching that makes your heart beat faster, and you don’t find him staring at you when you’re not looking like you did before. You don’t look forward to Saturdays anymore. 

In the dorms, it’s different too. 

He’s there more but less. It’s weird. He’s there all the time now. He sleeps there every night, and he goes out with his friends less, but it doesn’t feel like you interact any more. He doesn’t drive you crazy by asking you ridiculous questions, or teasing you about being a nerd, or start yelling at the screen while he’s gaming until you throw a book at him. Instead, he’s lights out at ten, and headphones in all the time, and he never sleeps past his alarm, and he never needs five more minutes.

You hate it. 

“I’m sorry,” you blurt from across the table. 

Harry arrived in your study room twenty minutes ago, but aside from asking to borrow a pencil, he’s not said a word to you. 

“I didn’t mean all those things. I don’t think you’re just some stupid frat boy, or caveman, or something. I don’t even - I don’t even know why I said it. It was just - I think I was scared and I just said those things to be mean or to push you away. I don’t know. I’m just really, really sorry that I did.”

Harry leans back from where he was crouched over The Great Gatsby. You think he could give Jay Gatsby a run for his money. He runs a hand through his hair, pulling it away from his head, and looking a bit crazed as a result. 

“Wow,” he smirks, his lips turning at one side to make his mouth all crooked. “That was...out of nowhere.” 

You try to keep your voice from cracking, taking a moment to brush back your hair and hopefully distract from the heat in your face. “Well, yeah. I’ve been wanting to say it forever. Basically since that night - since midterms. I really am sorry.”

“Well, that’s great and all…” he trails off.

“But you’re still mad?” 

“No,” he shakes his head and reaches out to grab your hand assuringly. “I’m not mad, but you’re going to have to make it up to me.” 

You look at him skeptically. The giant, devilish smirk on his face doesn’t make him look very trustworthy. His eyes are normally just a beautiful green; right now they look dangerous.

“My mate’s having a party tonight. A house party,” he begins and starts piling up his books and notepad and shoving it carelessly into his bookbag. “I want you to come with me.”

“Okay, but not as your date -”

He nods his head and waves his hand to stop you from voicing the thought. 

“As my roommate,” he assures but there’s something in his eyes that makes you believe he knows something that you don’t. As if there's a secret that he’s left you out of. “Just a roommate.” 

He doesn’t give you a minute to respond. Instead, he piles all of your stuff up too and starts shoving it into your bookbag. He ignores your protests. 

“Let’s go,” he demands, slinging your book bag over his shoulder along with his own and grabbing your hand to pull you behind him out the door. “It’s Friday night. We are going to go out, get drunk, and have a fucking blast.” 

.....

Harry looks amazing. You want to give him absolute hell for looking exactly like the frat boy of your nightmares, but those nightmares seem much less like scary dreams when you look at him. He’s wearing jeans, and a plaid shirt rolled up a bit and a plain, white tee underneath, with a backward cap on with little flips of dark, curly hair sticking out and you don’t know that you’ve ever been so attracted to someone in your life. 

And what’s most terrible is that you feel like an absolute tit. You had borrowed an outfit from a girl down the hall. Your wardrobe consisted entirely of study clothes - leggings, too big sweatshirts, and tennis shoes. They had had a blast dressing you in a short, little black dress and some heeled booties. The dress felt a bit too big, the booties a bit too tall, and makeup and hair a bit too unfamiliar, but you’re just trying to hold on to the way Harry’s eyes brightened as he met you in the corridor on the way out of the dorm. 

“Does it look okay? I can still change. Should I just go change?” you had word-vomited as soon as he saw you. His hand wrapped around your wrist is what stopped you from turning back into your dorm. 

“Are you joking?” he roared, biting at his bottom lip. “Absolutely not. Don’t you fucking dare.”  

You were thankful his mobile had buzzed with a text at that moment. It gave you the opportunity to hide your blush by rifling through your bag. 

Now, at the house party, you still feel out of place, but you’re sure the shot you’re about to drown will help. 

“Ready?” Harry asks, his eyes twinkling in excitement. His smile makes your chest burn in the dark, crowded room. There are people everywhere. They are pressed up against you, and the music is so loud that you can feel the bass through your toes, and you're thankful for the cool breeze coming in through the open window. “On my count.” 

You grab the shot glass - it says, “YOLO” on it. You thought that was a phrase that rightfully died a long, long time ago. 

Harry counts to two, forgets three, throws the shot back, and then smiles from ear-to-ear as he watches you follow his late lead. He offers you some fizzy drink to chase; you gladly accept it with a grimace. 

“One more?” you ask and watch as he laughs in delight. A big, happy, throaty laugh that makes you want to jump his bones. 

He happily pours another, hands it to you, and this time, when he gets to two, you remember and take the shot right along with him. 

Initially, you think you’re immune to alcohol. Harry leads you around, a hand on your back, and you dutifully follow his guiding touch. You meet his mates and laugh gleefully as they tell you about how they know each other or banter back and forth. It feels like Harry knows everyone and everyone loves him. You knew he was social, but it’s nice to see it in action. He just bounces around from person-to-person and he’s got a story or a joke with all of them. 

And he makes it easy for you, too. He doesn’t make you feel like some afterthought or tag along; rather, he excitedly introduces you, or makes sure to include you in each story, or tells his friends some interesting anecdote about you that you didn’t even realise he had noticed: 

“Bro, she’s proper smart. She’s pre-law undergrad with a focus in family law.”

“Yeah, she played football and tennis growing up.” 

“She grinds her teeth so bad. Drives me absolutely mental.”

“She actually used to vacation by where your mom lives. She's still on the coast, right?” 

