#Everyone Who Reblogged That Dumbass Post Should Have To Read This One

[himbos-hotline]

Name: Write it in ink or in blood [It's the same either way] Prompt: @wrestleprompts [prompt week Six: you got a Tattoo of what?] Word count: 588 words Rating: General Audiences Ship: Jay Orton & Matt Jackson & Nick Jackson Characters: Jay Orton, Matt Jackson, Nick Jackson Triggers: None, The bucks have no concept of personal space Authors note: I wrote this when the prompt came out and I realised that I never posted it. A look at Jay and the bucks and their brotherhood friendship. Found family my beloved. Matt tries to erase a tattoo. I kow its short and kinda messily written. Im trying to get back into writing after a depressive slump where this was written. Tag list: @ithunderstorm @itsnoosetome @malewifemoxley @kass-the-kitten @melancholycowboysamuraibebop @josiewrites @basil-the-evil-cowboy @ss-trashboat @ambroseasylum @wrestlezaynia @banannabethchase @bellicosebunny @mrsmatt @racerchix21 and @anairbri and @mistress-omega-majesty

Reblogs are appreciated Read on ao3

Jay is a scrapbook of doodles. Everyone who's ever meant something has gotten their own special place against their freckled skin. A cactus on their neck, a golden star and an Omega sign across their fingers, flames licking around their ankles. He’s a scrapbook of doodles so he’s surprised when Matt’s eyes bore dark holes into a spot on her shoulder. “Can I help you Mathew?” She asks, the question directed more at the wall than towards her older brother behind him. She listens to him stutter over a reply, watches from the corner of their eyes as he stumbles over and pokes at sore skin. “That hurt ya asshole!”

Jay is a scrapbook of doodles. Everyone who's ever meant something has gotten their own special place against their freckled skin. A cactus on their neck, a golden star and an Omega sign across their fingers, flames licking around their ankles. He’s a scrapbook of doodles so he’s surprised when Matt’s eyes bore dark holes into a spot on her shoulder. “Can I help you Mathew?” She asks, the question directed more at the wall than towards her older brother behind him. She listens to him stutter over a reply, watches from the corner of their eyes as he stumbles over and pokes at sore skin. “That hurt ya asshole!” 

“What's that? Stay still!” Matt spits on his fingers, drags them against the fresh ink like he’s trying to rub away a stain. His eyebrows press together in annoyance. Nick looks at his brother and shares a look with his baby sister. “Hey, you two can’t do that!” Nick just rolls his eyes, swatting his brother away before slumping on the couch. 

“Why were you trying to rub away a tattoo?” Nick asks from the couch, eyes flicking up from his phone as Matt’s cheeks turn an embarrassed pink. “Youre a fucking dumbass.” 

“I am not!” Matt scuffs his foot against the carpeted floor of the locker room. “He’s just never had one there before” 

“People can get new tattoos, Matty.” Jay scoffs, leaning against the wall. Matt opens his mouth and flails a hand in front of him and Jay raises a playful eyebrow as he tries to gather the words. She barely contains a laugh when Matt’s hand falls and he pouts. “I should have shown you two sooner. But with-” Jay pauses, letting a pause flood the small locker room. “Everything going on. It kinda went to the back of my mind.” 

“Well, let me see! What is it?!” Nick’s suddenly by his big brother's side, bouncing slightly on his toes. Spurred on by her little brother's excitement, Jay leans against the wall, arms hanging loosely by their sides. “It's a bird!” 

“Mhmm…” 

“There’s something else” Matt seems focused and only half annoyed at Nick’s outburst of excitement, right by his ear. He tugs at his little brother's ring gear and there's a small sigh that slips past his lips. “And a stingray.” 

Jay fixes their hoodie back across his shoulders, zipping it up and flailing so his brothers take a step back. “I'm so glad you two know your favorite animals.” She gets a tandem unimpressed glare from both brothers at their sarcasm. “I liked the drawings you guys did. So, I took a picture. Hanger colored them in and now- tattoo” 

“You got a tattoo of what?” Nick asks, and Jay badly represses the sarcastic reply. “Those ones we did when we were at the hospital?” Jay nods. Matt smiles and elbows Nick joyfully in the ribs. “For us?” 

“Well yeah. Y’guys are my brothers. I have the barbed wire for Mox…You guys are important to me. So…” He shrugs. “I couldn’t ask for better brothers and I love you two, so why shouldn’t I carry that love outwardly huh?” 

Matt hugs him so hard that he nearly topples over. With his head pressed against the wall and their arms slung around their big brother, Jay chuckles. “Are you crying?” 

“No. shut up.” 

Jay is a scrapbook of doodles. Everyone who's ever meant something has gotten their own special place against their freckled skin. A cactus on their neck, a golden star and an Omega sign across their fingers, flames licking around their ankles. He’s a scrapbook of doodles so he’s surprised when Matt’s eyes bore dark holes into a spot on her shoulder. “Can I help you Mathew?” She asks, the question directed more at the wall than towards her older brother behind him. She listens to him stutter over a reply, watches from the corner of their eyes as he stumbles over and pokes at sore skin. “That hurt ya asshole!” 

“What's that? Stay still!” Matt spits on his fingers, drags them against the fresh ink like he’s trying to rub away a stain. His eyebrows press together in annoyance. Nick looks at his brother and shares a look with his baby sister. “Hey, you two can’t do that!” Nick just rolls his eyes, swatting his brother away before slumping on the couch. 

“Why were you trying to rub away a tattoo?” Nick asks from the couch, eyes flicking up from his phone as Matt’s cheeks turn an embarrassed pink. “Youre a fucking dumbass.” 

“I am not!” Matt scuffs his foot against the carpeted floor of the locker room. “He’s just never had one there before” 

“People can get new tattoos, Matty.” Jay scoffs, leaning against the wall. Matt opens his mouth and flails a hand in front of him and Jay raises a playful eyebrow as he tries to gather the words. She barely contains a laugh when Matt’s hand falls and he pouts. “I should have shown you two sooner. But with-” Jay pauses, letting a pause flood the small locker room. “Everything going on. It kinda went to the back of my mind.” 

“Well, let me see! What is it?!” Nick’s suddenly by his big brother's side, bouncing slightly on his toes. Spurred on by her little brother's excitement, Jay leans against the wall, arms hanging loosely by their sides. “It's a bird!” 

“Mhmm…” 

“There’s something else” Matt seems focused and only half annoyed at Nick’s outburst of excitement, right by his ear. He tugs at his little brother's ring gear and there's a small sigh that slips past his lips. “And a stingray.” 

Jay fixes their hoodie back across his shoulders, zipping it up and flailing so his brothers take a step back. “I'm so glad you two know your favorite animals.” She gets a tandem unimpressed glare from both brothers at their sarcasm. “I liked the drawings you guys did. So, I took a picture. Hanger colored them in and now- tattoo” 

“You got a tattoo of what?” Nick asks, and Jay badly represses the sarcastic reply. “Those ones we did when we were at the hospital?” Jay nods. Matt smiles and elbows Nick joyfully in the ribs. “For us?” 

“Well yeah. Y’guys are my brothers. I have the barbed wire for Mox…You guys are important to me. So…” He shrugs. “I couldn’t ask for better brothers and I love you two, so why shouldn’t I carry that love outwardly huh?” 

Matt hugs him so hard that he nearly topples over. With his head pressed against the wall and their arms slung around their big brother, Jay chuckles. “Are you crying?” 

“No. shut up.” 

[witchthewriter]

Hi! I am Nela, one of my online friends recommended me your blog and it's trully fantastic 😊 Could I have a The Maze runner, Peaky Blinders and Narnian matchup if it is not a bother? I have already rebloged 4 of your posts and I am following you. Here is my info:

Pronouns/sexuality: she/her, heterosexual

Sun Capricorn, Moon Scorpio and Ascendent Piscis, INFJ-T, Gryffindor (with both Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tendencies), my love language is words of affirmation and physical affection (specially hugs)

Personality: At first, I am shy, and calm but once I am friend with somebody, I am very talkative. My biggest strengths are that I am idealistic, determinate, hard worker and creative and my biggest weakness is that I am an overthinker and stubborn person. I am the oldest sibling of a big family and since a young age I learned to be responsible and caring. I would do anything to protect the people I care about and when I see something unfair, I am very passionate and not afraid to stand up for what I believe in. I am the type of person who is always there to help and who does what is right even if it means it’s harder

Hobbies: reading, writing, storytelling, singing, teaching, learning new languages,helping others, listening to music, traveling, meeting people from different cultures, going for walks, and stargazing

Likes: animals, nature (specially forests and beaches), rain, reading out loud, waking up early, bonfires, the moon, sunsets history, literature, and long conversations

Dislikes: being told to shut up, crowded places, people who don’t have morals and aren’t loyal

Thank you for your time💜

Want one? Here be the rules 🦋🌈

Hi, thank you for participating! Also, I saved this as a draft AND THEN I COULDN’T FIND IT but then I did lol ... so thank you for your patience x

𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉 𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒐𝒏:  ✧ Brave ✧ Leaders ✧ Patriarch (of their family/friends/groups)

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐳𝐞 𝐑𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫

𝐷𝑒𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑖𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛

I ship you with Thomas! I think you would do well together because he has such a go-getter attitude. He isn’t the type of person to achieve leadership, he just happens to be the leader because he does what he thinks is right, or rather, what should be done. 

𝐻𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑛𝑠

・You’re always reminding him of important dates and events; his mind is going 10000 miles per hour and he has a terrible memory

・You love when he opens up to you, because not many people know what’s going on inside of Thomas. He puts on a tough front, and yes, everyone knows his morals, but no one is able to get through his walls. 

・He loves when you lay ontop of him and put your head on his chest. You feel so comforting to him

・Calls you ‘sweetheart’

・ Relationship Tropes:

 ↬  Love Triangle With You x Thomas x Gally (but you thought he had died... so you ended up with Thomas)

 ↬ Love During An Apocolypse 

 ↬ Dumbass (Thomas) x Oh I Guess That’s My Dumbass (You)

𝐏𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐲 𝐁𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬

𝐷𝑒𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑖𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛

You are such a force of nature. No one but a person who can stand their ground, would be able to with Tommy - and that’s exactly who you are. Someone who isn’t afraid of stating their opinion. Tommy needs this, someone who is going to tell him off when he messes up. 

𝐻𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑛𝑠

・He shows his love through gift-giving; his time is usually taken up by work or paperwork. And he isn’t too great with expressing his emotions through talking, so gift-giving it is. I also think he loves physical affection - and I know you do too. So expect a lot of presents and touches. 

・Likes when you sit in his office while he’s working

・Often pulls you onto his lap when he’s sitting

・Absolutely LOVES when you undress him for the night and help bathe him. At first he thought you were being ridiculous, but it was just another way of showing your love

・ Relationship Tropes: 

  ↬ THE EPITOME OF: Snarky Power Couple That Can, And Probably Will, Destroy You

  ↬ Initially Distant But Soon Develops Into Mutual Pining

  ↬ Similar Personalities 

𝐍𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐚

𝐷𝑒𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑖𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛

I ship you with (High King the Magnificent) Peter Pevensie. I think you guys would be such a good match because you will tell Peter the things he needs to hear. Sometimes his decisions are clouded by his ego, or his want to prove himself (which can put both him and others in danger.) 

𝐻𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑛𝑠

・There’s a lot of back and forth between the two of you - sometimes banter, sometimes teasing, etc. 

・You got his attention when you called him out on his behaviour. At first, he was angry, but then he realised he was invigorated. 

       ”Don’t even start with me, Pevensie.” 

・You and Susan get along SO GODDAMN WELL. Peter gets so nervous everytime you get together. You just know what it feels like to take on the matriarchy role (since being the firstborn) and you know how difficult it is since your siblings can vilify you.

・Knows your favourite colour, flower, song, season, animal etc. And surprises you with them

・ Relationship Tropes:

 ↬ Rivals to Acquaintances to Friends to Lovers/Marriage

 ↬ You Confessed Your Love When You Thought He Was Unconscious 

 ↬ “Shut Up” x “Make Me”

[larathia]

The Ghost #124: Finding The Line

#124: Finding The Line

Summary (serial): Kuthumae's a highly trained mercenary captain who's pulled off the impossible (and the extremely improbable) many times. It's had its costs; on the last mission, while he pulled off the impossible job and got his team home alive, he got stuck between dimensions, in a plane outside the normal flow of time. There he met a girl - because if one person can be stuck there, why not two? Rina is the sheltered-yet-traumatized daughter of a noble family on an entirely different world from Kuth; a world of goddesses and wishes, imprisoned in that dimension so that she may never realize the full extent of her powers. Not that she's likely to; she volunteered to be put there. When the two meet, they each prove the key to the other's freedom - and we'd say they hold the keys to each other's hearts, but frankly when it comes to People, we're talking about a pair of dumbasses here.

Summary (this arc): In an unprecedented bargain, the worlds of Arsu and Andeliin have exchanged the services of dozens if not hundreds of Specialists for ownership of the Tyrant of Andeliin's former flagship - a ship that can cross the layers of reality. Or at least it could, before the Tyrant was turned into a lake of glass and Sif blew a very large hole straight through its alien engines. But no big, right? They just have to figure out how it crosses the layers, how its engines work, and fix all the damage somehow. Right? Oh, and then figure out how to steer it. And - wait. Which way would 'home' be, if you have to walk it instead of jump?

Rating: Mature (violence, language)

Warnings: This chapter discusses things like long-term torture. The 2019 Master Linkpost is here. The 2020 Master Linkpost is here. The 2021 Master Linkpost is here. The 2022 Master Linkpost is here.

New reader? Don't love in medias res? Begin here! (Or head to the grand masterpost and pick a likely arc!)

This week:

Kuth has a lot of prisoners to deal with, but he's also trying to sort out why he feels like there's some kind of limit to what human beings should be allowed to do to each other. That sort of thinking isn't exactly what Specialists are supposed to do. And forty-odd years old is a strange point in life to suddenly realize you've been quietly growing a conscience.

Oh, and Kickback is...y'know. Getting out of town. Before people who might be a smidge upset at some of his recent target practices catch up to him.

Want to support my writing?

You can join my Patreon for as little as one dollar a month, which gives you access to story chapters four weeks ahead of everyone else! (Not a bad bargain, eh?) Or, if you're less committed, my Ko-Fi link is below, and I'll happily accept whatever you feel willing to send. If you're as broke as I am but still want to show me some encouragement, liking or (oooooh) reblogging these story posts would help me find new readers. Or, hey, just a reply to let me know you're enjoying the story. (Or if you have questions. You can also send me questions.) I know I post these every week, but I genuinely have no idea who's reading...

Likes are great, reblogs are love! Join me on patreon! // Buy me a Ko-Fi!

[virgils-eyeshadow]

welcome to my blog! (redo)

if you're reading this, hi! welcome to my blog! i'm redoing this because i got a really cool nickname that i want to go by (and also to update a lot of my interests!)

basic info about me & my blog!

dni's: racists, homophobes, transphobes, terfs, pedos, nazis, radfems, and rude people in general. everyone else is welcome!!

name/nickname: katie, but i really don't like my name, so please, call me virgil!! (sorry for the color, i just wanted to emphasize it) if you forget it though, it's okay! also, if you know me on discord as bidoof, that works too!

age: i'm really not comfortable saying this, but i'm a minor who's currently in high school.

sexuality: lesbian..maybe??

gender: i don't know anymore!

pronouns: any is fine! she/he/they/xer/it...i'll respond to all of them!

relationships: platonically married to @bimaeda and @lust-the-patches-simp , adopted by @going2hell4everythingbutbeingbi, siblings with @make-things-make-sense, @always-bi-myself-shield-edition, @littlemoondarling , and @askmydanganronpaandbaldiocs are my tumblr children, and i have a girlfriend who doesn't use tumblr

main fandoms: sanders sides, danganronpa but i also want to get into yttd. i also used to be a huge fan of undertale and i know a little about the dream smp.

asks/dms: always open! for my asks, anon is always on, too! i will respond to pretty much everything, so please, feel free to ask stuff!

what i post: i mainly shitpost and just joke around with my friends and reblog stuff from fandoms i'm in. this blog really isn't meant to be taken seriously but i will reblog a lot of signal boost posts and posts about important but potentially triggering topics. also, you should know that i swear quite a bit (i'm working on it though), so if that triggers you, i'm really sorry.

speaking of triggers...big trigger warning for mentions of transphobia/homophobia/violence/discrimination/depressing things and swearing below the 'keep reading' line. i don't want to accidentally trigger you guys.

one last thing, though. if i ever trigger you, please let me know. i want this blog to be a safe space for everyone (who's not on the dni list ofc).

so, as i mentioned before, this blog isn't super serious. it's a blog about a dumbass highschooler run by, well, a dumbass highschooler. but i will reblog important topics that i see on my dashboard (blm, police brutality, stopping asian hate/homophobia/transphobia, awareness, etc.) however, i am white, so honestly - i don't experience brutality & discrimination like poc do and i can never truly understand it...but that doesn't mean i shouldn't try! i want to do my best to understand and raise awareness to try and fix a lot of problems poc have to go through. however, if i ever mess up, misrepresent, misunderstand, or don't talk about an event, or worse, if i offend or trigger you, please let me know! i want to be called out on it because i want to do better. please.

thank you for reading and have a nice day!! :D

[doubleca5t]

What Your Favorite My Hero Academia Ship Says About You

Transcription below the cut

BAKUDEKU (Bakugou/Deku) - When you were a kid, your mom told you that some boy was being mean to you because he likes you and you never let go of that.

TODODEKU (Todoroki/Deku) - You are severely disappointed with the general lack of male tsunderes

TODOBAKU (Todoroki/Bakugou) - You think exposure therapy is the best way to work through trauma.

TODOBAKUDEKU (Todoroki/Bakugo/Deku) - You’re just here for some yaoi.

IZUOCHA (Deku/Uraraka) - You can only read hentai if the main characters are two consenting, married adults who love each other very much and mainly stick to missionary.

KIRIBAKU (Kirishima/Bakugou) - Your ideal relationship dynamic is TWO BROS. CHILLIN IN A HOT TUB.

ERASERMIC (Eraserhead/Present Mic) - Your ideal relationship dynamic is a vaudeville comedy duo.

KACCHAKO (Bakugou/Uraraka) - Your ideal relationship dynamic is Beauty and the Beast.

MOMOJIROU (Yaoyorozu/Jirou) - You believe there is no bond in this world stronger than that between two women who are sick of a man’s bullshit.

TODOMOMO (Todoroki/Yaoyorozu) - You just want good things for Yaoyorozu, and really, who wouldn't?

KIRIMINA (Kirishima/Ashido) - You like the childhood friend angle of BakuDeku, but you also think that said childhood friends should… ya know… actually be friends.

IIDAOCHA (Iida/Uraraka) - You thought Ron and Hermione getting together in the end might have even made too much sense.

KIRIDENKI (Kirishima/Kaminari) - This one is just the same joke as KiriBaku but, like, even more so.

KIRIDEKU (Kirishima/Deku) - Your interest in Deku's existing relationship dynamics is outweighed by your interest in Himbos.

ERASERMIGHT (Eraserhead/All Might) - I can't say for sure if you wanna fuck dads, but you definitely want to fuck father figures.

IIDEKU (IIda/Deku) - If this were like, 2011, you’d be on tumblr reblogging that post about how the dudes from Big Bang Theory can get it.

SHIGADABI (Shigaraki/Dabi) - You just wanna fuck villains, and really, who wouldn't?

KAMIJIROU (Kaminari/Jirou) - You’re a sucker for characters that look like they should start a band together

TSUCHAKO (Tsu/Uraraka) - You’re a sucker for characters who are beautiful cinnamon rolls. Too good for this world, too pure.

OJITOORU (Ojiro/Hagakure) - You’re a sucker for characters who are in desperate need of more screen time.

KAMISERO (Kaminari/Sero) - You are a certified morosexual. You are attracted to dumbasses and dumbasses exclusively.

HOT WINGS (Dabi/Hawks) - In a world where everyone runs from a challenge, you are the rare person who runs towards it. When everyone else has finished their fight, you press onward, never stopping. For you, no mountain is too high. No river is too deep. You have made a commitment to your community, and done what so many others could only dream of. You are: the few, the proud, the Manga Readers.

TOSHINKO (All Might/Deku’s Mom) - You discovered far too late that doing things ironically is the gateway drug to doing things for realsies.

[yiqiie]

wangxian fic rec list pt.2

you can find part one here!

as usual, this will be kept under a keep reading so it doesn’t clog up the dashboard. i actually reblogged my original post and added to it then accidentally deleted it but i have a crap ton more recommendations anyway! there’s a lot of angst in this list because apparently i love putting my heart through a meat grinder 

there are some heavy fics included this time, but i really wanted to include some that explored the issue of mental health and recovery, especially in these difficult times, so make sure you look out for the TW if those fics aren’t your cup of tea 

since tumblr’s new update prevents posts with links from appearing in the tags, i would really appreciate if people could reblog so anyone who needs a fic rec can see this! 

notion summary page: here (i only put my favourites in this tumblr list, so if you would like even more recommendations, please read the notion summary for basically all of my bookmarks on ao3) 

something to make your heart ache

tempo rubato by @spodumene 

angst, fluff, smut, multi-chaptered, modern au 

guys when i say this fic changed my life i really mean it i think i binged it all within a single night and luckily the last chapter came out the next day and i literally was beside myself with excitement; it is heartbreaking and so beautifully written, i keep going back to read it again and again it’s just THAT good 

complementarity by @besanii​

angst, fluff, multi-chaptered, cql au

i’ve always been a fan of beth’s works (if anyone wants to screech with me about her shattered mirror’s fic I AM HERE) but this was so much angst i literally felt my heart cave in on itself like it was actually painful holy shit she is such a compelling writer and this is one of my favourites even though it HURTS ME 

and here comes the summertime by ribena 

angst, fluff, multi-chaptered, modern au 

LWJ PLS USE YOUR WORDS FOR ONCE this is peak lwj being a dumbass guys i really can’t with this boy but this is such a cute fic of wangxian falling in love and you can really see how they genuinely go from being two people who have no chance of being anything to SOULMATES 

总有一天; a place to hide (can’t find one near) by yiqie 

angst, trauma, modern au, trigger warning: suicide 

this fic rec is gonna kick off some of our heavier recs for the list; yiqie is definitely one of my favourite ao3 writers and i am really excited for the next update of this fic, it deals with some really important mental health topics and it doesn’t shy away from the reality of how scary things can be. i’ve personally been thinking a lot more about mental health in general during my time in isolation and it’s gotten me to reflect more on my own wellbeing as well. this is beautifully written, and obviously it’s not going to encapsulate everyone’s personal experience but i think it’s a great step in recognising that mental health is real and something we should be looking out for

there’s no promised goodbye here by @yuisakii​

angst, fluff, trauma, modern au, trigger warning: mental health

i saw this fic on twt and i thought it was gonna be a short cute wholesome fic about wangxian being broken up but not really bc wwx is dumb BUT this turned out to be so much more and i’m so appreciative; it portrays not a perfect relationship but one that is under the works and one that will undoubtedly require much more work in the future but it’s reality and it’s true and i think that makes it beautiful, there are discussions of mental health and how that affects relationships and how people learn to put themselves back together again with love and support and i think that’s the best part of this fic 

take yourself home by ribena 

angst, fluff, trauma, multi-chaptered, modern au, trigger warning: suicidal ideation 

this was a surprising fic i didn’t expect it to be as heavy as it was but it was beautifully handled and it’s so important to me to see mental health depicted in different ways; everyone deals with their problems in a different way and someone is struggling could seem objectively like they’re doing okay and i think it’s great that there’s a fic that recognises that, this also gives a little spotlight on the things that people use to try and cope with their wellbeing, it could be the smallest thing but a lot of the time that’s all it takes 

some things go forward by everythingispoetry 

angst, fluff, trauma, multi-chaptered, modern au, trigger warning: medical recovery 

this is a little lighter but i think this is one of the most important; the journey to recovery from any medical condition isn’t something to be taken lightly and i think this fic deals with almost everything that it will encapsulate, it’s a beautiful story that deals with the ups and downs of medical recovery and how you really need to learn to forgive yourself for maybe not being able to do everything you previously wanted to, it’s a hopeful story which is also so important because there is always hope for you no matter what 

something to soothe your heart 

you’ve ruined my life (by not being mine) by @nothing-but-color  

fluff, light angst, smut, multi-chaptered, modern au

guys this fic is so beautiful omfg it’s so CUTE and i think it really nails some of the characterisation it really sets up their relationship so well and it delves into some other issues of wangxian’s parents being uh not great parents lmfao but it’s just cute and wholesome and wangxian discovering the joy of being in a relationship 

this river runs to you by sundiscus 

fluff, light angst, yearning, modern au 

DRAGONS AND MAGIC GUYS HOLY SHIT this was a fic i just sat down and binged in like probably an hour and it’s SO GOOD, the plot, the characterisation, the amount of thought and care that went into developing this was so good and it’s beautiful guys truly a wonderful fic 

heliotrope (eternal love) by avenqelic 

fluff, light angst, modern au 

flowers and their meanings need i say more???? this was so wholesome and wwx is such a dumbass but we love him for it and there’s so much yearning and pining in this it’s almost angst but it’s not bc there’s so much SOFT content in this we love it 

lay us down (we’re in love) by mme_anxious 

fluff, modern au 

guys this is just a short wholesome cute fic to soothe your heart from all the angst i’ve put in this list IT’S PERFECT domestic wangxian will always trump everything as much as i love putting my heart through the works and this is just pEAK wangxian content 

it’s you, it was always you by myung 

fluff, light angst, cql au

guys wwx is such a dumbass but he’s a bby and we love him and this was such cute wholesome barely there angst content AND THE PINING wangxian are so dumb but we love them for it this was just something to truly soothe my heart as the heading suggests so yes pls read this after all the angst 

with absolute splendour by @veliseraptor​

fluff, light angst, yunmeng bros, cql au 

THIS IS THE FIC I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN WAITING FOR guys jc being an angry grape wanting to plan shijie’s and wwx’s wedding is genuinely the content i have always wanted and i’m always so sad that there’s like barely any of it but this fic captures it PERFECTLY and it’s the yunmeng reconciliation i have been praying for 

the dragon’s bride by jaws_3 

fluff, light angst, light smut, beauty and the beast au 

lwj bby you need to learn to use your words bc then THIS HAPPENS but guys this was such a cool take on beauty and the beast au and it’s pretty spectacular wangxian are DOMESTIC HUSBANDS before they are even husbands but the writing was breathtakingly good so yes pls read this 

anyway, here’s wuji by @kakikaeru 

fluff, light angst, post-cql, focus on lan jingyi 

okay this is more background wangxian BUT THIS FIC IS SO GOOD, the next one in the series (focussing on jin ling) is also spectacular so pls read them both, but guys LAN JINGYI BEST BOY and he’s in love omfg wangxian being overprotective adorable husbands looking after all their children is just what we LIVE for 

something to make you laugh 

i get religion real quick 'cause you're looking so divine by so_shyy

fluff, humour, modern au

guys wangxian being a chaotic mess but wwx being even more of a pining dumbass bc of hospital drugs is PERFECT i have probably read every single version of the cliche ‘husband waking up stoned after surgery’ but guys it’s so much wholesome content and amazing in every single way 

life, drama and action by akai__hana

fluff, social media, modern au 

whenever i have an angsty fic that makes my heart go eek i reach for this fic bc it’s a reminder that WANGXIAN IS HAPPILY MARRIED WITH A SUN THANK YOU and they are living their best lives as husbands in every life so this is just so cute short and wholesome we LIVE for this content 

besieged by @ariaste 

fluff, light smut, humour, post-cql 

another fic for reaffirmation that wangxian are being overprotective husbands and our bby a-yuan is not really a baby anymore and it’s just so DOMESTIC and such good content and we really love every single reminder that wangxian are just happy and together and they’re SOULMATES okay 

worth the entire universe and more by @xiellian​

fluff, humour, modern au

this was fcking hilarious guys i read it right after one of my angsts and it’s just SO WHOLESOME wwx you’re so dumb we love you so much but you’re truly dumb also lwj bby pls use your words this was such a cute concept and just a pinch of domestic wangxian i needed in my day 

a quest (for kisses) by @xiellian​

fluff, humour, post-cql 

ANOTHER DOMESTIC WANGXIAN FIC guys i can literally picture this happening bc wangxian are insufferable and are hellbent on letting the whole entire world know they are IN LOVE and that they ARE SOULMATES and we forgive them bc they ARE 

[lululawrence]

I posted 9,644 times in 2021

310 posts created (3%)

9334 posts reblogged (97%)

For every post I created, I reblogged 30.1 posts.

I added 11,518 tags in 2021

#cue the queue - 4329 posts

#caramel suitra - 1857 posts

#hslot21 - 1497 posts

#to read - 845 posts

#sassy sunshine - 838 posts

#fan art - 754 posts

#fic rec - 407 posts

#for when i'm sad - 377 posts

#rainbows - 329 posts

#mine - 285 posts

Longest Tag: 139 characters

#i looooove using mirrors like this in photographs and it’s so difficult to get the angle and focus on the reflection and what’s in front of

My Top Posts in 2021

#5

Maybe You’ll Like the Way I Am by lululawrence

Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson  |  56k  |  moodboard by @rishimaaaaa

Harry stood on his doorstep, waving a little as he shuffled his feet. “Hi, I brought you some cookies.”

Louis finally realized Harry was holding a plate with at least a dozen chocolate chip cookies.

“How’d you know chocolate chip was my favorite?”

Harry scrunched his nose. “I, uh, they’re actually peanut butter chocolate chunk, so I really hope you don’t have a peanut allergy. There’s a lot of peanut butter and chocolate in these. But also, I just hoped that was something you liked because I actually have a favor to ask?”

When Louis' alpha neighbor asks him to pretend to be his omega for a week, Louis immediately says no. He has too much he's dealing with on his own, and he swore to himself he'd never get that close to an alpha again. Unable to hold to that resolve once guilt sets in, Louis finds that maybe fumbling his way through a fake relationship for a week was exactly what he needed to finally be able to move on.

Written as a part of @1daboficfest

Buy me a coffee?

422 notes • Posted 2021-06-21 12:00:45 GMT

#4

Caught In Your Gravity by lululawrence ​

Harry/Louis   |   63k   |   with art by @rishimaaaaa

“Liam, what the fuck,” Harry cried, bursting into Liam’s office.

Liam looked up from his computer and smiled widely at Harry. “Hey! How’d the first day go?”

“Liam,” Harry hissed. “This is a soccer team.”

Liam stared at Harry as if he was waiting for more information to explain why Harry was acting the way he was. 

“Yes, I do believe that’s what most Americans call the sport.”

“I am American!” Harry cried, flapping his arms a little, looking around the room as if that should help clarify. “You know I’m a dumbass kid from Salt Lake City who loves football. Football! What the hell gave you the idea that I knew anything about soccer?”

As Harry spoke, Liam’s face paled and his expression fell›› into one of fear. 

“All these years, when you were talking about football, you meant American football?” Liam asked slowly.

“Yes!” Harry punctuated his affirmation with a hysterical sounding laugh. “Of course I did!”

Now Posted as part of @onedirectionbigbang!

Buy me a coffee?

429 notes • Posted 2021-03-16 03:27:52 GMT

#3

Caught In Your Gravity by lululawrence

Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson  |  63k  |  13/13 Chapters

Written as part of @onedirectionbigbang​ with art, including this lovely moodboard, by the incredible @rishimaaaaa​

It felt like the blood froze in Harry’s veins even as he got a bit lightheaded. He hadn’t even made it two practices, only one of which he was remotely in charge of, without giving it all away and now he and Liam were both absolutely fucked.

“Shit,” Harry breathed out. “Who all have you told? Does everyone know? I thought I covered it better than that…”

“No, no,” Louis said quickly. "They’ll figure it out soon enough, though, because they’ll get used to you changing things up, but you’re only going to trip over your so called Americanisms for so long before they realize it’s because you don’t actually know fuck all about football.”

Harry sighed. “Yeah. I figured. I just need to bullshit for long enough to allow Liam to get the situation figured out from his end.”

“Right, which brings me to my entire point. I think we can find a mutually beneficial arrangement with all of this.” Louis leaned forward. “You need to learn the ins and outs of the sport incredibly fast. I can help you with that.”

“What do you want in exchange?”

Or, an AU inspired by a 30 second trailer of Ted Lasso that doesn't actually have much in common with the show at all.​

Buy me a coffee?

433 notes • Posted 2021-04-23 12:00:57 GMT

#2

I'M SHAKING AND TRYING NOT TO CRY OR SCREAM IN STARBUCKS SO I APOLOGIZE IF THIS DOESN'T MAKE SENSE BUT PLEASE GO BACK WITH ME TO 2014.

back when rbb first appeared with his ORIGINAL twitter. the very first things he did on that twitter? he documented a night in the hotel room getting drunk on stella artois and watching the wizard of oz.

we asked for rbb and he did us one better. what the fuck is he gonna do tomorrow?

501 notes • Posted 2021-10-31 01:40:18 GMT

#1

Listen. I’m proud of Harry and all, but I will never get over my bitterness at the fact songs like Golden and Adore You were overlooked and Watermelon Sugar is the one getting all the awards. I love WS, but I just... Golden!! ADORE YOU??

Anyway. That’s all.

575 notes • Posted 2021-05-11 21:58:19 GMT

Get your Tumblr 2021 Year in Review →

[abarbaricyalp]

handholding- 10/12/13

hugs - 34

kisses - 7/13/27

touching - 47

sambucky :)

Buddies, I literally cannot believe I managed to get all of these done without being too repetitive.

Handholding 10: Happily doing everything with one hand if that means they don't have to let go is already posted on my blog and on AO3: ElisabethMonroe: (til i carry you home) Your Hand in My Hand

Reblogging with AO3 links in a second

Kisses 27: Desperate Kisses

Inhale My Soul

(Listen, listen y'all, you don't know how many different universes of them dying and bleeding out in each other's arms y'all aren't reading here. I didn't do that to you. You're welcome)

Dissolving hadn’t felt like anything. Sam wasn’t sure he even understood what was actually happening. Maybe he’d thought it was just a trick of the reality stone. Maybe human minds weren’t meant to comprehend anything close to what had happened.

Coming back felt like dying.