By the time you start to feel this warm, fuzziness building in your stomach, and chest, and head you’re not sure if it’s from Harry or the alcohol. However, when Harry leads you to a new spot in the house, gently guiding you with a hand on your lower back, you know it’s the alcohol that allows you to easily slip your hand into his, push him ahead of you, and hide behind his shoulder as he meanders his way to a new spot. 

You see him duck his head just slightly to hide the grin threatening to split his face in half. You hide yours, too. 

The new spot is the dance floor, and god there is nothing that could have been more perfect. 

It’s too loud to talk, there are so many people that you both have a good excuse to be pressed up tightly against each other, and someone bumps into Harry and makes him drop his beer, so now both his hands can wrap tightly around your body to pull you into him. 

You love the feeling of his body pressed against yours. You can feel the hard lines of his muscles, the tightness of his stomach, and the knotty muscles of his shoulder, back, and neck. It’s easy to sink into his touch, let his big hand run up your waist, graze the side of your neck, and take your cheek into this hand. When you lean up, giving yourself to him, he doesn’t hesitate to fall into you. His mouth crashes against yours, the warmth of his lips, and tongue, and his overpowering scent sending shocks through your body. 

“Oh my god,” you gasp, pulling away and trying to bite back a smile as Harry looks down at you. His lips are red and more swollen than usual, his cheeks flushed from the alcohol and heat, and bits of his hair are matted to his forehead. “Please, let’s go back to our dorm,” you ask, leaning up to pull him into a kiss. 

He laughs against you, holding your jaw in his hands until he forces you back and instead grabs your hand to lead you out. “I’ve been waiting all semester to hear that.” 

Four.

When you wake up the next morning, its snowed outside. 

It makes it easy to snuggle under the covers and burrow yourself into Harry’s body. You think it should be awkward, but it’s not. It feels overdue. 

“Good morning,” Harry grumbles, and you can feel his chest vibrate from where your cheek is pressed against him. A heavy palm sweeps through your hair, brushing it down, and his nails drag lightly along your scalp. 

“I didn’t know you knew so much about me.” You lean up from your spot on his chest, so you can see his face. “When you were talking to your friends, you actually knew a lot about me. Like what I want to do with my degree, and my favorite band, and all my siblings’ names. I didn’t know.”

Harry’s smile is soft. His hair is fluffy and somehow angry looking. It’s all messy from sleep and other activities. 

“I like you,” he shrugs simply. “I’ve always liked you.” 

You roll your eyes and smack him gently on the shoulder. “You did not always like me.” 

“I did too,” he insists earnestly, and the sincerity in his eyes erases your skepticism. “You’re just so fucking dense. As soon as I walked in here on move-in, I knew. You spent like two minutes straightening out a ruffle in the bed, and your wardrobe was color-coded, and everything was in neat rows on your desk. And then you were so goddamn huffy and puffy about me moving in -”

“And you knew?” you joke lightly, but he grabs your hand and kisses it with conviction. 

“I swear, I knew.” He throws his head back, ruffling a big hand through his messy hair. “Why do you think you never got a different roommate? Or I never got kicked out?” 

“Wait! What?” You sit up, staring at him in disbelief. “What do you mean?” 

“You didn’t think it was suspicious at all?” he asks, propping himself on his side with an elbow. “Sure it was pure coincidence that we got roomed together. But, I mean, you didn’t think it was weird that our R.A. never fixed our living arrangements? That never was like a red flag to you?” 

You shake your head. You had spent hours at the beginning of first quarter begging, reasoning, and even crying to the R.A. that you needed to be moved. 

“Well, I have my connections. I made sure it wasn’t going to change,” he smirks, seemingly pleased with himself.

“Harry,” you gasp, but dissolve into chuckles when he pulls you into his body, rolls you over onto your back, and leans over to kiss you deeply on the mouth. His hands tangle in your hair, and run along your jaw, and slide over the curves of your waist and hips. 

He eventually falls onto his side and pulls you into his stomach, the soft curves of your body melting into the hardness of his. His arms around you feel heavy, and make you feel secure and small. You think you could lay here forever. 

“I was looking at my schedule for next semester,” Harry begins and you nod back into his touch. “And, I’ve got a lot of hard courses. Geometry, another English, biology, philosophy, and music -” 

“Philosophy is not hard, and you’re excellent in music,” you point out. “You can play like three instruments, and I know that you-”

Harry stops any disagreement with light, nimble fingers that tickle your sides. 

“I’m going to need help. So -” 

“So, I don’t think you should move out,” you finish, turning in his arms until you can kiss him. “I think I would get lonely, and I think your grades would suffer, and I think I might like this.” 

“This?” he asks, leaning over you again and pressing you into the bed with a hand on your hip and a heavy thigh falling between yours. You shudder as he presses into you, the weight of his body holding yours down, and you can feel your heart rate rising up as his mouth crashes down on yours. 

His lips playfully kiss along your jaw, and neck, and collarbone. His hands feel like they are everywhere; their warmth covering your thighs, belly, and chest. You never want it to stop. You want to be here, with him, in this bed forever. 

“Hmmm?” he hums, leaning back to stroke a stray bit of hair from the side of your face. “What’s this?” 

“I like this,” you run a thumb over his plump bottom lip and guide his mouth down to yours, “being roomies.” 

xx

[masterpost]

[sunshinemiranda]

Domestic Bliss - Okieriete Onaodowan x Reader

Summary: Based on this post. Small vignettes of feelings of happiness wrapped in domesticity in the home of two people who love each other very much. 

Words: 2,189

Warnings: A couple swear words. 

A/N: I’ve finally accomplished every day of the Write-A-Thon! (No one mention how long it took, I hate myself too) I’m really excited for this because Day 7: #WriteForOak2k17 was my doing and there is always room to appreciate my sunshine boy. By the way, there are a couple songs mentioned in this one. I’ll link them in the text. Enjoy!

“I think I’m sort of drunk.”

“You’re not drunk, Oak.”

“No, really. I think I am.”