He woke up on his back and he couldn’t breathe. It was like he had no lungs at all, just a trachea spasming in his throat without air, like a gills with no water. He grasped for the ground and the feeling of dirt was horrifying, a grave waiting to swallow him down into the Earth. The wind was knives on his skin. His suit felt like it was trying to pry his spine from his ribs. His legs ached like someone was trying to stretch the bones on a crank.

He must’ve screamed but there was no air to make a noise.

Finally sight came back and the first thing he saw were the trees falling over him, ready to crush him and hide him again.

Had anyone seen him disappear? No one was by his side. No one looked for him.

No, the trees weren’t falling. They were swaying in the wind. The sun kept gliding down through them with every shuffle of the leaves.

It was so quiet he felt like he could hear the leaves sighing as they grew.

It took him too long to realize the ragged breath that broke the silence like a gunshot came from his own chest. The hands digging his own grave shot to his chest, felt the rise and fall of his ribs and lungs, the proof that he was breathing. He was alive again.

He rolled onto his side and heaved until his ribs creaked, still firmly attached to his spine. There was nothing to come up, but the noise was comforting, the ache that he could name and handle was safe. Human. Living human.

His knees were in his legs when he leaned back on his haunches. They sank into the earth but the grave didn’t swallow him down. No unwilling sacrifice to be taken from him. He brought his dirt covered fingers--firm and whole and attached to him--up to his face. He found his cheeks, a beard with edges that were too straight for a man who had died and been put back together, his teeth. They throbbed in his gums like they were all about to fall out but they were there in his head. His tongue.

He could speak.

“Steve!” he shouted and his throat screamed in protest, the air in his lungs turned to fire. “Steve!” he called again and forced himself to his feet. His boots were tied. His pants were still tucked into them. There was no blood, which seemed wrong. He felt flayed open and left to soak into the ground. How could there be no blood?

“Steve!”

God, if Steve was dead…

Sam couldn’t lose more people. He couldn’t fight his way back. Not after this. Not while everything hurt so fucking much.

“Steve, please, God, where are you?!”

“Sam?”

Sam whirled around at the tired voice. The trees danced in his vision. The grass clutched at his legs, which still felt like they were being stretched out and sunk into the earth. The trees were going to take him over. The grass was going to eat him again. No one was looking. No one would find him. Why wasn’t anyone ever looking for him?

“Sam?” the voice called again.

Footsteps. Crushing grass. A metal screech in the bark of a tree. A colorful curse. “Sam, fuck, shout again!”

Sam stumbled forward, breaking free of the natural world trying to take him away again. He shoved himself away from a tree and crashed into a warm, solid, human body.

“Jesus, Sam,” Bucky breathed and wrapped his arms around Sam tightly. It hurt in the best way. Sam held him back, face hidden in Bucky’s shoulder. He didn’t even care about what gore he was smearing all over himself. Bucky’s hand came to the back of Sam’s head and Sam almost expected it to hit exposed brain but it didn’t. Instead his calloused fingers brushed over Sam’s short hair, smoothing over the natural lines and divots in it until goosebumps erupted over Sam’s skin.

Right. Things could feel good. That was part of being human and alive.

He had no idea how long they stood there. His shoulders were aching, but in a pleasant way that reminded him that there was something he loved right in front of him, in his arms.

Bucky was the first to move, stepping back half a step, a quarter of a step, barely any at all, just enough to bring his hands up to either side of Sam’s face. The cheeks and the mouth and the skin that was all there and new again. He tilted Sam’s head back, eyes intense and clear in front of Sam.

Had it not felt the same for him? Was he not grappling with his ridiculously weak claim to existence? Or, fuck, was this how he always felt after being frozen and woken up? Had he been going through this for seventy years with no one to run to? With no one to hold him and remind him that things could feel good?

Sam’s fingers tightened in Bucky’s vest and just as Bucky was starting to say something Sam couldn’t honestly answer--something about how he felt, if anything hurt, if he needed medical attention--Sam hauled him down into a desperate kiss. Their noses smashed together and pain bloomed across Sam’s face, made his eyes water, made him want to sneeze, made him want to lean into it all the more, like the pressed-on-bruise ache of Bucky’s arms around him.

He felt Bucky’s teeth notch a split into Sam’s lip by accident, crushed together with nowhere to go. Finally it softened. Bucky’s mouth pressed against his until Sam felt like he could actually breathe, until he could make his mouth do what he wanted, catch Bucky’s lower lip between both of his, wring out a noise he’d never heard the other man make before. Bucky’s hands on his face kept him close and Sam’s fingers tightened in his vest. He wanted to crawl into Bucky’s chest--felt like, maybe, he could after being unmade and remade. Their noses knocked together again as Sam tried to turn his head, kiss the other side of Bucky’s mouth, let Bucky bruise the rest of his lips.

Bucky pulled away, but didn’t let go of Sam’s face. Cool air flowed into Sam’s lungs until all of his bones and muscles felt like they slotted back into place.

“I can’t tell you how fucking happy I am to see you alive,” Bucky breathed.

We should talk about this. That. Later.

“I thought everyone was gone. I don’t know… I didn’t know how I came back. I thought it was just me.”

Bucky shook his head. “No. There’s hundreds of people. Not everyone, but at least half of us.”

Half of them.

“Oh my God,” Sam said. “Thanos won. He wiped out half of the universe.”

“I think that was us. I think...someone brought us back,” Bucky said. Pain flashed over his face as he looked at Sam and then pulled him in for another kiss. Sam tried to understand a second chance in it, but all he could feel was Bucky and relief and adoration. He wasn’t sure where that one came from more--him or Bucky.

“There’s still a fight,” someone said from behind them. Another magic shithead. Terror clutched at Sam’s chest like magic itself was enough to unmake him again, take him away again. “There’s still a world to save.”

Bucky’s hand found Sam’s between their bodies. Sam took a breath with lungs that almost seemed to work again. “What’re we waiting for then?” he asked.

Kiss 13: Frustrated Kiss

Better Than None

“Barnes, you wanna jump in? Any time’s fine,” Sam called out, though the volume wasn’t actually necessary, since he had an earpiece in and Bucky was only a few feet away, leaned on what was left of a building’s wall.

“Nah, you seem to be handling it just fine,” Bucky called back with a nod.

Sam ducked under the robot arm that had been flung at him. “Barnes, I swear, as soon as I get my hands on you--” he threatened.

“Y’know, normally that gets me going but seein’ as you were so anti-giving me a good luck kiss, I don’t know if I believe you anymore.”

“We don’t have time for this!” Sam threw the shield to cut through seven wire-y necks and caught it at degree 355 of its arc.

“It’s just a kiss. Takes two/tenths of a second,” Bucky said.

“I meant this dumbass argument.” Sam jumped out of the way of an electrical charge and Bucky watched it sail dangerously close to his head.

“Damn, maybe I am lucky without you,” he said and didn’t move at all.

“Bucky,” Sam sighed and ripped the head off of the nearest robot.

“Hot. Wish I could show you my appreciation.”

“How does me not giving you a good luck kiss translate you into not giving me any kisses?”

“It only seems fair. You’re putting my well-being at risk. There should be consequences.”

“That’s not how it works! You’re the one not--” Jesus, he didn’t have time to fall for the bait. He freed a mini-EMP from his utility belt and hurled it at the cluster of robots trying to scale the debris that first responders were using as a barricade to the rest of the street. A few seconds later, the robots fell away, powerless and useless.

“I kind of felt that in my arm,” Bucky said.

Sam growled out a huff and stalked over to Bucky. He shoved the front of the shield against his chest a little roughly and leaned in to kiss him, mostly teeth and irritation. The bastard still looked pleased when Sam pulled away.

“Good luck. Now will you please go do your job?”

Bucky grinned, all teeth and victory, and bolted into action.

Kisses 7: Passionate Kiss

Hand holding 13: Linking hands during s**

Bring Heaven to You

Sam swore he could feel Bucky’s mouth all over him. Every inch of his skin felt electric and alive. Frankenstein’s creature surging to life after a bolt of lightning, every nerve and muscle singing at the same time, overwhelming sensation in the best way. Like a freefall that keep him tethered to the mismatched hands clutching at his hips, his ribs, his chest, his shoulders, his thighs, the backs of his knees. Like Bucky couldn’t decide where he should be shocking Sam back to life either.

Bucky dragged his hand down Sam’s side, flat and steady so Sam could feel the golden band on his finger scorching his skin like it was made of fire. Like vows and rings and heavy promises weren’t enough to prove they belonged to each other, like they needed it written in flesh and blood like everything else about their lives.

Hahahaha, no. The rest is on AO3. Link in the reblog

Hand holding 12: Possessive hand holding

A Green Monster, And No We Don’t Mean The Hulk

“Welcome back to the show, Captain America!” a bubbly, young talk show host greeted. Bucky assumed he’d watched at least a few seconds of the program at some point when he was making it his life mission not to leave his apartment, but he couldn’t place her name for the life of him. “And you brought Mr. Barnes with you!” This she said with much less genuine enthusiasm and didn’t seem all that thrilled to have to look away from Sam to address Bucky.

“Well, you know I can’t stay away too long,” Sam said with a friendly smile. He held out his hand and the host took it in both of hers. It was less a hand shake and more an excuse for her to hang onto Sam, it looked like.

Sam and Bucky sat in the cushy seats for guests and, even though they’d already walked through the staging of this whole farce, Bucky was still deeply tempted to take Sam’s seat so he was between Sam and the host.

“So, Sam, last time we saw each other, you weren’t yet Captain America.”

“Funny how fast things like that can change, right?” Sam asked with twinkling eyes. Bucky wondered if the cameras were bolted down and if he could wrench one free even if they were.

“Well, I think it’s still not soon enough,” the host said and tossed her long hair over her shoulder. “You’ve always been Cap to us here. You’ve been so vocal about your mission statement as Captain America, so I won’t make you repeat yourself.” Sam nodded gratefully, though Bucky knew he’d repeat his goals and wishes until he ran out of breath if it meant one more person heard them and got inspired. “So I thought we could focus on what’s going on behind the scenes with you. Has anything else changed for you since you’ve been back?”

As if coming back to life wasn’t enough.

“Oh, definitely,” Sam said. “Buck and I just finished flipping a house down by my sister. Y’know, we got decent temporary accommodations--Buck still has his in New York--and staying with my sister again was nice, but there’s nothing like having a house to come home to that’s just ours. No pre-teens stealing all the food outta the fridge immediately after grocery shopping.”

The host laughed along with Sam, though her eyes couldn’t quite keep from flickering to Bucky. “It’s fun that you’re rooming with Mr. Barnes. Does it feel like having college roommates again?”

Sam frowned, opened his mouth to answer, ran through a bunch of diplomatic ways to say what should’ve been obvious but wasn’t because this lady was into Sam. Which, like, Bucky couldn’t blame her for. But he was anyway.

He reached over to grab Sam’s hand where it was picking at a loose thread in his pants. “Actually, it’s more like just living with a partner,” he answered for Sam. “That’s something else that’s changed too, huh?” he directed at Sam. “Turns out, with consistent showers and therapy, he thinks I’m pretty charming.”

Sam frowned again and scoffed. “No, I do not. That hasn’t changed.”

The host laughed again, forced but a decent show anyway. “Sure, we all love a good bromance,” she said.

Bucky’s eyebrows shot up.

“Don’t,” Sam warned.

“It’s a lot like a bromance, yeah. Just without the B,” Bucky said. “We kind of figured my name had enough Bs to last us for a while.”

“Sam, are you saying--”

Sam sighed and brought his other hand up to the bridge of his nose. “Unfortunately. And, yeah, he’s always like this. Some kinda puffed up bulldog or something.”

Bucky’s fingers tightened around Sam’s. “You’re my partner. I’m allowed to tell people that.”

“You don’t ever stop telling people.”

“Can’t blame him,” the host pointed out. Okay, maybe some of the hostility was misplaced, Bucky thought. Only some of it. “How did we not know about this, Cap?” she asked jovially, though Bucky thought she was still a little upset.

Sam shrugged. “Guess it’s not as exciting as superheroing. And cameras keep ending up destroyed,” he added pointedly.

Bucky narrowed his eyes at the accusation. “Half the places we go could be classified as an active war zone. It’s not always on me that media cameras get crushed under debris or aliens or something.”

“Every single one that catches you touching my face?”

Bucky shrugged.

“So...how long has this been a thing?” the host asked.

“Since before Sam took the shield. It’s actually a package deal. If you want the shield, you have to have me.”

Sam rolled his eyes and let out another long suffering sigh. “I’m sorry he’s ruining this interview.”

“Oh, no, I’m about to win an investigative journalism prize, I think,” the host laughed.

“I don’t know how investigative it is when your subject is physically incapable of shutting up,” Sam said, looking over at Bucky with a glare and the smallest pout that made Bucky want to kiss it off of his face.

So he did, holding their interlaced fingers next to their face to hide from the cameras at least a little bit.

Hugging 34: Hugging while grabbing butt

Get Sprung

(Man, I meant to put this in the fr@ story and forgot :/ )

The building came down faster than Sam expected it to. He supposed well placed explosives would do that. What happened to uncertain, uneven dynamite? Why was everything electrical and precise nowadays?

He had no idea how Bucky managed to get Sam and the shield bundled in his arms before the ceiling came down. He didn’t know how Bucky had managed to kick a piece of wall upright and then locked his metal arm to hold the shield in place above them. He had no idea how Bucky knew it’d make the perfect alcove for them. For someone who pretended not to know what math was when AJ asked for help on homework, he was very calculation savvy.

Bucky slowly freed his arm from the straps of the shield. The rubble shifted a little, pressed a little closer, and then stilled again. They both let out a small breath. There wasn’t enough room to lay out totally, or to stand fully, but they weren’t being crushed. Bucky’s arm joined the other around Sam’s waist. Sam dropped his face to Bucky’s shoulder and let Bucky’s pulse drum against his cheek for a second.

“Are you grabbing my ass?” he finally asked and Bucky coughed out a startled laugh.

“Yeah, you better hope it’s me and not some darkness monster.”

“Couldn’t blame the monster if it was,” Sam said.

“I gotta make sure it’s still there. Would be a shame to lose America’s ass, y’know.”

Sam shook his head and pulled away from Bucky enough to light up his wristlets. He shook them off and rested them on pieces of concrete and rebar to light the space.

Bucky sank down to the ground, legs bent a little to accommodate the space and Sam followed him down, settling between his legs.

“So, now we wait, huh?” he said, reaching for Bucky’s hands to tangle their fingers together.

“Guess we gotta,” Bucky agreed. “Are you hurt?”

Sam shook his head. There was still a ringing in his ears from the explosion and he was sore from Bucky tackling him out of the way, but nothing felt crushed or cut or broken. “You?”

“I’m fine,” Bucky said and then let out a breath at Sam’s arched brow. “I mean it. I’m not playing tough or anything. We got lucky. It came down on us, not sideways into us. I think there’s something lodged between the plates in my arm, but I don’t want you to do anything about it until we’re safe. It’s functional right now. I don’t need to be down an arm if we have to dig out.”

“We’re not gonna have to dig out,” Sam said. “Torres’ll track Redwing to us.”

“How’s your dumb robot?”

Sam reached for a wristlet and navigated to the Redwing menu. “Operational. Some exterior dinging, but nothing serious. He’ll be functional if we need.” Sam set the wristlet aside again and sighed. “Fuck, that was close, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah. C’mere,” Bucky said, opening his arms. Sam shifted forward on his knees and leaned against Bucky’s chest, hugging him close. “‘M glad you’re okay,” Bucky murmured, lips brushing Sam’s temple.

Sam nodded and rubbed Bucky’s waist for a second. “Buck?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re grabbing my ass again.”

“I know.”

“Alright.”

Touch 47: Touching their elbow to get their attention

Quiet Birds Circling in Flight

(Jeez, the only thing that came to mind for ages on this prompt involved a spaceship but these men have SEEN aliens and spaceships so that’s not as fun :(((((( )

Sam stood outside the cenotaph long after everyone else had left the service. And that was quite the feat in and of itself. It felt like the mourning could go on for years. There’d been enough tears around him that he wasn’t sure what his own would add to the spectacle.

To everyone else, the cenotaph was a mausoleum. But Sam had been next to Bucky when he told the military to quietly bury him in the cemetery where his parents were both buried. “You know,” Bucky had said one afternoon while they watched the cenotaph being built stone by stone, engraving by engraving, “I’d wager that most mausoleums are just cenotaphs. Grave robbing and reactions to grave robbing mean probably everyone just got moved somewhere safer.”

“Plus decomposition.”

“Well, shit, Wilson. When do you stop being you after death? When does dirt become dirt again? When isn’t it your resting place? Does it even matter where your body is when alls said and done? Is that ever actually you or just a space filler?”

Sam had elbowed Bucky’s ribs and they’d each taken a piece of stone and pretended they didn’t see.

Sam weighed the shield against his shin, knocking it slightly to the side, and then looked up at the stone one ten more feet above his head.

Steve would hate this so much. Sam felt like he could feel his raging blush from the after life. Sam and Bucky had both asked for something more muted, something quieter. Hell, something that would do good for the world Steve was always trying to save. All this money and work and art, for what? A place to take pictures for likes on the internet?

No, Sam had to remind himself, it was a place for memory too.

As much as Sam kind of hated the whole thing, he couldn’t deny that looking up at the effigy of his friend inspired him the same way glancing over at him had in life too. The words wrapping around and around the base of the cenotaph sparked the same intense pride and righteousness they had the first time he heard them.

Maybe he didn’t hate the cenotaph. Maybe he just wanted the real thing back.

He startled at a gentle touch at his elbow. He thought it might’ve been another mourner come to offer condolences, though those mostly went to Bucky when someone was brave enough to approach him. Most people hadn’t looked at Sam twice. Not when Captain America was, in theory, laying in rest thirty feet beyond.

Sam was not in the mood to listen to anyone else talk about the time Steve smiled at them in a cafe or grabbed their cat out of a tree. If he heard his name again, he was going to break down.

But he had the shield now. He had to do the things Steve did. Smile when he didn’t want to. Hide any sign of weakness, lest it reflect poorly on the red, white, and blue he carried now. So he ground his teeth together until his gums ached and turned with a screwed on smile.

But it wasn’t a mourner. Not a random one anyway.

Bucky still had his fingers on Sam’s elbow, a sad look on his face. Dawn was creeping over the horizon and Sam realized with a start and a bloom of despair in his stomach that he’d spent the entire night in the park.

“Think if we wait two more days he’ll shove that stupid stone shield out of the way and come out?” Sam asked, voice wavering like a flag in the wind.

“We would literally never hear the end of it if he did,” Bucky pointed out.

Neither of them smiled. Neither of them really meant their jokes.

Sam finally broke down.

He collapsed against Bucky’s chest. It wasn’t until he lost his breath in the middle of a sob that he realized he wasn’t the only one shaking. Bucky was crying too. They clutched at each other, both terrified they might drift away, that the other might decide this was too difficult too and go back to something better at the first opportunity.

Sam didn’t even blame Steve. He’d laid awake in the temporary accommodation the government had put him up in and tried to convince himself that if he was in Steve’s shoes, he wouldn’t have saved Riley and stayed in that timeline. But he couldn’t. He knew he would have, almost certainly. And it wasn’t fair to ask Steve to give up a happy, quiet ending after more than a century of fighting and hurting.

But understanding it and accepting it didn’t make it hurt any less. “What are we supposed to do, Bucky?” he asked with an irritatingly genuine hiccup at the end of his words.

“I don’t know,” Bucky said, sounding for all the world like he was grinding his teeth together, trying to pull himself back together. “You have a lot more options than me.”

And it was true. Sam had had a job. The Air Force had reached out since he’d been back stateside. He had a family who missed him, who he missed. But it felt like something heavy and tethering had been locked away in that empty cenotaph. He didn’t want to walk away yet.

Bucky stepped back, kept a hand on Sam’s elbow. “For now, we should get back home. You need to sleep.”

Sam didn’t want to sleep. Everything hurt too much.

“Sam, come on,” Bucky insisted. “You don’t have to make any decisions right now.We could both use a few hours of being quiet, right?

Sam reached up to wipe the tears from his face. He had the shield. He had to act like it. “My place or yours?” he asked, still watery.

Bucky pretended like he didn’t notice. “Yours is nicer than mine.”

“And I have a bed.”

“I have a bed.”

“It’s unassembled in a box.”

Bucky squeezed his elbow and then tugged him into a brief hug that Sam was pretty sure they’d never speak of again. “Let’s get out of here. He’s not goin’ nowhere.”

Sam rubbed at his face again and nodded. “We-- We should order in. When’s the last time you ate?” he asked as they walked away.

“I had a better breakfast than you.”

“You didn’t have to give a speech.”

“Yeah, I’m surprised you didn’t throw up in front of everyone.”

“Shut up, I’m a great public speaker.”

“Sure, Wilson.”

“Screw you, Barnes.”

The dawn bloomed before them.

Do not stand

By my grave, and weep.

I am not there,

I do not sleep—

I am the thousand winds that blow

I am the diamond glints in snow

I am the sunlight on ripened grain,

I am the gentle, autumn rain.

As you awake with morning’s hush,

I am the swift, up-flinging rush

Of quiet birds in circling flight,

I am the day transcending night.

Do not stand

By my grave, and cry—

I am not there,

I did not die.

[omni-scient-pan-da]

And They Were Oarmates

The Third Part of My Fic About The Oars by omni-scient-pan-da (One, Two, All)

For @i-have-all-these-freaking-uwus @burntuakrisp @wh33z @reaping-mae @jo-the-nerd @emo-bi-mess @taurianskies7 @the-dumbass-multishipper @pictures-that-are-kinda-cool @iprefertheterminsane @inkytrinket-irii

About six weeks had passed since Rowan set out on his journey to find his husband, and word was starting to get around that he was looking for a warlock with green magic.

Unfortuntely, he was no closer to finding Killian than he had been when he first started. Anytime he thought he’d found someone that could take him to the warlock, it turned out to be the wrong person. Every lead he had had led him to a dead end, but Rowan refused to give up hope. He’d do whatever it took to find his husband, even if it killed him. 

Right now though, things weren’t looking the greatest. Even if he hadn’t been worried about what was happening to Killian he had more pressing matters to focus on at the moment. 

Like the angry dragon that he’d accidentally stumbled upon.

Bright green fire shot past Rowan as he darted to the side of the cave. Holy shit, Rowan thought to himself. I didn’t realize dragons were so sensitive about being called warlocks.

It hadn’t seemed like an unreasonable assumption at the time, but if nothing else, this dragon really seemed to hate being confused for a warlock.

Rowan peaked around the corner, trying to gauge how far away the exit was. If he could just get past the dragon without being burned to a crisp, he could try and make a break for it. But of course, that would require him to actually be able to make it past the dragon.

“Look, I’m sorry I confused you for a warlock!” Rowan yelled, trying to reason with the dragon. “It won’t happen again!”

Green fire shot down the corridor once more and Rowan sighed. This was going to be difficult.

~

Killian fell to the ground, breathing heavily.

“Again,” the warlock commanded, glaring at him. 

“How many times is it going to take for you to realize I just can’t do magic?” Killian asked, wiping sweat from his brow as he pushed himself up off the ground into a sitting position. “It’s just not possible for me.”

The warlock smiled at him and suddenly Killian felt very very uneasy. The warlock never smiled, not unless he was about to do something Killian would absolutely despise.

“Everyone can do magic Killian,” the warlock sneered. “Maybe it’s just that you need a little more motivation.”

Green light sizzled through the air and all of a sudden the warlock was holding Killian’s ring in his hand. His wedding ring. The one thing that he had left to remind him of home, the one thing that still connected him to his husband, the one thing that gave him hope that he might actually find his way home.

“Isn’t it funny how something so small can give a person so much motivation?” the warlock asked, one corner of his mouth quirking up in a smirk. 

“Give it back you son of a bitch,” Killian ordered, trying to put all the force he could muster into his words, but even to his own ears his voice sounded hollow, shaky, and a little broken. He couldn’t take the ring, the ring was the one thing he had left.

“This little old thing?” the warlock asked innocently, twirling it in his hand. “Maybe having the metal on your person is what’s interfering with your magic.” He grinned sadistically and the palm holding the ring lit up in green flames.

Moving without thinking, Killian roared, lunging at the warlock. “YOU BASTARD!” he wound his arm up to punch the geezer in the gut, his own fist now alight with burning red angry magic as he swung. The only thing on his mind was how badly he needed to get that ring back, he had to have it, the warlock couldn’t take it from him, he needed it, he needed Rowan, he needed-

All of a sudden Killian flew back in the air before landing on the cold hard ground once more, his stomach on fire as if he had been the one to get hit and not the warlock.

In front of him the warlock laughed as green protection sigils flashed around him. “Reflection spells Killian, remember?”

Killian took a few deep breaths, trying to ignore the searing pain in his abdomen. “Give me the ring back or I’ll kill you.”

The warlock snorted. “As fun as it’d be to see you try, I think there are more important things at hand here, such as the fact that you can do magic.” he held up the ring, that sadistic grin of his plastered across his face once more. “And now I know exactly how to trigger it.”

~

After nearly getting burned to death by a dragon and numerous other failed attempts at finding his husband, Rowan was starting to get really fucking tired. He wasn’t giving up hope just yet, he couldn’t give up hope. Rowan couldn’t even begin to fathom how he was supposed to carry on without even the smallest slimmer of hope of finding Killian again.

But he was getting really really tired of all the traveling and time and energy it took for him to even find the smallest whisper of Killian, only for his plans to completely blow up in his face.

All he wanted was to find his husband, was that so terrible? Was he truly destined to endure a life of suffering without him? Constantly searching for a man that might not even want him anymore?

That was the worst part about this whole ordeal, the way Killian had acted in those last few precious moments before he had been stolen from Rowan. The warlock had to have done something to mess with Killian’s mind, right? There was no way Killian would’ve said or done those things of his own violition... 

Rowan shook his head as he walked, heading back into the inn where he had been staying for the past few nights, hoping he could get in quickly without the owner noticing that half his shirt had been scorched off. Luckily for him, Rowan had always been able to pull of a crop top.

Rowan pushed open the door to the inn, peaking his head inside to see if there was anyone in the lobby. Upon finding no one, he darted inside, thankful his room key had managed to survive his little skirmish with the dragon as he unlocked the door to his rented room and steped inside, sagging against the door as soon as it closed behind him.

“Just... Keep moving Rowan, keep moving and you’ll be fine,” he muttered to himself under his breath. “As long as you keep moving, you’ll find Killian eventually and then... And then...”

And then he really didn’t know what would happen next. He’d find some way to free Killian from that horrible warlock that had taken him? He didn’t know the first thing about magic, how was he supposed to defeat an all powerful warlock? And then of course came that nagging little voice in the back of his mind as he started to question whether or not Killian would even want him to come to his rescue...

Rowan sighed, pushing his doubts aside as he dug through his clothes to find a new shirt. He’d have to buy a new one to replace the one he’d ruined, but that could wait for another day. Right now he needed a drink and a long night’s rest before he decided which town to jump to next in search of his husband.

After changing clothes, Rowan headed out of his room once more, this time to the small tavern across the street from the inn. After taking a seat at the bar and ordering a drink he glanced around the room, looking for anyone that might have any clue where his husband could be.

“This is pointless... I’m never going to find him this way. I need to change strategies or... Or something or else I’m going to go insane.”

“They say talking to yourself is the first sign of madness, so I’d say you’re on the right track,” a voice perked up from behind him said.

Rowan jumped a little in his seat, turning around to find a cloaked woman standing behind him. “I um... I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were standing there.”

The woman smiled slightly. “Don’t worry about it,” she replied. “I’ve been looking for you for a long time... You’re the one trying to find the Le Sorcier Vert, aren’t you?”

Rowan’s eye’s widened. “Do you know how to find him?” His heart was pounding in his chest and he didn’t dare to hope any more than he already was. He didn’t know if he could handle losing hope the way he’d lost Killian.

“I can do you one better,” the woman replied. “I know how to defeat him.

Author's Note: Okay alright it's been 3 months since I updated this but I have no concept of time, so once again, special thanks to @i-have-all-these-freaking-uwus for sending me an ask and motivating me to finish this thing! There WILL be a part 4 and when I post it you can find the link HERE and I'm thinking part four will be the finale? Who knows, but there should be an updated list with all available parts HERE that includes links to the whole series, and I promise, the story will definitely have a happy ending. As before, if you wanna be tagged when part 4 comes out, leave a comment below or reblog this because seriously, I will not work on this for ages unless I have external motivation. Thanks so much for reading this far, I'm glad you're all enjoying the story so far!

[robin-in-a-hoodie]

Hi your dumbass apperantly didn't close the asks I can't find where you do it

Anyway dude if you think i know how the fuck you block an ip i don't think you understand not everyone understands computer shit I'm just here to see some memes man you could just understand that I'm not into getting asks and move on

Like yeah when I'm bombarded with multiple asks that i have to interact with (deleting is interacting, i still have to read them to see if they're bullshit or not) I'm going to get to the "ripping my soul out", i have enough criticism of my own about tbs, the ripping my soul out was about the harassment that people feel is alright to throw at me for no reason because i ??? What, rebloged something without adding to it that i don't like some takes i saw in the tag, geez

Getting those half a snippet of a point that i need to go into fucking media analyst mode to answer in a language i find difficult to speak on a subject i stated many times i don't feel comfortable speaking on is annoying and I'm dramatic, fuck off, i don't know how ro express myself in words when it comes to media analysis and i don't have to, i vent about the shit that bothers me in private where i feel comfortable doing so

Also maybe just don't dm people who said they don't want you to dm them idk my man weather i block your ip or not you should still respect the fact I'd like to not be dragged into this

Every single time i get these asks i get anxious about being the one getting them, because yeah, if you throw shit unfounded claims about media i love i don't want that to go uncorrected, but i get anxious trying to explain myself in a way that doesn't make me sound stupid, because English is difficult, and because i haven't heard the show in a while, and because i don't know how to write a fifteen page assey about why Oliver is nicer than Damian on command, so it leads me to being unable to go either way because if i don't respond then I'm letting people down and letting you "win" and if i do respond then i make a fool of myself because translating my thoughts into actual text is difficult and i hate doing it publicly, that's why i only reblog shit and rarely make original posts, i hate putting myself on the stage in this way even if i do have shit that i want to say. I feel like i did not need to explain any of this. I feel like i shouldn't have woken up to multiple asks challenging me and daring me to reply to them and engage in a conversation i never wanted to engage in. I just want to get on this website, enjoy a few shit posts, maybe boost a friend's post and vibe. I feel put on the spot when I'm personally chosen for these asks, and it's not the first or second time this bs happened, and that feeling that out of everyone i was chosen for this makes my anxiety fucking spiral. It makes me want to never open my mouth again and never speak again so no one can ever notice me again. I try so hard to force myself to be out there because i want friends and mutuals and this is genuinely harassment because i said. Multiple times in the past. That this is not something i want to engage in. That i don't know how to turn these things off. I legit just use my phone for like. Memes and YouTube. I genuinely don't know how to do this stuff and i don't want to learn how to do these fucking complicated things because I've already tried and these asks keep coming still even though i tried blocking it the way i found and it just doesn't work or if it does work then there's multiple people doing this shit when i!!! Clearly!!! Asked!!!! You!!!!! Not!!!! To!!!!!!!

Just. If someone tells you "hi, what you're doing is upsetting, please stop"

Then you can stop

Like idk that sounds like. Something you can do. Ugh. I feel stupid. And tbh i am but like. I hate when it comes to my attention. It's midnight and i just feel like the dumbest person on planet earth and i hate it. I don't understand why out of all the people in the world you chose to talk to me. I didn't want you to. It's distressing that you did and i told you it's distressing and you keep doing it and i don't understand why. You are hurting me. Fuck you. I don't care about this stupid show anymore. Go hate Oliver and think tama is prison apologizism go do that away from me i don't care what do you want from me. What. You want me to agree? Fine i agree now leave me alone for the millionth time you absolute jerk

[lightsupinthenorth]

Harringrove teachers AU part 2

Part 1

*

First of all, thank you very much to everyone who read, liked and/or reblogged the first part. Also, to the people who reacted or said nice things in the tags: you made my day with your sweet words <3

Tag list: @twoprettyboys, @inkedplume​, @marianaosborne​, @liglitterbug​, @hmg621 @spreckle @goldenweatherharringrove

If anyone wants to be added to or taken off the tag list for the future posts of this AU, let me know ;) 

*

Trying to avoid Steve Harrington soon proved to be impossible. He was pretty much everywhere. The fact he was close to Robin and Heather, who Billy himself had quickly befriended, didn’t help. Steve was always hanging with them in the teachers’ lounge before class and eating with them at the cafeteria at lunch. And, as if it weren’t awkward enough already, Steve and Billy almost never interacted directly. Apparently, Steve was tolerating Billy’s presence, but it didn’t go any further than that. Beside a half hearted “hello” when they saw each other, Steve barely ever said anything to him.

Billy tried to start conversations with him. Several times. But Steve always answered shortly, so Billy dropped it.

And he was angry about it.

Because, even though it pained it greatly to admit it, Billy would have loved for Steve and him to be friends.

Every single person in this school seemed to adore Steve, from the students to the staff.

At least a couple of Billy’s students arrived late to English whenever they had Math with Steve beforehand. They always served Billy the same excuse: they had a question of utmost important to ask “Mr. Harrington”, and it couldn’t have waited their next Math class. Billy didn’t buy the bullshit. Strangely, no one arrived late because they had something to discuss with the teacher when they had History with Murray or Science with Sam before English. Half the students had a crush on “Mr. Harrington”, and that was it.

The students regarding Steve like some kind of God was bad enough without the other teachers doing it too. Robin and Heather hugged him all the time, and Murray was constantly holding him hostage about some weird documentary he had watched or whatever theory he had last come up with, and the school counselor, Joyce, smiled extra warm every time she saw him. Even Hopper, the headmaster, would light up when he talked with Steve.

And Billy understood why. Because, while Steve didn’t lose any love on Billy, he was a ray of sunshine to everyone else. He gave his coworkers bright smiles, asked them how they were as if he genuinely cared (and he probably did) about what was going on in their lives, he gave his students encouragements when they came to the teachers’ lounge asking for him during recess (which happened far more often that it should have) because they had trouble with some mathematical concept that Billy didn’t give a damn about.