“Prove it.”

“I actually like this shitty music.”

“Okay, yeah, you’re drunk.” You grinned, stumbling towards him a bottle of wine still grasped in your fist. “You know this is ‘Sugar, Sugar’ by The Archies, right? This is from, like, the 70’s.”

“I know,” he cringed, reaching out to curl a casual hand around your waist. A slow smile faded into place on his mouth and he started to waltz you around, slipping the bottle from your hand to take a swig from it. “Also, it’s 1 in the afternoon. I’m drunk, listening to crappy music, at 1 in the afternoon.”

“Don’t forget to add that you’re with me,” you giggled, stealing the bottle back to drink from it, nose crinkling. “This is shit wine.”

“I know.” He smiled, taking the bottle again to set it down on the coffee table. He bowed before you, pulling you against his body as the song switched to a waltz. ‘We Belong Together’. Ritchie Valens.

“Now this is a cheesy song.” You murmured, swaying with him, a grin making a home on your lips.

“I love it. Unashamedly. I love you.” He mumbled, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

You’re mine, and we belong together. Yes, we belong together, for eternity.

Maybe Ritchie Valens was right. Maybe that happened to people, who were puzzle pieces that had jagged edges to fit someone else’s. Maybe you were meant to be there, tipsy as hell on a Sunday afternoon, mouth pressed against the love of your life’s. If that was fate, then god damn, you would welcome it with wide arms.

The kiss was messy, filled with giggling and stumbling. Mouth still pressed haphazardly against yours, Oak stumbled back onto the couch, taking you with him as you collapsed into a pile of kisses that tasted like wine, soft hair tickling the senses and the scent that couldn’t be described as anything other than home. It was a kind of domesticity that put your heart at rest, made the blood run warm in your veins, electrified with a feeling of helpless love that you weren’t afraid of.

“I am not afraid of loving you, Oak.” You murmured, pressing a kiss to his nose.

“Stay with me.” He replied, whispering.

“Always.”

He kissed you again, and again, so many times that it painted your entire life a rosy colour that realists frown upon so angrily. Two romantics, a bottle of wine, and Ritchie Valens were a very good combination. You could attest to that.

“We should probably sleep.”

“Yeah, we should probably sleep.”

Neither one of you moved. Curled together, a complete mess of limbs and pieces of popcorn that had found a new home in the crevices of your couch, Oak had his legs intertwined with yours and was tracing swirls against your shin, eyes closed as he leaned back. It was 3 am, but tiredness and a craving to just sit and enjoy the feeling of being in the presence of someone who loved you unconditionally after a long day of wrestling with an unforgivable world. Right here, on this couch, in this moment, nothing else mattered.

“Oh my God, The Price is Right is on. Why are we watching this again?” He chuckled.

“Because I’m too lazy to move to our own bed, and I really like being here. With you.”

“Sap.”

“You know it.”

He lovingly pinched at your toe, and you pulled your limb away from him with a pout, turning away.

“That it, Mr. Onaodowan. No more kisses for you.”

“Mr. Onaodowan?” He mimicked, sitting up so he could scoot closer to you. You refused to look at him, staring adamantly at the wall. “What is this, Fifty Shades of Grey?”

“Oh, you wish.” You huffed, looking down and picking at your nails to fake disinterest.

He reached over, tugging you lazily into his lap, which didn’t take much, to be honest. Nuzzling into the crook of where your neck met your shoulder, he pressed an absent kiss to your jaw and mumbled tiredly against your skin as he spoke.

“You can’t be mad at me. It’s impossible.”

“It totally is possible. Don’t you see what I’m doing here?” You huffed, crossing your arms and ignoring the pleasant tickle of his hair near your ear.

“I love you,” he murmurs, leaving kisses all along your neck and down to your shoulder. “That’s all I’m going to say.”

The room settles with silence and you breath out, then surrender with a roll of your eyes, turning around in his lap to face him. Leaning forward, you press a kiss to his forehead with a small smile.

“Let’s go to bed.” You mumbled.

With a grin, he scooped his arms underneath you and stood in one smooth motion, stepping down the hallway to the bedroom with socked feet. Crappy television at 3 am became a tradition.

“Where’s my toothbrush?”

“You’re holding it, Oak.”

“Oh.”

Tuesday mornings were a mess. That wasn’t to say the other days of the week were un-stressful and beautifully organized, of course not. It’s just that Tuesday's seemed to be the days that everything was trying its best to work against you.

“Do you want coffee?”

“Am I going to have time to drink it?”

“Baby, you ask this every morning. I’ll put it in a travel mug like always.”

“I love you.” He mumbled, pressing a hurried kiss to your forehead before hurrying away, likely to finish getting dressed (he had been rushing around in pyjama top and an unbuttoned shirt for the past twenty minutes).

You were just as busy. With your purse dangling from your shoulder, and you having to push it back up there every few seconds, you had two coffees in one hand, your phone shoved haphazardly in your back pocket and your keys dangling from your only free hand.

“Shit,” you mumbled, setting down his coffee as carefully as possible while trying not to spill yours. “Oak, do you know where my wallet is?”

“Uh, no, maybe it’s in the bedroom?”

Cursing to yourself, you grabbed your shoes and half hopped, half ran toward the shared bedroom in the apartment, trying to simultaneously pull shoes on and make your way there. He pushed out of the bathroom at the same time you passed and accidentally bumped into you, the two of you both muttering a quick apology as he followed you into the bedroom. The sheets were thrown up, every drawer opened, until finally, finally, something worked out.

“Found it!” He called triumphantly, tossing your wallet across the room to you before you caught it and shoved it into your purse.

“Thank you, I love you, I’ll be home at 5, promise.” You rushed out, leaning forward to quickly press a kiss to his cheek, and giving the hem of his shirt a quick tug to straighten it out.