Steve was a saint with everlasting patience… Except when it came to Billy, apparently. And Billy was so envious he was nearly green with it.

He was also feeling self-conscious, wondering what Steve had seen in him to shun him even though his kindness knew no bound where anyone else was concerned. It couldn’t just be that Billy looked unprofessional, right? Some people that he’d seen Steve interact with enthusiastically had traits far more negative than that, at least in Billy’s book. It made no sense and frustrated him to no end.

He was starting to think that Steve’s dislike of him was just a visceral reaction and had no valid reason. Then, Steve had to go and do something confusing.

Billy was eating lunch in the cafeteria, waiting for Heather and Robin (and Steve, by extension) to join him, and Steve sat down in front of him. Billy immediately noticed the huge piece of chocolate cake on his tray.

“How come you got some cake? I saw someone take the last piece right in front of me.”

Billy was feeling absurdly sour over it. He could have really gone for something sweet.

“Oh… Maria saved it for me.” Steve admitted.

At least, he had the decency to look sheepish.

“Right…” Billy replied, pouting a little.

Of course, one of the lunch ladies had put a piece of cake aside just for the Lord and Savior of Hawkins High. Billy should have known.

“Do you want it?”

Billy blinked at Steve, answering a second too late to appear unsurprised by the question.

“Ugh… no, thank you.”

Had Steve really… offered to give him his dessert? Had he really been nice to Billy? Or had Billy just hallucinated the entire thing?

“You sure? I honestly wouldn’t mind…” Steve said, looking at his plate rather than at Billy.

He was just saying that to be polite, obviously. Billy wasn’t going to take his dessert away from him. It would only make Steve dislike him more.

“I’m sure.”

“Okay.” Steve looked up from his plate and offered a small forced smile, before focusing on his food once again.

Things were already back to normal (ie. Steve not talking to him), then.

Heather and Robin arrived barely a minute later, saving them from the awkward silence that had taken place after their thirty-second conversation (if it could even be called that).

As soon as he had finished eating, Steve announced:

“I’ve gotta scoot. I have to prepare some stuff before my next class.”

He had already got up from his chair when he reached the end of his sentence.  

“You still on for tomorrow?” Robin asked.

“Sure thing. See you then!”

Steve took his tray and walked toward the exit in quick strides.

“What’s tomorrow?” Billy asked.

“We’re going to Benny’s coffee shop to grade some papers. You can come if you want.”

Billy had just played himself, hadn’t he? He had asked out of curiosity. He hadn’t been expecting to be invited along to whatever Robin and Steve had planned.

“I wouldn’t want to intrude”, was Billy’s last ditched effort to avoid what was sure to be an extremely awkward afternoon.

He could have come up with some fake excuse, but he was uncomfortable with the idea of lying to Robin. Because she’d been nice to him so far, and also because he was almost certain she would see right through him. She was far too observant for Billy’s good.

“Nonsense, you wouldn’t be intruding.” Robin rolled her eyes.

“Uh… okay, then. Thanks.”

Billy was about to eat his vanilla pudding, aka his sad non-chocolate cake dessert, when Max came up to their table and awkwardly said “hello” to Heather and Robin.

“Something you want?” Billy questioned, because she was obviously there to ask him something but wouldn’t spit it out.

“I’m going to Art club this afternoon. It ends at six… Will you come get me?”

Billy arched an eyebrow.

“We have an Art club?”

Also, since when was Max into art?

“Yeah… well actually today’s the first session… whatever. Will you drive me back home or not?”

“Can’t you skate?”

Now Billy was just being an asshole. Max had been skating to and from school most days since, according to her, it was “uncool” to be seen hanging with a teacher… which was stupid because 1. Billy was her brother, and 2. There was nothing uncool about him.

“I… ugh… well. I broke my skateboard.”

Max bit her lower lip.

Billy sighed.

“Again?”

“Yeah… sorry.”

“Okay, fine, I’ll drive you home.” Billy conceded, making a quick mental note to go buy Max a new skateboard. For the third time this year.

“Thanks. Later.”

She was gone as quickly as she had come, leaving Billy to deal with Robin and Heather’s puzzled faces.

“What was that?” Heather asked.

“Maxine Mayfield…?” Billy said, hoping to avoid this particular conversation.

The universe didn’t want him to avoid things that day, though.

“I know that, dumbass. You know each other?”

“Yeah, she’s my sister.”

“What?! How come we didn’t know that?”

“We don’t have the same name, whatever. It’s not that big a deal.” Billy mumbled.

“Yeah… but still… you could have told us.”

“Here honey, have some cake, it’s delicious.” Robin said, extending her fork to Heather.

Billy was thankful for the distraction. But he mainly focused on the cake, that he had only now taken notice of.

“Did Maria save that for you?” He asked.

Robin frowned.

“Yeah, how did you know?”

“Never mind.” Billy said.

-

Billy chose to stay at school after his last class and to wait in the teachers’ lounge until Art club was over and Max was ready to go home. He would have used the time to grade some papers, but he was supposed to do that tomorrow afternoon with Robin… and Steve. So he spent the hour and a half reading, instead.

He went to the classroom, which Max had given him the number of by text, five minutes before the session was supposed to end. He waited at least fifteen minutes before the first student left the room, greeting Billy on the way out.

Max came out last, along with El, the headmaster’s adopted daughter. She was one of Billy’s students. She had some troubles in English because, from what he had been told, she had only started learning the language recently. She was pretty quiet, maybe because of that exact reason, but she seemed like a very sweet girl. It would be good for Max to hang out with her. Billy didn’t dare ask because he didn’t want to put Max on the spot or make her feel bad, but he feared she had yet to make friends at school.

Billy’s thoughts were interrupted when none other than Steve Harrington emerged from the classroom right after the girls. Well, that explained the ten minutes Billy had had to wait.

Steve had paints all over his hands, and some on his shirt. There was even a little blue spot on his cheek. He looked painfully cute. Billy didn’t like it one bit.

“Billy?” Steve asked, sounding as shocked as Billy felt. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to pick my sister up.” He said, gesturing to Max. “You run the Art club?”

Billy didn’t mean to sound this disbelieving, but he was having a hard time reconciling Math teacher and art enthusiast. Was that judgmental? Was Billy a hypocrite?

“We don’t have a real art teacher so… uh… for lack of a better option, I’m taking care of it for the time being.”

“You’re great at it, Steve.” El said with a beaming smile.

Did all his students call him Steve or was it only the headmaster’s daughter? Billy was intrigued.

“Oh thanks, El. You’re too nice.”  

Billy almost said: “that’s the pot calling the kettle black”, but he thankfully kept his mouth shut.

Steve locked the classroom door and then turned back to them.  

“Well, girls, Billy, have a good weekend. See you on Monday.”

“Actually, you’ll be seeing me tomorrow.”

What had happened to Billy’s mouth staying shut?

“Oh… you’re coming? That’s… that’s great.” Steve stammered.

He smiled, but it was too late: Billy had seen the disappointment in his eyes.

“Yeah… great. Have a good evening, Steve.” He sounded cold, as he said it.

“Y-you too.”

Yes… The coffee date was going to go swimmingly.

[hrina]

Serotonin

PAIRING: Harry x Reader RATING: M for mature WORD COUNT: 23.7k REQUESTED: nope!

hi everyone 🥺🥺🥺 she’s here 🥺🥺🥺 please be kind to her 🥺🥺🥺 i poured my heart out into this fic. it’s the longest (and probably the best) standalone piece that i’ve ever written. if you want to let me know your thoughts, reblogging and sending feedback to my askbox would mean the absolute world. 

p.s. since this fic is extremely long, it may cause the tumblr mobile app to glitch. if that happens to you, i suggest opening it up in google chrome or safari instead. enjoy 💕

~*~

September 4th, 2019

You always sit in the middle.

The front makes you feel far too exposed. It’s more likely that you’ll be called upon by chance, and your professors are liable to notice your absence if they’ve grown accustomed to seeing you sat squarely before them during every class.

The back is riddled with too many distractions. You know that you’ll end up watching the shows playing on the laptop screens of the students in front of you. You might not even be able to hear the lecture all that well. Despite your aversion to sitting at the front, you still want to pass with a decent grade.

The middle of the lecture hall serves as a happy medium.

Margaret and Mateo agree. That’s why the three of you push through the door and make a beeline for the trio of free seats located directly in the middle of the room. They seem to be calling your names. You nudge past a pair of girls who are absorbed in a hushed conversation, taking the time to apologise for the inconvenience. A moment later, you plop down into your chair; Margaret takes the seat on your left, while Mateo slumps against the one on your right.

“You’d think that with the thousands of dollars we pay each year, they’d be able to afford more comfortable chairs,” Mateo mutters, resting his chin on a closed fist. You snort in response.

Margaret flips her silky hair over her shoulder. “It’s because they’re too busy offering ridiculously-high salaries to profs who can’t even teach.”

You shoot her a look, cocking one eyebrow teasingly. “We all know that you want to namedrop Allende. It’s okay—you can say it.”

“She’s horrible,” Margaret groans, burying her face into her hands. “She speaks the language perfectly, but she can’t fucking relay the knowledge in an effective way. Isn’t that the entire point of teaching?”

“That’s what you get for minoring in Spanish,” Mateo mutters.

You laugh and nudge him with your shoulder. “Oh, like your minor is any better? How do you say ‘dumbass’ in Latin?”

“It’s the root of most European languages!” he protests.

“It’s a dead language!” You and Margaret say at the same time. You turn to face each other with wide eyes; an incredulous giggle slips past your lips. Mateo opens his mouth to form a rebuttal, but then the door to the lecture hall slams shut, and every head in the room snaps in the direction of the sound.

“Glad to see that trick still works.” Dr. Renault claps his hands before rubbing them together excitedly. Subconsciously, you sit up a bit straighter in your seat.

Dr. Renault is a short, balding man, with a face framed by thin gold spectacles and a belly that bulges slightly over the waistband of his suit bottoms. He fiddles with his red tie as he makes his way over to the podium at the front of the room. You’ve heard good things about him; almost everyone who has taken his class has left shining reviews and gushed about his skills. The buildup has set your expectations high. You don’t think that you’ll be disappointed.

Your eyes drift away from your professor, drawn, now, to the person walking a few paces behind him. The man has wavy brown hair that curls just behind his ears. He’s wearing a patterned green sweater and black trousers; a pair of dark brown loafers adorn his feet. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up slightly, and you can’t help but to notice the smattering of dark ink that decorates his left forearm. Big, bulky rings cover nearly all of his fingers. Tortoise-shell glasses keep his dark hair pinned back—you think that the strands would flop over his forehead if left untamed.

“Welcome, everyone,” Dr. Renault starts, and you turn your attention back to him. He’s standing behind the podium now; there’s a small stack of papers in front of him. “First things first: can you all hear me properly? Or will I need to use a microphone for the duration of this course? I don’t mind.”

A low rumble of responses travel across the room. You shake your head; Margaret and Mateo do the same. You can all hear him just fine.

“Alright,” your professor clears his throat. “My name is Gabriel Renault, but you can call me ‘My Lord’.” He smiles, and the class laughs weakly. Dr. Renault holds out his arm, gesturing to the tattooed man that you’d been studying before. “This is my assistant, Harry. He’ll be grading most of your work this semester, so if you’re looking for someone’s ass to kiss, it should be his.”

Everyone laughs a bit louder this time, including you. Harry steps forward and offers a small smile but doesn’t say anything.

Margaret leans into you. “He’s kind of cute,” she mumbles, shrugging. “In an old-man sort of way.”

“Oh my God.” You cover your mouth and shake your head at her words, but you have to admit that she does have a point. Realistically, Harry can’t be more than four or five years older than you, but the clothes he’s wearing don’t exactly fit the dress code for someone his age. In fact, his outfit looks like something that you could probably have pulled from your grandfather’s closet.

Margaret giggles quietly and recoils, sitting up properly again. When you look back up, your eyes lock immediately with Harry’s. Even from thirty feet away, you can see the mossy green of his irises and feel the intensity of his gaze. A lump forms in your throat, but nonetheless, you shoot him a faint, barely-there smile. He looks away.

Your brows knit together in confusion, but you force yourself to shrug it off. “Bit of a prick,” you breathe to no one in particular.

Mateo looks over at you inquisitively. “What?”

“No, nothing,” you whisper, waving his question away. You turn to face the front again, watching conscientiously as Dr. Renault takes hold of the stack of papers in front of him and splits it into two. He gives one half to Harry before addressing the class.

“Harry and I will be handing out the syllabus for this semester,” he announces. “There will be a short quiz at the end of each class. Don’t worry,” he smiles wryly when quiet murmurs begin surfacing amongst the seats, “They’re only composed of five multiple choice questions. They’ll each count for two percent of your grade; I know it doesn’t seem like a lot, but I find that sometimes students will need that two percent to stay afloat in the course.”

“Me,” Mateo mutters quietly. You and Margaret snicker.

“There will be a quiz at the end of today’s lecture,” Dr. Renault continues. “I’ll be going through the syllabus with you for the first half of the class, and then we’ll do a quick review of the content that you should already know.” He and Harry begin distributing copies of the syllabus to each student, coaxing your classmates to pass the papers down their rows.

“So today’s quiz should be relatively straightforward. An easy two percent,” Dr. Renault says, before casting a glance at his assistant. “Wouldn’t you agree, Harry?”

Harry nods. “Yes, sir.”

You balk at the huskiness of his tone. The words are impossibly deep and throaty. Margaret stares at you with wide eyes and leans in closer.

“If I could fuck a voice…,” she hisses.

“Shut the hell up,” you retort, trying not to laugh at her candour.

Something nudges your arm; you turn and find Mateo holding out a few copies of the syllabus for you to take. You slip one out from the pile and pass it on, but not before glancing up and spotting Harry standing a few feet away at the end of your row. He’s chewing on the inside of his cheek. The two of you make eye contact again, but this time, it’s you who turns away first.

“There will be a short paper due next week.” Dr. Renault is speaking again. “Don’t fret—it only has to be seven-hundred-and-fifty words. One thousand is the maximum, though I doubt anyone will want to be writing that much after only the first week of class.” He chuckles to himself. “I’ll go into more detail as we read through the outline of the course. Grades for any tests and assignments will be posted online, but we’ll always give the physical copy back to you so that you can use it to study for the exams.”

A girl in your row raises her hand. When your professor nods at her, she asks, “What exactly did you mean when you talked about a review? Like, what kind of information? Just the basics?”

“Yes,” he replies, his cheeks rounding out as he smiles. “Only the content you learned in the introductory course. I believe they taught a chapter on neuroscience, am I correct?”

Everyone releases a quiet murmur of affirmation. Dr. Renault pushes his glasses higher up on the bridge of his nose. “Excellent,” he says. “So that would be the basics of this course—the three main components of an axon, the chemistry behind an action potential, the parts of the brain and their general functions, etcetera. All of that serves as a foundation for neuropsychology.”

“Okay, thank you,” the girl says. You recognize her—you’ve had a few classes with her, but her name escapes you.

“You’re very welcome.” Dr. Renault beams, and you fight to suppress a smile. He seems so nice—you find yourself predicting that this will quickly become one of your favourite classes.

“Is anyone missing a copy?” Harry pipes up, holding the remaining papers aloft. Your spine stiffens at the guttural rasp of his voice, and you take note of the slow drawl that crawls past his lips.

He has an accent. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Margaret fanning herself in small motions, and you roll your eyes with a soft snort.

When nobody raises their hand, Harry lowers his arm and turns to make his way back to the front of the lecture hall. You train your eyes on him, studying the way his shoulder blades protrude with every slight swing of his arms. His back is broad, tapering off into a narrow waist and long legs.

He’s probably six feet.

You cross your thighs over each other.

“Alright.” Dr. Renault resumes his initial position at the podium. “If you all look at the first page of the syllabus, you’ll find my email, as well as Harry’s. I’ve also taken the liberty of including our office locations and the hours during which we’ll be available. Please don’t hesitate to come in for extra help; it’s what we’re here for.”

“Maybe I’ll head on down to Harry’s office for some extra help,” Margaret murmurs. You don’t miss the suggestiveness lacing her words. You scoff and bump her gently with your elbow. Mateo peers over at the two of you, but you just shake your head.

“She’s being gross again,” is all you say.

He puckers his lips and nods knowingly. “Of course.”

“Are you guys down for a latte at Grounded later?” Margaret pokes her head into the conversation, her voice a bit louder than it should be. You and Mateo shush her; she pouts.

“To answer your question, though,” Mateo says, “Yes.”

“I’ve missed their coffee,” you say wistfully, staring off into nothing. The three of you fall silent, instead deciding to tune in and listen to what Dr. Renault has to say about the layout of the course. Despite your sharp concentration, your ears tingle with the feeling of being watched, and your eyes reflexively fall to the side.

You catch only a glimpse of green, and then it’s over just as quickly as it had begun.

  September 11th, 2019

“How much are you willing to bet that Mateo wrote exactly seven-hundred-and-fifty words?”

Margaret cackles. “He probably didn’t even reach the minimum.”

“You’re so mean!” you laugh, turning the corner and zeroing in on the door of your lecture hall. “Have a little faith in him.”

“Let’s wager an iced coffee from Grounded,” she suggests, lifting an eyebrow. You nod and push open the door. The room is full of students buzzing around and chatting. A quick glance upward reveals that Mateo has already reserved three seats in one of the middle rows. You and Margaret climb the steps of the hall and squeeze past a few students sitting right next to the aisle.

“Sorry…excuse us,” you murmur.

“Hey.” Mateo smiles when the two of you finally reach him. You drop down into your chair, blowing a wayward strand of hair out of your face and yawning loudly.

Margaret doesn’t waste any time. “How many words did you end up writing for the paper?”

Mateo grimaces. “Like…seven-hundred. I’m hoping Renault doesn’t actually count them all.”

“Oh, fuck yes!” Margaret beams and points a finger at you. “You lose. I like my iced coffee with a shot of vanilla bean, bitch.”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” you groan, batting her hand away before turning back to Mateo. “And technically it’s Harry who’ll be grading them. Hopefully he’s lenient with that stuff.”

Mateo doesn’t seem to have registered your last two sentences; in fact, he disregards your correction completely. His gaze bounces between you and Margaret, creases weaving into his forehead. Eventually, it dawns on him, and he releases an affronted squawk.

“You guys bet on me?”

“I gave you the benefit of the doubt!” you protest, lifting your hands in the air. “Margaret’s the one who—”

“Good morning, everyone!”

Dr. Renault is at the front of the room, standing behind that same podium from last week. He’s wearing a bright red polo shirt and a pair of blue jeans, which makes you smile for absolutely no reason. The colour of his top brings out the rosiness of his cheeks, and when he offers up a bright grin for the class, his teeth appear to be even whiter than normal.

Behind him, Harry’s standing off to the side with his hands clasped at the small of his back. He’s clad in a black button-up and black trousers. The outfit would have been completely appropriate had it not been for the suspenders striping up his sides; the silver buckles on each strap glint teasingly in the light.

“Why does it look like they swapped closets?” Mateo mumbles. You giggle softly.

“The first thing we’re going to be doing this morning,” Dr. Renault says, “is giving back your quizzes from last week. They’re short, so Harry had no trouble getting around to marking all of them. He’ll be handing them back to you in just a moment.”

You wait with a bated breath as Harry pulls a stack of sheets from his messenger bag. He begins calling out names, and each person quickly scrambles up from their seat in order to retrieve their grade. Mateo’s name is one of the first to echo around the room. He grimaces offhandedly at you and mutters something about wishing him luck. You and Margaret make a show of crossing your fingers and holding them up as a proclamation of your support.

Mateo clambers down the steps, graciously accepts his quiz, and folds it up without looking at it. He makes it all the way back to his seat before thrusting the sheet into your hands and averting his gaze. “Tell me what I got,” he pleads. “I can’t look.”

You chuckle at his theatrics before opening up the paper and letting your eyes rake over the mark circled in red. “Perfect,” you say quietly, a small smile playing on your lips. Your friend’s eyes go wide, and then his cheeks split apart with the force of his grin.

“Oh, thank God,” he sighs, slouching back in his chair and rubbing his palms over his face. “That two percent is going to keep my ass from failing. I’m calling it now.”

“You’ll be fine,” you scoff, swatting at him half-heartedly with the hand clutching his quiz. Mateo thanks you as you hand the sheet back, pleating it once more and tucking it into the sleeve on the inside of his binder.

Margaret’s name is called a moment later, and yours follows immediately after. You both look at each other and shrug, standing from your chairs and stumbling through the row. Margaret ends up in front of you; you stare down at your shoes to make sure that you don’t trip down the stairs. Your face heats up at the mere thought of humiliating yourself in front of the class, in front of Dr. Renault, in front of Harry.

In a matter of seconds, you’re standing before him. Margaret moves out of the way and treks back up to where Mateo is waiting, subtly flapping her page around to indicate her mark. You stare at Harry evenly, your gaze never leaving his face—he’s looking down at your quiz, and he’s hesitating.

His apprehension makes you nervous. Had you done poorly?

Eventually, he pulls the paper out of the pile and looks up. His eyes meet yours.

The green of his irises is even more vivid up close. It knocks the wind straight from your chest. You can see the flecks of hazel dotting the area around his pupils, and the way his eyelashes brush along his browbone when he lifts his head. There’s a small mole beneath the corner of his mouth. His lips are full and pink; they look soft.

“Here you are,” Harry says, and for a moment, you’re confused. Here you are, stationed in front of him. Had he been waiting specifically for you?

Then, you realise that he’s got his hand outstretched, offering you the marked quiz clutched between his long fingers.

You’re an idiot.

“Thank you,” you say dumbly.

Your hand brushes his when you pluck the sheet out of his grasp. There’s a cross tattooed on his hand, right above the divot of his thumb. You turn around, and for a moment, you think you hear him say something from behind you—it sounds suspiciously like “good job”—but you shake your head free of the thought. He doesn’t seem like the type.

On your way back up to your seat, you allow yourself to glance at the grade scrawled across the top of the page. A perfect score. You exhale in relief. Your attention is drawn to where a small, messy smiley face has been drawn in red pen. Beneath the doodle, there’s a few words of encouragement:

Well done. Keep it up. H. x

You gnaw on your bottom lip, so focussed on the note that you nearly pass your row. Margaret hisses at you, and you stop cold in your tracks, silently berating yourself. After a few painful moments of squeezing by the other students sitting closer to the aisle, you drop back down into your chair and fold up your quiz quickly.

Had there been a note on Mateo’s quiz?

You can’t remember. Maybe there was, and you’d merely skimmed over it. You don’t want to ask him about it right now, though, because the room is silent save for Harry calling out names and your peers shuffling forward to received their tests.

You lean forward and pull a brand-new notebook from your bag, sneakily slipping your page inside the knapsack and zipping it back up. Neither Mateo nor Margaret make inquiries regarding your grade. It’s like an unspoken rule: you always do well.

The three of you settle into your seats and wait for the lecture to begin.  

~*~

“Hi.” You lean forward and shoot the barista a friendly smile. “Can I get a medium iced coffee with one sugar and a shot of vanilla bean?”

“Sure. Anything else?”

“Um…” You say, biting your bottom lip. “Actually, can you make it two? That’s it, thanks.”

“That’ll be five dollars and ten cents.”

You fish your wallet out of your bag and produce the correct amount of money. Margaret grins from beside you; you both move down the counter as you wait for your drinks.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you say, rolling your eyes. “I can tell you want to brag.”

“That’s what happens when you come to expect too much from Mateo.”

You laugh. “You’re such a bitch.”

“But you’re the one who’s friends with me,” she shoots back, lifting an eyebrow teasingly. Her straight brown hair is braided today, draped over her shoulder and cinched at the bottom with a sparkly pink hair tie. You reach out and play with a loose thread on her sweater before yanking your fingers and snapping it off cleanly. She yelps, but the sound quickly dissolves into laughter.

“How’s Spanish?” you ask wryly, mostly because you’re in the mood to see her fly off the handle.

She scoffs. “Allende is…a demon. It’s only the second week and she’s already fucking killing me.”

“Just drop the class,” you suggest, shrugging your shoulders. “You can always take it next year—maybe she won’t be teaching it, then.”

“I thought about it,” Margaret says, sighing. “But Valentina would murder me. She wanted me to be able to speak the language fluently so I could learn more about our culture and shit. Even if I tell her that I’ll retake the class next year, she’s still gonna flip.”

“That sucks.” You pout and shoot her a sympathetic look. “Valentina should learn to trust her daughter’s judgment.”

A low, hollow laugh echoes in the back of your friend’s throat. “Not likely.”

You try a different approach. “Well, at least you’ve got me—since you’re stuck taking the course, I promise that I’ll listen to all your rants and complaints.”

“Oh, really?” Margaret grins. “Is there an expiration date on that offer?”

“Nope,” you reply, popping the syllable playfully. “This coupon is valid until the end of time.”

“Two medium iced coffees, one sugar and one shot of vanilla bean!”

You and Margaret accept your drinks, sending out quick spiels of gratitude. The barista smiles and tells you to have a good day. As you walk away, your friend guides her straw into her mouth and takes a lengthy, obnoxious sip of her drink. She throws her head back and moans dramatically at the flavour.

“Mhm,” she says, smacking her lips. “It tastes so much better when it’s free.”

“Fuck off,” you laugh, shaking your head. You fix her with a begrudging smile, but something behind her catches your eye. Stupidly, you freeze right in the middle of the basement corridor, the straw of your coffee resting against your parted lips.

Inside the room, Harry’s sitting behind a desk, his tortoise-shell glasses perched on his nose as he rifles through a sizeable stack of papers. There’s a red pen nestled between his fingers, and the sleeves of his black button-up have been rolled a handful of times, leaving his forearms exposed. His tattoos are much clearer now that there’s less distance separating the two of you. You spy an anchor, a rose—

“What are you—?” Margaret scowls and spins around. “Oh.” She turns back to you. “His office is right here? That’s convenient.”

You reluctantly tear your gaze away from Harry so that you can look at her properly. “How so?”

“Well, if he wants to get coffee, he doesn’t exactly have to go very far.” She smirks before taking another sip of her drink. “Plus,” she swallows, “It’s convenient for me, too. I can grab a latte and then pay him a visit right after for some of that extra help.”

She wiggles her brows. You snort.

“You’re ridiculous,” you tell her earnestly. She just giggles, shouldering the strap of her purse and angling her chin to the left.

“Let’s go,” she says. “I really don’t wanna get stuck in traffic again. Last week, it took me, like, two hours to get home.”

“Yikes.” You grimace at the thought, but Margaret’s already pedalling away.

“Come on,” she calls over her shoulder. You follow her, but not before deciding to spare one last glance into Harry’s office.

Your breath hitches in your throat when you find a pair of grassy green eyes staring back at you intently. Harry’s gaze is unwavering; there’s a certain peculiarity about it. It’s searing, like he’s taking you apart piece by piece, unravelling every layer to study what lies beneath. Your skin crawls with the humiliation of getting caught, but something else, too. Anticipation? Exhilaration?

The exchange doesn’t even last a few seconds, but it feels like an eternity. Your lips curl up into an uneasy smile as you try to quell the nervous frothing in the pit of your stomach. For a moment—a foolish, optimistic moment—you think that he might actually return your friendly expression.

Harry merely blinks, twirls his red pen over in his fingers, and looks back down.

  September 18th, 2019

“Shit,” you mutter to yourself, looking down at your phone. Your class starts in five minutes, and you’ve just made it onto campus. You’d texted Mateo already and kindly asked him to save you a seat, but your eyes are drooping and you’re absolutely exhausted. Before you can even weigh your options, your feet are carrying you down into the basement of the building to retrieve a cup of coffee from Grounded. You can’t even be upset about it—your body clearly knows what it needs, and right now, that need is manifesting itself in the form of a massive dose of caffeine.

You hop in line, pulling up Mateo’s contact and composing a quick message regarding your whereabouts. Before you send it, you ask if he or Margaret would like for you to buy them anything. A short moment later, he replies, assuring you that they both already bought their coffees and are as awake as ever.

You guys didn’t even offer to get one for me? How rude, you type back, a small smirk on your face.

Mateo’s response is instantaneous, like he had already rehearsed what he was going to say.

In our defense, we thought you were dead.

You snort softly and shake your head as the message sinks in. Your phone clicks quietly when you lock it, but as you lift your gaze, you catch sight of an intricate drawing and freeze. Your eyes nearly bulge out from their sockets when you register that the left arm of the person standing in front of you is littered with tattoos.

An anchor.

A rose.

A mermaid, whose chest is on full display in all of its naked glory.

There are countless others, but you don’t have enough time to study each one, because just then, Harry is stepping up to the counter to recite his order.

“Morning, love,” you hear him greet the barista. She blushes profusely and grins at him in return. Your shoulders tense at the gruffness of his voice, and you briefly wonder just how deep it can get.

You don’t catch the rest of the trade, trying to focus instead on anything other than how good Harry’s ass looks in the khakis adorning his legs. He cracks a low joke, and the barista laughs. Smiling slightly, he casts a casual glance over his shoulder, and you stiffen when his eyes land squarely on you. His pleased expression fades.

“Also…,” he says, keeping his gaze on you for a moment longer before turning back to the counter.

You don’t tune in to the remainder of his sentence, mostly because your ears are ringing and your heart is hammering wildly beneath your ribs. Harry pulls a crisp bill from his pocket and hands it over before moving to the side and waiting for his drink. It takes all of your willpower to look at everything except for him. The barista abandons her post at the cash register to prepare his coffee. You stand awkwardly at the beginning of the line, waiting for her to come back.

She finally does after a couple of minutes, greeting you cheerily and subconsciously leaning in so that she can hear your order properly.

“Hi,” you say. “Um, can I get a large vanilla latte with an extra shot of espresso?”

“Sure,” she replies, but as soon as you begin to pull your wallet from your bag, she stops you. “Actually,” she says, “The man who was just here paid for you. He gave me a ten and told me to keep whatever was left over.”

“I’m sorry?” You blink.

“The man in front of you,” she elaborates. “The one with the accent.”

Your lips part in surprise. Instinctively, you whip your head to the side, just in time to watch as Harry disappears around the corner.

~*~

You end up being a few minutes late. The sound of the door being pushed open is painfully loud, and you have to conceal an embarrassed cringe when your entrance is met with dozens of faces staring down at you. Dr. Renault is in the process of speaking, but when you walk in, he injects a quick, “Welcome, good morning, pull up a chair!” into the middle of his sentence. You try for a sheepish smile and hope that it comes across as sincere.

“That was humiliating,” you mutter when you finally collapse into the seat next to Mateo. He’d saved you a spot right beside the aisle; you send out a silent prayer of thanks. “This is why I’m never late.”

Your friends both shoot you knowing looks, their features soft with compassion. You sigh quietly, taking a long sip of your latte and trying to shrug off the mortification looming over your head.

“As I was saying,” your professor continues, unperturbed by your brief interruption. “The midterm is next week. It will cover chapters one through three; I trust that everyone has begun reviewing?”

Low murmurs are all that he receives as a response. Dr. Renault chuckles and pushes his glasses further up his nose. “I’ll be going into further detail regarding the exam during the last twenty minutes of today’s class. As for right now, Harry will be handing back your quizzes from last week, as well as the assignments that you all submitted. There were a few bumps, but overall, I think most of you did well.”

And just like that, all eyes fall on Harry. He steps forward, a stack of sheets balanced in the crook of his left arm. He clears his throat and licks the pad of his thumb to effectively grasp the corner of the first page.

“Morning, everyone,” he says huskily. “I’ve paired your quizzes from last week with your papers, so you’ll be getting both at the same time. If you’ve got any questions regarding your grades, please feel free to consult me at the end of today’s lecture.”

That’s the most that you’ve ever heard him speak, you realise.

Harry peers up at the class, his eyes skimming over the rows of students before landing on you. You’re not sure if it’s real, or if your mind is just playing tricks on you, but he seems to stare at you for a beat longer than anyone else. You swallow heavily, hoping that he can’t see the violent bobbing of your throat from down below. A moment later, he calls out a name. The girl in the chair in front of you jumps to her feet, and the spell is broken.

One by one, each undergraduate stands and ambles down the stairs of the lecture hall to retrieve their marks. Margaret’s name is called; Mateo’s follows a few moments later. You smile encouragingly at them and watch as they descend the steps.

You grow nervous as the stack of papers nestled in Harry’s arms begins to dwindle. It’s silly, but whenever your work happens to be located near the end of the queue, you always feel a niggling sense of paranoia biting at the back of your brain. Realistically, you know that your assignment will most likely be present in that pile, but there’s always that small what if.

Finally, though, you hear your name ring out.

You immediately decide that you love the way it sounds exiting Harry’s lips.

You stand, grateful that you don’t have to squeeze past anyone. Maybe you should aim to sit in a seat next to the aisle more often—it’s awfully convenient.

Your heart is thudding wildly in your chest, and as you make your way down to where Harry waits, you grow afraid that he’ll be able to see it pulsing through your shirt.

Don’t trip, don’t trip, don’t trip.

Fortunately, you reach the bottom stair without a single misstep. Harry’s staring down at your papers, his lips tucked into a thin line. When you clear your throat gently, he looks up at you. Twin pink spots dot his cheeks when he realises that you’ve been standing in front of him for a moment too long. He holds out your assignment and your quiz, the pages held together by a skinny silver clip.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. You hesitate for a second before adding, “And thank you for paying for my—”

“Evan Ross.” Harry cuts you off without blinking, the next name rolling off his tongue seamlessly. You blink in surprise, stiffening. Your mouth pops open as a mixture of shock and hurt washes over you.

Your chest grows tight with emotion, and your eyes burn as you whip around and hurry back up the stairs. You keep your head low as you slide back into your seat; Margaret and Mateo are too absorbed in a hushed conversation to notice the distressed expression on your face, but you don’t mind. In fact, you’re thankful for it.

Your mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. Needing a distraction, you unfold the small pile of papers in your hand and glance down at your grades. You’ve achieved a perfect score on your quiz. At the top of the sheet, scrawled in red pen, there’s a smiley face and a brief note:

Well done. Glad to see that somebody’s been paying attention. H. x

You direct your awareness to the written assignment in your other hand. A bright 95% stares back up at you, along with another few words of encouragement:

Very insightful. Great job. H. x

Your eyes narrow. You sit back in your chair; a quiet, incredulous laugh bubbles up in your throat. Luckily, it’s faint enough to avoid being detected by anyone else. You shake your head in disbelief, skimming over Harry’s comments one last time before angrily shoving the pages into your bag. They crinkle loudly—you know that they’ll be all bent out of shape by the time you’ll need to retrieve them, but you don’t care.