“Take it easy!” He called after you, pulling his own shoes on. With a glance at the clock, he cringed, inwardly wondering if it was possible to just cut anyway, since he was already late.

You sent him a quick grin over your shoulder, almost running into the door in doing so, but in a moment, you had hurried out to the car. Tuesday mornings were a mess, but they were so undeniably human that you spent half the time worrying and the other half, kind of enjoying it.

“Does my face always look like that?”

“Yeah. Pretty much.”

“Hey!” He whined, elbowing you as you shot him a grin. “You’re not supposed to agree.”

You laughed, flicking to the next picture on your phone. It wasn’t clear how it had happened, but you had ended up curled up with him on the balcony loveseat, sorting through old pictures of you two on your phone and zooming in on the worst faces. It was the perfect way to spend an afternoon.

“Baby, you know I love your face, and all the little things it does.” You reached out and pinched one of his cheeks gently as he rolled his eyes.

“Oh yeah?” He snatched the phone from you, double tapping on a group photo you had been unlucky enough to be pulled into. “And what about your face in this one?”

Huffing, you snatched your cell back, sticking your tongue out. “I’m fine with my face the way it is.”

“Good,” he murmured, a slow smile turning the corners of his mouth up. “Me too.”

Blushing, you smiled back at him and turned back to the picture album. You swept past a couple more, then found one of the two of you sticking your faces through the cardboard cutouts at fairs. This one had two anthropomorphic dogs painted there. It seemed one of them was supposed to be Goofy, but it definitely wasn’t clear. A pause caught in your throat before the both of you burst out into laughter.

“Wow, (Y/N), I had no idea you were a furry.”

“Don’t pretend you’re not in this photo too, Goofy.”

The rest of the afternoon was spent flicking through picture after picture, collapsing into piles of boneless laughter, and being filled with that warm feeling you get after finding an old photo of something you never want to forget.

“Get out of the way.”

“You get out of the way.”

“I was in here first!” Oak grumbled, but there was a grin sneaking its way onto his lips. You were already giggling.

“Unimportant. Isn’t it a stereotype that the girl takes hours to get ready? Therefore, I get more time in the bathroom.”

“I’m a progressive man, (Y/N), I don’t believe in stuff like that.” He stated matter-of-factly, smile still in place as he reached for a comb.

Standing hip to hip, facing the mirror, the bathroom seemed small but ultimately cozy. After being invited out to a friend’s birthday dinner, the two of you had ended up having to share the space. There is an idea perpetuated about couples who find themselves in uncomfortable situations when they move in with each other. There is always a compromise that needs to made, and some couples find that to be a struggle. With Oak, there wasn’t a touch of arguing. Things fell into place perfectly, every pseudo-schedule having little flaws, the actual schedules working as you had hoped they would. The give and take about domesticity was accomplished the moment he had asked you to “just start living at my place”.

“Okay, Mulberry, or Sugar Plum?” You asked, holding up two tubes of lipstick as options.

In the process of putting toothpaste on his toothbrush, he looked up and furrowed his brow in thought for a moment. 

“Hmm...neither. Cocoa Butter.” He reached out and picked up a brown shade, holding it up with a triumphant smile.

He was right. It did go best with what you were wearing. Grinning, you nodded mutely and faced the mirror to apply it, wiping away the mistakes and popped the cap back on, standing back.

“Almost ready?” You smiled.

“Almost.” He mumbled around his toothbrush.

“I’ll wait for you out there.”

The bathroom was too small for two people, but it didn’t matter. Rules were made to be bended a little, anyway.

“God, I’m exhausted.”

“You and me both, sweetheart.” Oak mumbled, hand wrapped around your shoulders.

After a long, long day, you had ended up standing in the kitchen having forgotten why you had entered the room in the first place. It didn’t matter after all, because you had a new purpose. The sun was setting and Oak had his arm curled around you comfortably, and here you were. Tired, happy, finally able to relax and just decompressing. It was the best part of the day so far. His fingers rose to gently comb through the ends of your hair as you snuggled into his side, a sigh pulling tension from your shoulders. These were the evenings you loved most, even if your legs were aching because you had stood all day, or the remnants of your headache were still fading from your temples. From this point, in the golden-light-filled kitchen of your home that you shared with the love of your life, anything was possible. The world was yours to take over. Time decided to give you a gift, and these, you were only too happy to accept.

“Long day?” You hummed.

“Yeah. But it’s okay. We’re okay.”

He said it so convincingly that you had to agree without a doubt. This was just fine. It was not a compromise, not something that could be taken from you, just a moment. One that you had to stop to enjoy.

A peace filled the room, softer than velvet as it stroked all worries and stress from your mind.

“Marry me.” He murmured, without looking away from the light outside.

The term “domestic bliss” came to mind. People spent their whole lives searching for something like this.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. Let’s do it.”

This was happiness. You had found it.

[pilvimarja]

Drabble | Ficlet | ●●● | teen Lawrusso | adult Lawrusso |

Prompt used: "I’m trying to apologize"

(a/b/o AU part 2, alpha!Johnny, omega!Daniel, mild UST, warning for some harassment and sexism)

It’s a new year when Daniel gets the okay from his doctor (and his Ma) to go back to school. He’s spent the last three weeks in a mind-numbing haze of daytime TV, microwave dinners and an increasingly desperate need for human contact as his body adjusted to its recent changes.

His knee is still pretty busted up and his Ma insists on giving him a lift to school, fussing through the whole drive like Daniel is about to start first grade all over again.

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay, honey?” she asks for the umpteenth time, parking their station wagon by the front gates.

Daniel eyes the swarm of students in the courtyard. His stomach rolls like it’s trying to expel the eggs and bacon he wolfed down for breakfast, and he kind of wants to be back on the couch with The Price is Right and a bag of potato chips.

“Daniel?”