You straighten up and risk a glance down to where Harry is still handing assignments and quizzes back to last of your classmates. He smiles at one boy and gives him a reassuring nod before his green eyes stray upward, as though drawn by an invisible magnet. His gaze locks with yours, and the mild curl of his lips quickly flattens out. You clench your jaw and look away, huffing petulantly through your nose.

What a fucking dick.

  September 25th, 2019

“I’m not ready,” you declare, slapping your binder down onto the small foldable desk attached to Mateo’s seat. Your friend jumps in surprise, his eyes growing ludicrously wide, and Margaret cackles loudly from beside him. Despite the panic coursing through your veins, you crack a small smile.

“Good morning to you, too,” Mateo grumbles, his shoulders still hunched from your sudden intrusion.

You groan and collapse into the chair next to him, massaging your temples in hopes of avoiding an oncoming headache. The sensation tends to creep up on you, and you’re sure that it’s due to the measly amount of sleep you’d acquired only a few hours prior. Margaret leans over, extending her arm and offering you a sip of her coffee. You take it and flash her a grateful (albeit pained) smile. Her latte is still a bit hot, but that doesn’t stop you from swallowing down a large gulp.

“What’s wrong?” Margaret asks as you hand the cup back over to her. “Did you not study enough?”

“Yeah,” you say, scowling deeply. “The proposal for my experimental psych class was due last night, so I spent pretty much all my time working on that.”

“Don’t worry,” Mateo says. “You always do well, even when you think you won’t—you’ve got this.”

“Thanks,” you mumble nervously, blowing him a meek kiss. You shift closer to him so that you can scan the contents of his open textbook, hoping to memorize a few final facts before the exam starts.

Dr. Renault and Harry walk in a few moments later, both carrying intimidatingly-tall stacks of paper. A hush falls over the classroom—the abrupt silence makes your professor laugh.

“Don’t worry!” he says. “It’s not that difficult, I promise.”

Somehow, you don’t believe him.

In a matter of minutes, the tests have been distributed, and all of the students in the room are sitting with one seat separating them from their neighbours. Dr. Renault announces that he and Harry will be perusing up and down the aisles, ready to answer any questions regarding the exam. Subconsciously, your toes curl in your shoes—you definitely won’t be asking Harry for further clarification, no matter how badly you need it.

“You will have one-hundred-and-twenty minutes to complete the midterm,” your professor says. His smile is supportive, but it does nothing to soothe to anxious knot in the pit of your stomach. “Good luck, everyone.”

With that, you flip to the first page of the packet. The next two hours are filled with the sounds of pencils scribbling on paper, the hushed whispers of Harry and Dr. Renault, and the occasional lone, hacking cough.

  October 9th, 2019

You’re sitting in the library with Mateo when your phone buzzes with the notification. You glance down at the screen and gasp loudly when you read the words:

Harry Styles has posted to the forum.

“Mateo!” you hiss. He doesn’t reply. Looking up, you see him bopping his head along to the music playing through his white earphones. He’s twirling a pencil through his fingers absentmindedly and skimming through his neuropsychology textbook. You kick his shin underneath the table.

“Ow!” he yelps. The sound is far too loud, considering that it’s only nine in the morning and you’re both situated in an establishment that demands silence.

“Shh!” you say, frowning slightly. He pulls out one of his earbuds and stares at you with bewildered eyes. You choose to stay tacit, simply holding up your phone and letting him read the notification lighting up the glass screen.

“Okay…,” he whispers, glaring at you. “Why the fuck did that warrant such a hard kick?”

“I’m sorry.” You wince. He’s right. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s fine.” He waves off your apology before fishing his own cell phone out of his pocket and unlocking it swiftly. Together, the two of you pull up a browser tab and type the name of your school’s website into the search bar. You log into your student accounts and click on your neuropsychology class. The link takes you to the collective forum, and your eyes sweep over Harry’s name at the top—the most recent post. You tap it gently and begin to read.

Hi all,

Attached to this post is a spreadsheet containing your scores on the midterm. In the first column, you’ll find your student number. In the second, I’ve provided your mark as a percentage. As always, I will be available after class today if you have any questions regarding your grade.

See you soon.

Sincerely,

Harry

You hold your breath as you scroll down and open up the spreadsheet linked below his message. After a few prolonged, painful seconds of searching, you find your student number and zero in on the percentage located right beside it. You swear that your heart stops.

62%.

Sixty-two percent.

Your lips part in surprise. You take a long, hard look at the spreadsheet, wondering if maybe you’d landed on the wrong row, but no. Your number is there. And a few pixels away, a dark, insidious 62% stands out in black. You inhale deeply, trying to keep yourself from hyperventilating.

“I got a seventy,” Mateo breathes, looking up from his phone and closing his eyes in relief. A moment later, they pop back open. “How about you?”

“A sixty-two,” you whisper, unable to tear your gaze from your screen.

He balks. “Come again?”

“A sixty-two,” you restate, a bit louder this time. “I—”

“Don’t panic,” Mateo says immediately, holding up his hand. You finally manage to focus on him, your eyes growing damp with anxious tears.

“Hey,” he says sternly, reaching over and laying a comforting palm on your forearm. “Don’t panic. It’s only worth twenty-five percent, okay? You’re doing really well on the quizzes so far, and you did great on that first paper, too. That was, like, another five percent or something, right?”

“Yeah,” you say, nodding weakly.

Mateo chews on his lips, but his expression is determined. He mimics your nod, though his appears to be a bit more assured. “Okay,” he tells you. “So, here’s what you’re gonna do: you’re gonna go see Harry after class today and set up an appointment so that he can go over the exam with you. And then you’re gonna take in all that information, and you’re gonna ace the final at the end of the semester, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you repeat, but this time, there’s a bit more conviction behind the word. Mateo knows how bad your anxiety can get—he’s caught you in the middle of an emotional breakdown more times than you’d care to admit. But he also knows how to keep you grounded, and he’s almost always able to bring you back down when your thoughts take you elsewhere.

“Thank you,” you tell him, swallowing heavily. “That’s a good idea, I’ll do that.”

“Yes, you will,” he says, and then he sits back and flips his textbook shut. “Come on, let’s go grab a coffee before class. My treat.”

~*~

When you get your exam back, there’s another haphazard note scribbled at the top in red.

It’s okay. I know you’ll do better on the next one. H. x

~*~

As your fist lands the first perfunctory knock on Harry’s door, you find yourself wanting nothing more than to spin around and speed away as fast as you can. Harry lifts his head from where it’s buried inside a book, fixing his gaze on you and cocking his head to the side.

“Hi,” you say nervously. “Um, sorry to bother you. My name is—”

You’re shocked to hear it escape Harry’s lips before you can say it yourself. You clamp your mouth shut and nod silently, too afraid to utter anything else.

“Hi,” Harry replies. His voice is the epitome of a lazy drawl. “What can I do for you?”

“I was wondering,” you start, pausing to clear your throat. “If—um—if I could talk to you really quickly about my midterm?”

“Sure,” he says, shrugging indifferently. “You can sit.”

As you step forward to position yourself on one of the padded chairs in front of his desk, Harry shuts his book and stands. You can’t stop your eyes from following him. He tucks the hardcover back into a vacant slot on the tall shelf located in the corner of the room.

“You have a lot of books,” you note. Immediately, you want to strangle yourself for letting the observation slip out.

He simply bobs his head. “I like to read.”

“Me too.” God, why the fuck won’t you just shut up?

But when Harry turns back around, you’re shocked to find the smallest hint of a smile playing on his lips. His gaze locks with yours, and it fades just as quickly as it had come. You swallow forcefully; your mouth feels like a desert.

“Do you have your midterm with you?” Harry asks, crossing his arms over his chest. You look away immediately to keep yourself from ogling his biceps. He’s wearing a dark green crewneck and a pair of khaki pants again. His hair is tousled, like he’s been raking his fingers through it incessantly, and his glasses are tucked into the collar of his shirt. There’s a slight shadow of stubble scattered across his jaw. His lips are flushed a perfect shade of pink; they look smooth and soft.

“Yeah.” You snap out of your stupor and answer him quickly. Leaning down to unzip your bag, you say, “Sorry. It’s right—”

“Why’re you apologising?” Harry asks, creases of confusion etching themselves into his forehead. You pause and peer up at him, your hand buried in your knapsack.

“Sorry?” you ask, afraid that you hadn’t heard him properly.

The corners of his lips jump only slightly. He repeats his question with the same amount of ennui. “Why’re you apologising?”

You blink. “Er…I don’t know, sorry. I mean—!” You squeeze your eyes shut and shake your head, feeling your cheeks grow warm. Eventually, you give up on searching for the right words, instead pulling your exam out of your bag and thrusting it forward. “Here you go.”

Harry takes the packet from you, bringing it up to his face. He grabs his glasses from where they hang on his chest and slides them onto the bridge of his nose. You look away when his eyes land on the shameful grade scribbled at the top of the first sheet.

“I didn’t do too well,” you say, training your gaze on the floor. “As you can clearly see.”

Harry hums in response. He flips through your midterm quickly, spending only a few seconds on each page. “That’s odd,” he murmurs, mostly to himself.

You peek up at him through your lashes. “What’s odd?”

He shrugs. “If I’m remembering correctly,” he begins, fixing his green eyes on you, “You’ve been doing well on the weekly quizzes. So…what went wrong this time?”

You swallow heavily, bringing your hands together in your lap and fiddling with your fingers. “I was working on a research proposal that was due the night before the exam,” you explain timidly. “So, I guess…I just wasn’t able to study as much as I should’ve.”

Harry nods. Quiet ensues. Your attention stays glued to the ground.

“Well—,” he clears his throat. “I can go over it all with you now, if you’d like.”

“Oh, no,” you say, shaking your head immediately. “I’ve actually—I’ve got to be somewhere after this.”

It’s a complete lie. You don’t have anything scheduled for later on. But your heart feels like it’s about to give out any second now, and the hairs on your arms are tingling apprehensively. You feel like an idiot, tripping over your words and second-guessing every syllable that leaves your lips. Harry’s unwavering, unforgiving stare is making you want to curl up into a ball and sink into the floor. You can’t imagine any torture greater than spending another minute in this office.

“I see,” Harry says. A long moment passes as you wait for him to say something else; when he doesn’t, you jump in to fill the awkward silence.

“I just came by in hopes of scheduling an appointment,” you rush out. “Is that okay?”

“It’s what I’m here for.” There’s no humour in his tone. You nod, gnawing on your bottom lip.

“What day works best for you?” you prod gently. The air is thick; you don’t think that even the sharpest of knives could slice through the tension. Harry rubs his nose with two fingers and taps his thumb against his lips, lost in thought.

“How does ten in the morning on Monday sound?” he says at last.

“The one coming up?”

“Yes.”

“That’s fine,” you tell him. “Thank you so much—I really appreciate it.”

He doesn’t reply, choosing instead to return your exam to you and retire to his chair. You zip your bag back up and sling one strap over your shoulder, standing from your seat and subtly trying to wipe your clammy palms against your thighs.

“Send me an e-mail on Sunday,” Harry says suddenly, drumming his fingers along the smooth surface of his desk. Your eyes are drawn to the gaudy rings on his hands, the jewellery glinting alluringly in the light of his office.

“Regarding what?” you ask, your brows knitting together.

“The appointment. Just as a reminder,” he states, shrugging his shoulders placidly. “I’ll put it in my calendar too, but you can never be too prepared.”

“Right,” you say, nodding. “Okay, I will. Thank you again.”

“It’s no problem.” Harry pauses for a moment before adding, “Take care.”

A bit of the stiffness in your body trickles away at his words—is it possible that he’s beginning to warm up to you?

“Have a good rest of your week,” you say as you start to back away toward the door. Against your better judgment, you offer up a small, friendly smile.

Your feet carry you a few steps further; you attempt to restrain yourself from shooting him one last glance before you turn to face the other way (though of course, you can’t resist.) You think you see the corners of Harry’s lips twitch, but you don’t stay long enough to reflect on it.

Only once you leave his office do you decide that it was merely your eyes playing tricks on you. If majoring in psychology has taught you anything, it’s that humans are extremely unreliable creatures.

Sometimes, we only see what we want to see, you think. The words tumble through your head in the form of a dynamic mantra, echoing continuously until you stagger outside and into the comforting hold of the cool autumn air.

  October 13th, 2019

No matter how many times she tries, Margaret cannot down a shot without cringing after swallowing. She always declares that this time will finally be it, that she’ll throw the alcohol back without so much as a grimace, but both you and Mateo know by now that it’s all just nonsense. Her countless attempts are the main reason for her eventual, inevitable inebriation whenever you all decide to go out for drinks.

“Fuck!” Margaret yelps, squeezing her eyes shut and wincing radically as the vodka burns its way down her throat. She reaches for the glass of water standing a few inches away and takes a desperate swig. You and Mateo laugh as she pounds her fist against the table in frustration. You’re sitting across the table from your two friends, the three of you nestled comfortably in one of the booths lining the wall of the pub.

“Told you,” Mateo says dryly, shooting Margaret a wry smirk. She shakes her head and smacks her lips together.

“No, let’s do one more,” she says, her voice taking on a pleading quality. “It’ll be this next one, I swear.”

“Slow down,” you tell her, holding your hand up. Even from a few feet away, you can see the dilation of her pupils and the rosy flush on her cheeks. She’s never been good at pacing herself, and you really don’t feel like ending the night with your hands in her hair as she retches over the toilet.

Margaret pouts; Mateo grins knowingly at you, the thin gold chain around his neck glinting against his dark skin. You’re all a bit buzzed, and though your friends want to continue, you don’t intend to get plastered tonight. There’s a nagging voice in the back of your mind, reminding you that you’ve got your appointment with Harry tomorrow morning, and you want to be as alert and attentive as possible.

You’d sent him an e-mail earlier this evening, right before the taxi had pulled up into the parking lot of your apartment complex. The correspondence had been simple, just a quick verification of the day and time, followed by a short closing remark and your name. You’d snapped your laptop shut as soon as the message had gone through, willing yourself to tuck the thought of it away into a dark, incognizable corner of your brain.

“Did—?” Mateo hiccups quietly and swallows. “Did you guys hear that Grounded is closing down?”

“What?” You and Margaret both nearly snap your necks to gape at him.

“Not permanently!” he backtracks, throwing his hands up in the air. “Just for a couple of weeks! They’re doing renovations in the basement, remember?”

“I knew that,” you say, cocking your head to the side. “But I didn’t know they were doing them there—I thought they’d just closed off the area near the biology labs.”

“I guess not.” Mateo purses his lips, and Margaret pouts.

“How am I gonna survive without their coffee?” she moans, her shoulders deflating.

You shrug and trail your finger around the rim of your water. The glass is clouded with condensation, drops trailing down the side and dampening the coaster lying underneath. “There’s always Starbucks,” you say, though the suggestion is lackadaisical, unenthusiastic. “But the closest one is halfway across campus.”

“Exactly.” Margaret sulks, placing her elbow on the table and propping her chin up on her fist. “How the fuck am I supposed to stay awake in Spanish, now?”

“Pop some modafinil,” Mateo mutters under his breath. You look at him with wide eyes and burst into laughter a second later. He grins; Margaret elbows him in the ribs, but even she can’t suppress the small smile that creeps up onto her face.

“I’m serious!” she says, her voice shaking with the ghost of a giggle. “Even for neuro, like…I don’t know how I’m gonna get through it.”

“Neuro is at ten in the morning,” you stress, lifting your eyebrows in disbelief. “Just be grateful that it’s not an eight o’clock class—if that were the case, you’d really be fucked.”

Margaret raises one shoulder lazily and rolls her eyes. You lean forward and take a sip of your water, humming appreciatively when the cool liquid runs down your throat and fans out across your chest.

“Speaking of neuro,” Mateo starts, running a hand through his dark, kinky hair, “How did you guys do on the quiz from last week? The one on cognitive processing and perception.”

“I only got one right,” Margaret snorts, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I was kind of zoning out during the lecture, to be honest.”

“Shocker,” you tease. She scoffs in mock-offense, and you flash her a smile to tell her that you’re only joking. You turn to Mateo. “I think I got, like, three out of five,” you say, squinting your eyes and puckering your lips. “Not my best work.”

“It’s still a pass,” he replies, winking playfully.

You chuckle and nod. “True. Plus—,” you tap your nails against your glass and make a vague gesture with your other hand, “—Harry’s nice little notes are always a bit of a confidence boost, you know what I mean?”

When your question is met with silence, you look up from the table with cinched brows and puzzled eyes. Both Margaret and Mateo are gawking at you, their lips parted and their expressions ripe with confusion. Subconsciously, your mouth twists down into a frown; you sit back against the padded material of the booth.

“What?”

“Harry…,” Margaret shakes her head, tucking a silky strand of hair behind her ear. “Harry doesn’t write nice little notes for us.”

“What?” you say, creases digging into your forehead. “No, I mean—the comments he leaves on the quizzes and stuff! You know, like, right at the top of the page?”