“I’ll be fine, Ma.” Daniel scrambles out of the car and gets his crutches from the back seat as the bell above the front doors summons everyone inside.

Lucille leans across the seat and gives him the Worried Mom Look. “You have my work number, right? And you’ll call me if it gets too overwhelming? Or if your knee starts hurting. I’ll come and get you, baby.”

Daniel has no intention of having his Ma come and pick him up in the middle of a school day like he’s a little kid. "Sure, Ma."

Lucille taps her rouged cheek and Daniel gives it a quick peck before she can make a fuss about it.

“Alright, have a wonderful day, honey.”

Daniel’s stomach continues the struggle of keeping his breakfast down as he makes his way across the courtyard. The scent blockers he got from the doc should be masking his recent life-altering changes from the alphas in school, but Johnny’s probably spilled the beans by now, and many of their classmates sat in the audience and watched Daniel embarrass himself in his hormone-addled haze.

He's not even through the front doors when one of the alphas from his bio class jumps in front of him, leering at him like a cartoon wolf.

“Heeey, LaRusso. I heard you got something special between your legs these days. Want me to show you what to do with it?” The guy grabs his junk and gives himself an exaggerated squeeze through his acid-washed jeans as his friends snicker behind him, staring at Daniel like he’s some kind of circus act.

"No thanks," Daniel mutters.

He makes a beeline for his locker and feels like the new kid in town all over again as the click-click-click of his crutches draws people’s gazes to him.

The doctor hadn’t expressed any visible surprise over his late presentation, but Daniel knows it’s unusual, and he feels like some kind of an anomaly, no matter how many times his Ma has called him special over the last couple of weeks.

There’s nothing special about being sniffed out by a bunch of knot-heads who don’t know how to control themselves, or having a side order of different pills with his breakfast, and he sure as hell didn’t have to worry about the… other stuff back when things were still simple.

The doctor had given him a bunch of pamphlets, but Daniel had shoved them to the bottom of his sock drawer the moment he opened one and read the words a simple guide to your first heat next to a very detailed illustration of what he could only assume were his reproductive organs.

“Daniel!”

Daniel looks up at the sound of Ali’s chipper voice. She greets him with a tight embrace, beaming at him like he’s come back from the war or something.

“You’re finally back!” She drags the tip of her powder blue sneaker against the floor and presses a quick kiss to Daniel’s cheek. "I really missed you. How’s your knee? I still can’t believe Bobby and Johnny did that to you! They were never like that when Johnny and I were still—umm," Ali drops her gaze to the worn linoleum at their feet, “anyway, they’re such jerks.”

“Tell me about it,” Daniel huffs.

They've talked on the phone almost every night, but Ali is still in the dark about his shift, and Daniel feels kind of shitty about keeping secrets from her, but it's not something you can bring up on the phone like hey, guess what, your ex-boyfriend smells so good that he brought out the latent omega in me. Anyway, how about that latest episode of Cheers?

“Come on, I'll walk you to your locker and help you carry your books."

Ali forces the sea of students to part in her wake, and Daniel limps behind her as she fills him in on all the riveting gossip he’d missed while he’d been stuck at home.

“Everyone’s been talking about the tournament,” Ali gushes. “Even people who weren’t there.”

“Yeah, I bet…” Daniel grumbles under his breath.

He keeps his eyes on his feet, but his ears are wide open to the whispers and giggles around him, and fuck Johnny Lawrence for telling everyone!

It feels like a betrayal, which is ridiculous, because Daniel had gifted Johnny with the perfect opportunity to humiliate him. Of course the asshole was gonna take it.

And speak of the devil.

Johnny's holding court with his Cobras by the lockers, and Daniel can only assume that the crude drawing of a fat-knotted dick on his locker door is their handiwork.

“Oh, come on...”

It looks like a goddamn ambush and Daniel clenches his hands around his crutches as he locks eyes with Johnny over Ali’s curly head. Johnny meets his gaze, and it’s not the usual glare, but it’s intense, and Daniel’s stomach jumps with a confusing pinch of nerves.

The rest of the Cobras follow Johnny’s gaze and their eyes land on Daniel like a physical blow. Dutch exposes his canines in an angry snarl, and even Tommy’s face is set in a rare scowl. Jimmy’s more confused than angry, but he does his best to mirror the contempt on his friends’ faces.

The only one who's not looking is Bobby, who stares at the pile of books clutched in his arms, unable to meet Daniel’s eyes.

Daniel’s heart leaps into his throat when he sees Johnny approach him, and he does a full 180 on his crutches.

“Hey, Daniel, where are you going?” Ali calls. “Don’t you need your books?”

Daniel ignores her and makes an awkward escape into the bathroom. His crutches fall with a loud clatter as he grips the edge of the sink, and it feels like he’s losing control again, just like he did in the tournament, drunk on Johnny’s scent.

It was all over his gi when he peeled it off after the match, absorbed into the cotton like an invisible stain. He should have let his Ma wash it off, but he’d sneaked it out of the laundry basket in the middle of the night and hid it under his mattress like a dirty magazine.

The bathroom door opens with a whine of poorly-oiled hinges, and Daniel’s heart jumps into higher gear when Johnny appears in the reflection of the graffiti-stained mirror above the sinks. He reaches for his crutches, but his knee protests the awkward crouch and he’s about to faceplant on the floor, but Johnny bolts to his side faster than the Road Runner.

He catches Daniel by his arm and hands him his crutches. “Are you okay?”

The question comes out in a hoarse whisper and Daniel barely hears him.

“Huh?”

Johnny frowns and begins to twist his finger around the yellow cord of his headphones. He clears his throat and his voice breaks like he’s just hit puberty as he repeats the question, and Daniel finally notices the bruises on his neck.

Johnny’s popped the collar of his polo, but the spots of brown and blue stand out against his pale skin like a necklace of rotting leaves.

Daniel knows where they came from, remembers the terrible moment of violence in the parking lot after the tournament.

"Second place is no place for an alpha or a Cobra! You’re off the team!”

“That sucks! I did my best!”

“What did you say, whelp?”

“I-I said I did my best!” Johnny’s voice breaks, and Daniel can smell his fear across the parking lot, sharp and raw with adrenaline.

His stomach lurches as he watches Kreese snap Johnny’s trophy in two like it’s nothing, just a symbol of his failure. He looks at his own trophy and feels the ghost of Johnny’s touch on his knuckles.

Their fight is still like a fever dream, but Daniel knows Johnny let him win, and it scares him, because there's only one reason why an alpha like Johnny would choose to lose.

“You know, you’re really sick man!”

Daniel looks up as Kreese winds his arm around Johnny’s throat, fast and unyielding like a cobra.

His head swims with the smell of Johnny's distress, almost like it's part of his own scent, and his knee flares with pain as he starts to limp across the parking lot.

"Daniel-san." Mr. Miyagi curls his fingers around Daniel's shoulders and holds him back. "Miyagi no want you to get hurt."

"We gotta do something!" Daniel cries out. "Can't you smell his fear?"

Mr. Miyagi gives him a peculiar look and follows Daniel's gaze across the parking lot to where Johnny's red in the face and barely breathing. The other Cobras try their best to free him from their sensei's hold, but Kreese swats them away like pesky flies.

"Please, Mr. Miyagi, can't you help him?"

Mr. Miyagi closes his eyes and breathes out a quiet exhale, and no one but Daniel pays him any mind as he walks across the parking lot, small and nonthreatening, and frees Johnny with a single well-aimed strike.

Daniel tears his gaze away from Johnny’s bruised neck and reminds himself that it’s because of Johnny and his stupid alpha stink that his life has been thrown off its axis.

“Does it look like I’m okay?” he snaps. "Thanks for sharing the news of what happened with the entire West Valley High. Now I'll have a big, fat, target on my back until graduation."

Johnny blinks at Daniel through his feathered fringe. "But I didn't—"

Daniel doesn't let him finish, hobbling out of the bathroom in a fit of righteous temper and clattering crutches.

He takes Ali to the library between math and history and tells her the truth.

Their relationship has barely gotten off the ground, but there are things a beta like Ali can't give him. Daniel has known that since fifth grade when he and two of his friends traded their baseball cards for an issue of Heat magazine.

He'd barely touched the thing, hovering behind Ronnie DeLuca's back while his friends flipped through the wrinkled pages, snickering at the lewd images.

Look at that knot-hungry slut!

The thought of presenting as an omega had been mortifying, to be ogled and laughed at, and forced to fall for some meathead of an alpha with pretty blond hair and stupid blue eyes and—

Goddammit.

Ali stares at him with stunned eyes, her pink mouth opening and closing around words that refuse to come out.

“I’m sorry I had to spring this on you like this,” Daniel sputters, “but I didn’t want to lie to you and lead you on.” He drags the rubber tip of his crutch against the floor and gives Ali a defeated smile. "It’s not like I can change it, you know?"

Ali takes his hand and laces their fingers together, finally finding her voice. “Of course you can’t.” She strokes her thumb over his knuckles and blinks away the tears that threaten to spill from her mascaraed eyes. “Daniel, it’s okay. You don’t have to change, not for anyone. This is who you are.”

Daniel gapes at Ali and wishes he had even an ounce of her grace. “Uhmm.”

Ali lets out a wet peal of laughter. "You look like a fish." She lifts her hand to Daniel's lips and closes them with a gentle pinch.

Daniel gives her a tentative smile. "So... We're okay?"

Ali arches her brow. “Well, we're still friends, right?”

Daniel tilts his head and turns on his old Jersey swagger. “Duh. You can’t get rid of me that easy,” he taps his crutch against her shoe and adds a cheeky, “Ali with an i.”

Ali's eyes go a little misty and she traces the shape of his jaw with gentle fingers. “Well, alright, Daniel with an l.”

He manages to avoid Johnny for most of the morning, but his luck takes a turn during lunch.

He limps to the cafeteria and fills his tray in an awkward juggle of crutches and cellophane wrapped food items that have as much nutritional value as saw dust. It’s not until he reaches the end of the counter that he realizes he’s got a major problem in his hands. Literally. Because he’ll need a whole extra pair to be able to carry his tray to a table.

“Hey, what’s the hold up?” someone hollers from the other end of the line. “Move it, LaRusso!”

Daniel looks around, but no one’s offering to help him out. The group of betas at the nearest table all look away like Daniel is made of air, and he’s about to flip them off when Scott Patterson knocks his beefy arm against his shoulder.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart? Can’t carry your tray with those gimpy legs?” the asshole jeers.

Daniel has never had a high opinion of alphas, but this fucking guy, he’s like the living embodiment of the meatheads he and his beta buddies back in Newark used to make fun of.

Patterson crowds Daniel against the counter, but his shit-eating grin melts off his face when his eyes catch on something behind Daniel’s back.

Daniel's skin prickles at the sound of a low growl, and when he looks over his shoulder, he finds himself staring into the firm pecs of one Johnny Lawrence.

“Get lost, Patterson,” Johnny croaks.

“Or what?” Patterson scoffs, buffing his chest like the cliche that he is.

Johnny surges forward and exposes his canines. “Or I’ll kick your fucking ass!”

The silence that descends into the cafeteria is almost deafening, and Daniel kind of wants to melt through the floor.

Patterson lets out a nervous snort, eyeing their audience, and it's clear the asshole isn’t backing down. He yanks on the collar of Daniel’s flannel like it’s a perfectly normal thing to inspect someone’s bonding gland.

“LaRusso ain’t got your claim on his neck.”

“Hey!” Daniel and Johnny snarl in unison.

The lunch crowd oohs as Johnny twists Patterson's arm behind his back and slams his face against the sneeze guard.

“You ever go anywhere near his neck again and I'll break your fucking arm.”

The words come out in a low snarl that makes Daniel’s legs go numb below his knee sockets, and even Patterson looks like he's about to piss his pants.

The lunch lady glares at them over the counter, and Daniel is pretty sure she's about to yell for security, but he's too busy staring at the bulging vein in Johnny's neck to pay any attention to her. His stomach drops like he's in freefall and something in him preens at the sight of two alphas fighting, over little old me, he thinks giddily.

“Okay, okay, cool it, man,” Patterson wheezes, holding his hands up in surrender.

Johnny lets him go and Patterson storms out of the cafeteria, shoulders hunched in a humiliated arch.

Daniel leans against his crutches, the echo of Johnny’s possessive growl still bouncing around in his head, and what the hell just happened?

Johnny waves his hand in front of Daniel's glazed eyes. "You okay, LaRusso?"

Daniel snaps out of his haze and sticks his bottom lip out in a sulky pout. “I didn’t need your help,” he bristles.

“Uh-huh.” Johnny grabs Daniel’s tray and nods his head towards the nearest empty table.

“I can handle assholes like Patterson,” Daniel insists as he limps after him, knowing full well that Patterson would have crushed him in a heartbeat, even before, well. Before.

Johnny sets his tray on the table and stares at Daniel like they're in a Mexican standoff. He opens his mouth, closes it and glares at the carton of milk on Daniel’s tray like it’s the most fascinating thing in the room.

“I didn’t say anything, you know?”

Daniel furrows his brow. “Huh?”

Johnny looks up from the milk carton and blows his hair off his face. “About you.”

“Oh.”

"You don't have to believe me, but I wouldn't—I wouldn't do that." Johnny sweeps his eyes around the crowded cafeteria, grinding his molars together like he's as bothered by the rumor mill as Daniel. "If I find out who it was—"

He's interrupted by Ali who plants herself between them like a five- foot tall human shield.

“What the hell do you want, Johnny?” she demands. “Haven’t you and your Cobras done enough damage already?”

Johnny’s eyes flick down to Daniel’s crutches, his cheeks flaring to blotchy pink. “I wasn’t trying to—” he croaks, but Ali grabs Daniel’s tray and ushers him to another table, leaving Johnny to stare at their retreating backs.

It’s raining when he hobbles out of Mr. Perry’s social studies class. He knows his Ma won’t be able to pick him up for another forty-five minutes, and he grabs himself a Coke and some snacks from the vending machine in the lobby.

The air in the courtyard smells like wet concrete and people hold their coats and folders over their heads as they hurry to their cars and bikes, squealing like a little rain is going to melt right through their Aqua Net-hardened hairdos.

The yard is empty in another ten minutes and Daniel finds a quiet spot under the canopy to do his homework and stuff his face with Cheetos as he waits for the numbers on his Casio to hit 5pm.

He’s halfway through his second math problem when he's startled by a loud honk, and there's only one rich asshole in West Valley High who drives a bright red Avanti.

Johnny’s staring at him through the open window, and he compensates for his bruised vocal cords with another ear-splitting honk, hitting the horn until Daniel finally shoves his homework into his backpack and struggles up to his feet.

He limps across the courtyard and glares at Johnny through his rain-soaked fringe. “What do you want, man?”

Johnny smacks his palm against the side of the car. “Come on, LaRusso, get in. I’ll drive you home.”

Daniel chews his lip as the rain continues to flatten his hair against his scalp. He would have to be an idiot to accept a ride from Johnny Lawrence after all the shit the guy’s put him through.

“I must be an idiot…” Daniel mutters, circling around the car.

Johnny rushes out and gets himself soaked as he takes Daniel’s crutches and shoves them in the backseat.

“You’d better not try anything funny, man,” Daniel warns, poking his finger at Johnny’s chest. “I kicked your ass once, I can do it again.”

It's a lie and they both know it, but Daniel gets the feeling that the Cobra in Johnny has been defanged. He tries to help him into his seat in a ridiculous show of chivalry and Daniel swats his hands away.

"I think I can sit my ass down without your help,” he grumbles.

They drive away from the school, and Daniel stares out of his rain-stained window while Johnny sticks a tape into the stereo and fiddles with the volume knob.

“You into Bowie?” Johnny asks, like he actually cares about Daniel's opinion.

“Uh. Sure, man.”

Daniel relaxes against his seat, a little less uncomfortable with the buffer of music between them. He doesn’t want to end the day with the humiliation of showing Johnny Lawrence the dump he calls home, and he directs him to Mr. Miyagi’s house.

They’re both soaked to the bone and Daniel’s nose tickles with the scent of Johnny’s musk, made stronger by the rain on his skin.

Johnny's green Lacoste strains against his chest as he breathes through his mouth, and Daniel wonders if Johnny can smell him in spite of the pills and the patch he stuck on his bicep before school.

They stop at an intersection just as Bowie's voice on the radio fades out and the white noise between tracks seems to drag on forever.

Daniel steals a quick glance at Johnny's profile. "I guess I should thank you."

The car jerks a little as Johnny's foot slips on the accelerator. "You should?" he sputters.

“Yeah, for the ride and, you know," Daniel nails his gaze on his wet high tops, "for not telling anyone about the tournament.”

Johnny looks as surprised as Daniel feels, and he almost collides with the tail lights of the Honda in front of them. “So you believe me?”

“Well,” Daniel shrugs, the corner of his mouth curling up, “people obviously found out, but yeah, I guess I believe you.”

Johnny gapes at Daniel, eyes almost endearingly big. “Wow. Okay.” He grabs a pack of Doublemint from the cup holder and shoves three sticks into his mouth, working his jaw around the wad of gum as the conversation hangs between them, awkward and unfinished.

"So, it's like, official?" Johnny says after a beat of silence. "That you're an—"

"Yeah," Daniel squirms in his seat and gives Johnny a pointed look, "but you already knew that."

Johnny's nostrils flare around a sharp inhale, and Daniel has a feeling that the patch on his arm might as well be a regular band-aid.

"I guess I did."

The knowledge that Johnny had been aware of something so intimate makes Daniel feel exposed, like his body isn't completely his, but it's a little heady, too, and some primal part of him wants Johnny to know his scent.

They pull into Mr. Miyagi’s yard and Johnny squints at the row of old cars through the rain-soaked window. “Holy shit, where'd your sensei get those?”

“Detroit,” Daniel grins. He fumbles for the door handle, about to thank Johnny for the ride again, but Johnny grabs him by his forearm.

“Wait, LaRusso, I—”

Daniel flinches and drops his gaze to Johnny’s hand.

"Sorry, I just wanted to—I mean, there’s something I need to tell you.”

The words turn into raspy coughs and Johnny’s hand flies up to clutch his throat.

“Hey, you okay?” Daniel asks, twisting the volume knob on the stereo as Johnny tries to get his hacking under control. “Jeez… Your sensei really did some damage.”

Johnny shakes his head, scrunching his nose in an angry snarl. “He’s not my sensei. Not anymore.” He leans his forearms against the steering wheel and stares at the windscreen wipers as they knock back and forth against the wet glass. “Look... I know things between us are kind of, well, you know.”

“Oh, trust me, I know,” Daniel scoffs. And he’s not in the habit of holding grudges, but the first half of his senior year has been a cavalcade of never-ending humiliation and bruises that match the shape of Johnny’s knuckles.

“I guess I just wanted to—” Johnny wipes his fringe off his forehead and chews on his wad of gum so hard that it looks like he's about to dislocate his jaw.

“Come on, man, is this a game of Clue or something?” Daniel huffs. “Spit it out.”

Johnny looks like he's about to blow steam from his ears and the words finally spill out of his mouth in the most gentle shout Daniel has heard. “Dammit, LaRusso, I’m trying to apologize, okay?”

“Oh.” Daniel turns around in his seat to face Johnny, to show that he’s listening. Okay.”

“Okay,” Johnny nods, finally meeting Daniel’s eyes. “So. I know I’ve been a real asshole since that night on the beach. And-and, look, I know it’s no excuse, but, uh,” Johnny looks flustered, tripping over his words like Stuttering Tony Topolino back in Newark, “I’ve been dealing with a lot of shit and I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

“Yeah, you shouldn’t have,” Daniel agrees, a little sour.

The final song on the cassette comes to an end and the radio lets out a mechanical clatter as it reverses it to its B side. Johnny's breath stutters in the silence and he reaches across the seats, his eyes almost painfully sincere as he settles his palm on Daniel's knee.

"I'm sorry, Daniel."

Daniel worries at his bottom lip, feels the heat of Johnny's touch through the wet denim of his jeans. His heart thunders in his ears as he lays his hand over Johnny's karate-roughened knuckles and breathes in the scent of his sweat and rain-diluted aftershave.

The world no spin backwards, Daniel-san.

"Okay."

"Okay?" Johnny parrots, flexing his fingers against Daniel's knee.

The radio starts to play soft guitar riffs and Johnny's scent shifts into something thick and intimate as he brushes his thumb against the inner seam of Daniel's jeans.

"Uh-huh." Daniel's brain flips to static. He feels like he's back in freefall, and he parts his thighs a little wider as Johnny starts to lean in, slow and tentative, his gaze flicking down to Daniel's lips.

"Daniel..."

There’s a rap on the window, and they jump apart, staring at each other with startled eyes.

"It's Mr. Miyagi," Daniel gasps, blinking at the hunched figure behind the wet glass.

He rolls his window down, pretty sure he looks as guilty as he did when his eight grade teacher caught him and Gina Moretti with their tongues down in each others throats in an empty classroom.

“Daniel-san. This a surprise.” Mr. Miyagi stands under a large umbrella, his gaze traveling between Daniel and Johnny. The corners of his eyes crinkle as his gaze lingers on Johnny who's plastered his back against the door, face as red as a fire hydrant. “Yes, big surprise.”

“Yeah, uh, my Ma has to work till five, so Johnny gave me a ride from school,” Daniel explains, clambering out of the car.

He takes shelter under Mr. Miyagi’s umbrella and tries to balance on one leg as he reaches for his crutches through the gap between the seats. Johnny swats his hands away and gets out of the car, handing Daniel his crutches like the gentleman that Daniel knows he’s not.

“Thanks.”

Mr. Miyagi lifts one bushy brow and gives Daniel a scolding look. “Daniel-san, you no invite friend inside?”

“What?” Johnny croaks, and Daniel echoes his question as they both turn to look at Mr. Miyagi.

“Clothes wet, catch cold,” Mr. Miyagi says sagely, pointing at Johnny’s soaked polo and jeans. “Miyagi make tea, give Daniel-san and friend dry clothes.”

Johnny shakes his head and starts to back away, visibly flustered. “Nah, man, I gotta—”

“Assshhhh.” Mr. Miyagi waves his hand dismissively and lifts his umbrella, giving Johnny a look that lets him know that refusal isn’t an option.

Johnny wipes his knuckles against his wet lashes and blinks at Daniel, an unspoken question in his eyes.

Can I?

Daniel bites his lip, his cheeks dimpling with a tentative smile as he makes Johnny space under the umbrella. “Just so you know, the tea kind of smells like feet, but it's great, I know you'll like it.”

Johnny bends himself into an awkward hunch to fit his excessively long limbs under the umbrella, watching Daniel from the corner of his eye. “Yeah, I think I will.”