“He’s never left a comment on any of my quizzes,” Mateo tells you. He turns to Margaret. “Has he done that for you?”

“No,” she says, pursing her lips. “Not at all.”

Something inaudible passes between them, and when they both look back at you, they’re trying to hide their amused expressions. The scowl on your lips deepens, pulling at the muscles in your cheeks and making your face grow sore.

“Why the fuck are you guys looking at me like that?” you ask, fed up with their cryptic behaviour.

Margaret scoffs loudly and barks out your name. It’s enough to grab your attention, and when you glare at her, she beams wickedly and hisses, “He’s trying to fuck you!”

You can’t help it—you laugh. Margaret’s grin fades, and Mateo cocks an eyebrow at you, waiting for your glee to subside. After a long moment, your giggles dwindle, and you smile across the table at your friends. They remain frozen, still as bewildered as ever. Their silence aggravates you; in a matter of seconds, you’re glowering at them.

“You can’t be serious,” you deadpan, looking at them with blank eyes. “The only time Harry’s ever really spoken to me was when I went to schedule that stupid appointment! I swear to God, he avoids me like I’ve got the plague.”

“Maybe’s he’s avoiding you because he likes you,” Margaret suggests. Her brown irises twinkle with mischief.

A disdainful sound bubbles up in your throat and flops out of your mouth. “Not likely.”

“Why else would he write you little notes, then?” she demands, and you hate to admit it, but she has a point. You’ve got no idea why Harry’s trademark scribbles are always at the top of your tests and assignments, especially since he seems to intent on evading you whenever the two of you happen to cross paths. You chew furiously on the inside of your cheek, only able to offer up a half-hearted shrug.

“We don’t even know if I’m the only one,” you say. “He could be doing it for some other people, too—let’s not jump to conclusions.”

Margaret and Mateo snicker. You glare daggers at them. Mateo is the first to fix you with a semi-apologetic smile.

“Sorry,” he tells you, his teeth gleaming in the low lighting of the bar. “It’s just—Margaret might be onto something.”

“She’s not,” you say flatly.

Margaret releases an offended squawk, pinning you beneath her stern gaze. “Hey!” she squeaks, pouting indignantly and pointing her index finger at you. “Just because you’re in denial doesn’t mean—”

She breaks off right in the middle of her sentence, her eyes growing outrageously wide when they land on something behind you. You tilt your head to the side and scratch your cheek, afraid that maybe she’s noticed a spot or a new blemish blossoming on your face. But then she squeals, her hand shooting to the side so that she can deliver several excited slaps to Mateo’s arm.

“Holy shit! Speak of the fucking devil!”

Everything clicks into place, then, and your jaw drops. You spin around in your seat so quickly you’re surprised that your vision doesn’t go blurry. After a quick sweep of the room, you find the thing—or rather, the person—that has Margaret losing her mind.

Harry’s dressed in a simple black t-shirt and a pair of black, high-waisted, extremely baggy trousers. The pant legs are comically wide, but somehow, he makes it work. His hair is fluffy, and his sneakers are pristine, not a speck of dirt in sight. Something shiny glints near his waist and catches your attention; you find the patterned frame of his glasses peeking out of one of his pockets. Briefly, you wonder if he’s cold—it’s a bit of a chilly evening, and he doesn’t appear to be sporting a jacket.

“He looks good,” Mateo notes.

You and Margaret swivel your heads around and stare at him. He shrugs. “What? It’s just an observation!”

And despite the panic simmering in the pit of your stomach, you laugh softly. You’re about to settle back into the booth and hope for the best, but then Margaret lifts her arm in a frantic wave and shouts, “Harry!”

Your lips part in shock. She must be drunker than you thought.

“Margaret!” you whisper furiously, ducking down and gaping at her. You’re no longer facing Harry, but you get the feeling that he heard his name, because Margaret giggles, twiddles her fingers, and curls her hand in a beckoning gesture. You place your elbows on the table and bury your face into your palms, too embarrassed to look up.

“Oh my God,” Mateo mutters. “He’s coming over here.”

And sure enough, after a few long, painful moments, Harry is standing in front of the table.

“Er, hi,” he says, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly.

Mateo offers him a small smile; Margaret beams widely.

“Hi!” she says cheerily. “Sorry, this might be weird because you don’t know us. I’m Margaret, this is Mateo, and this is—”

Just as he had done in his office, Harry breathes your name before it’s uttered. Margaret stops speaking immediately and mashes her lips together to suppress a giant grin. Mateo catches your gaze from across the table; his eyes are the size of tennis balls. You want to groan—subtlety is most definitely not their forte.

“Um, yeah,” you reply. You glance up at Harry momentarily before looking away. “Hi.”

A beat of silence ensues.

“So, Harry,” Margaret jumps in. Her tone is a bit too loud, but it’s not noticeable over the mindless chatter echoing in the pub. “What brings you here?”

Harry shrugs, clasping his hands behind his back. “Just out for drinks with a few of my mates.”

“‘Mates’,” Margaret parrots, lowering her voice and putting on a horrible accent. You gawk at her as she giggles. “That sounds like fun—we’re doing the same thing! What’s your favourite type of alcohol? I like vodka.”

“Jesus Christ,” you mumble, shaking your head imperceptibly. When you look back up, you find Harry’s eyes sweeping across your face. A coy smirk dances on his lips.

You take note of the dimple that carves itself into his cheek and groan inwardly. Just when you thought that he couldn’t get any more attractive…

“I’m more of a whiskey guy, myself,” he says. His shoulders relax a bit; the tension in his body visibly melts away. Though Margaret is the one who had gotten you into this mess in the first place, you suddenly find yourself thankful for her presence. It’s easier to socialize when you’re around someone who makes it their mission to inject comedy into a conversation.

“I’m going to go grab us another round,” you announce gently, making a move to slide out of the booth. Before you stand, you look over at your friends. “What do you guys want?”

“I thought you said we had to slow down,” Margaret says, shooting you a confused frown.

“I changed my mind. What do you want?”

“Just a root beer for me,” Mateo says, trying to hold in a laugh.

“Another shot of vodka!” Margaret cheers, throwing her arms up. She sighs and leans her head on Mateo’s shoulder; he pets her hair, humouring her. She hums and speaks the words that she promises before every drink. “I’ll do it this time. I won’t even wrinkle my nose.”

“Okay,” you say with a curt nod. You stand and face Harry, hesitating only for a second before murmuring, “Well, it was nice to see—”

“Harry!” Margaret suddenly cuts in, drowning out the rest of your sentence. “Would you be a doll and go with her? I don’t think she’ll be able to carry all of our drinks back by herself.”

“I—,” Harry glances at you out of the corner of his eye. “Yeah, sure.” His throat bobs when he turns and asks you, “That alright with you?”

No!

You want to scream your refusal at him, and then leap across the table and pummel Margaret with hard, closed fists. But instead, you merely purse your lips and bob your head once. “Yup. Let’s go.”

~*~

“Hi.” You smile at the bartender and lean your forearms against the counter. “Can I get a root beer, a shot of vodka, and a vodka cranberry, please?”

She nods, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder and giving you a thumbs-up. You exhale deeply as she bustles away to prepare the drinks. Your skin is prickling with nerves, hyperaware of the fact that Harry is standing right next to you. Casting a furtive glance around the pub, you gnaw on your bottom lip. Harry’s friends are sitting on the other side of the room; they’ve claimed a booth as well. A few of them are piled atop each other as they all struggle to squeeze in. The sight makes you chuckle.

“So,” you hear from beside you. Harry’s gaze is steady as he rubs his fingers against his chin. “What did your friend mean when she said that she wouldn’t wrinkle her nose?”

The question is so arbitrary and out of the blue that it pulls an involuntary laugh from your mouth.

“Oh, Margaret?” you ask. When Harry nods, you continue. “She just sucks at taking shots. She pulls a face every time, so whenever we drink, she always tries to stop herself from doing it. It never works, though.”

Harry smirks. You look away. A few long seconds draw out before he speaks again.

“They seem nice,” he tells you. When you cock an eyebrow at him questioningly, he elaborates. “Your friends, I mean.”

“Oh.” You dip your chin. “Yeah, they’re great.”

He opens his mouth to say more, but just then, the blonde bartender returns with the drinks you’d ordered, setting them down onto the counter in front of you. “Anything else?” she asks, drumming her fingers on the surface of the bar. Your eyes are drawn to the low cut of her top.

“That’s all, thanks,” you declare, but then you pause. “Actually…,” you decide, and you turn to Harry. “Do you want anything?”

He balks, slightly stunned. His eyebrows shoot up into his hairline, and you suppress a small smile—that’s probably the most expressive you’ve ever seen him.

“No, no,” Harry assures you. “I’m alright.”

“I insist,” you say, and there must be something powerful in your gaze, because he just purses his lips and forfeits his repudiation.

“Er, I’ll just have a coke, then.”

You and the bartender both nod simultaneously. In less than thirty seconds, she’s got his drink standing alongside the others on the counter. “That’ll be eighteen dollars,” she tells you. You unzip your wallet and hand her the exact change before taking a quick sip of your vodka cranberry.

“I’m surprised you didn’t order whiskey,” you joke lightly, peeking over at Harry. He lifts the rim of his glass and takes a hearty gulp of his soda, licking his lips once he swallows.

“I—,” he begins, shaking his head. “Actually, I don’t drink.”

“Oh, really?” You cock your head to the side. “Why not?” A moment later, you backpedal hastily. “I mean, if you don’t mind me asking.”

“It’s fine,” he says. “I used to drink a lot while I was doing my undergrad. Like, a lot. Shit happened, and I ended up needing to get my stomach pumped. After that, I just kind of…made the decision to lay off.”

“I see.” You falter. “Was it difficult?”

Harry nods, but only barely. He suddenly seems much more interested in the shiny floorboards of the bar. “Yeah, it was. But it was for the best. I’m here now, and I’m a teaching assistant for two classes, so I’d say things worked out pretty well.”

“Two classes?”

“Yeah. Neuropsychology, and then Doctor Chen’s psychopathology class,” he tells you.

“I was actually thinking of taking that,” you confess. “It looks really interesting.”

“It is.”

Though your mouth is dry, you hold up your vodka cranberry. “Well, then…cheers to you. That’s definitely something to be proud of.”

Harry gazes at you through his lashes and lifts his own drink, clinking your glasses together. The two of you take a sip at the same time; his eyes hold onto yours over the rim of his cup. You’re the first one to look away, your heart hammering as you reach out to grab Margaret’s shot. Harry mimics you and wraps his fingers around Mateo’s root beer.

“What’s your favourite drink?” he inquires, his grassy eyes alert. You pause.

“Probably tequila,” you say eventually. “It goes down smoother than anything else, I’ve found. Plus, it doesn’t take much for it to fuck me up.”

A low chuckle slips from Harry’s lips. Your thighs clench together at the sound.

“Guess I’ll have to buy you a shot of tequila later,” Harry tells you, leaning against the bar. “To repay you.”

You can hear the blood thundering in your ears. There’s an odd, fluttery sensation in your chest. You aren’t sure of whether it’s excitement, or anxiety, or perhaps both. All you know is that this is uncharted territory for you. You think that maybe it’s because of the pub and the atmosphere it provides: something laid-back and nonchalant. Harry has never spoken to you like this—like you’re a friend. You have no clue how to feel about it, so you settle for simply hoping that you won’t accidentally say the wrong thing and dash all of the progress you’ve made.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” you answer, shaking your head. “I think that this was me repaying you for that coffee you bought me a while back. Do you remember?”

Bringing up his previous act of generosity makes you nervous; he’d swiftly cut you off the last time you’d tried to thank him for the latte. But—much to your surprise—his features don’t harden when your words sink in. You watch as his brows knit together for only a moment before a spark of recognition flickers in his eyes.

Harry’s expression opens up as the memory dawns on him, like petals from a rosebud. “I do.”

You shoot him a tight smile. “See? So now we’re even.”

He smirks. “I guess we are.”

You swallow down the lump in your throat and lift your chin in the direction of where your friends are still waiting. “Shall we?”

He nods, holding out his arm and inviting you to take the lead.

Your feet have only carried you a few steps when you hear someone call out, “Wait!”

Instinctively, both you and Harry spin around. The blonde bartender is back, raking her fingers through her hair and sliding a napkin across the counter. She’s looking at Harry, a roguish smile twisting her mouth upward. When he leans forward to accept her offering, you catch a glimpse of a series of numbers written across the serviette in black ink. Something in your stomach drops grossly; you turn to avoid witnessing Harry’s reaction and hastily speed away.

Margaret claps her hands excitedly when you return with her drink. Mateo looks at you inquisitively.

“Where’s Harry?”

“He’s coming,” you mumble, refusing to meet your friend’s eyes. You remain standing as you take a long sip of your vodka cranberry. Mateo’s lips curve down into the smallest of frowns, like he can sense that something is off with you. Thankfully, he doesn’t pry.

A moment later, Harry appears beside you, holding out the glass of root beer in his left hand. “Sorry, mate,” he apologises to Mateo. “Here you go.”

“Thanks, man.”

“Okay!” Margaret exclaims, rubbing her hands together and staring intently at the shot of vodka resting on the table in front of her. “I’m gonna do it!”

Mateo grins at her, giving her the type of smile that you’d offer to a child who’s just done something endearing. You snicker silently.

The hairs on the back of your neck stand straight up when Harry turns to you and lays a large hand on your forearm. You stop breathing as he leans in close and whispers against your ear, “Is this the part where she…?”

The words are warm against your skin. A violent shudder races down your spine. In response, you can only muster a nod and a high-pitched, “Mhm.”

He chuckles lowly before pulling away.

Margaret downs the shot, and you, Harry, and Mateo all laugh when her face collapses into a vicious grimace. She’s still grumbling about her failed attempt when Harry states that he should be getting back to his friends on the other side of the bar.

“Have a nice night, you lot.” He shakes Mateo’s hand and shoots Margaret a small smile. He then turns to you, his gaze locking with yours. Your cheeks tingle hotly.

“And, you…,” Harry murmurs, the corners of his lips twitching. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You nod, swallowing with some difficulty. When the words finally make it out of your mouth, they’re wobbly and forced.

“See you tomorrow.”

~*~

Around one in the morning, you and your friends have decided that it’s time to put an end to the night. Even Margaret is ready to go home.

“I’ve got to be up early tomorrow, anyway,” you explain to her. “My meeting with Harry is at ten.”

“Right.” Margaret nods knowingly and wiggles her brows. “Your meeting. Are you guys gonna fuck in his office?”

“Margaret!”

“What?” she laughs, gathering her hair into a low ponytail. “That would be so hot!”

You shake your head. Mateo pinches the bridge of his nose. The three of you head toward the exit of the pub, passing by the large group made up of Harry’s friends. They all seem to be having a great time, absorbed in a flurry of conversation and laughter. You scan each face quickly, frowning when you note that Harry isn’t among them. He must’ve gone to grab another soda, you decide, or perhaps he had to use the washroom. Either way, you don’t dwell on his absence.

You wrap your windbreaker around your body as you step out into the chilly October air. Beside you, Mateo sighs—his breath emerges as a small, foggy cloud.

“Do you guys want me to call an Uber?” he asks. He shoots Margaret a pointed glare. “Or are you gonna do it this time, you cheapskate?”

“Excuse you,” Margaret protests, still sloshed. “I’m not a cheapskate!”

“You’re literally the stingiest person I know,” Mateo deadpans. She squawks.

While the two of them bicker, you glance around and take in your surroundings. The road in front of you is dark and quiet, disturbed only by the occasional car. There are squished wads of gum, burnt cigarette butts, and haphazard attempts at graffiti littering the sidewalk. The streetlights bathe you in a warm, orange glow. About twenty feet away, a man and a woman are engrossed in a series of heavy kisses.

You pause. Your eyes narrow.

Holy shit.

“Fine!” Margaret yells, fishing her phone out of her pocket. “I’ll call the Uber!”

She’s too loud.

Her voice carries through the air.

Lips parting, you watch in horror as Harry detaches his mouth from the bartender’s neck and turns his head toward the noise. His eyes land on your face, and your chest seizes up in panic. In the millisecond that passes before you look away, his features morph from an expression of surprise to that of shame.

You whip around, nearly snapping your neck.

“Actually,” you say shrilly, interrupting Margaret and Mateo’s squabble. “Let’s hit up one more place. I’m not ready to head home just yet.”

Your friends stare at you, mystified.

“Okay…,” Margaret says slowly. “Why don’t we just stay here, then?”

“No!” you blurt before you can stop yourself. The divot between Margaret’s eyebrows deepens. Her pupils bounce from side to side in drunken confusion, but then her gaze lands on the person behind you that you know is Harry, and she gasps.

“Fuck,” she whispers. You glue your eyes to the floor.

Mateo is gawking, too, now. You shake your head and reach for the pair of them, wrapping your fingers around their arms and guiding them further away from the scene. “Let’s just go,” you murmur quietly. The words taste sour on your tongue.

“What—?” Margaret turns back to you, her nostrils flaring angrily. You find solace in knowing that she’s equally as upset as you are.  “What do you wanna do?”

You shrug, too overrun with humiliation to meet her eyes. Mateo wraps a protective arm around your shoulder, and you busy yourself with ogling the buttons on his coat. Your throat is tight with emotion, ears ringing relentlessly.

“Can we go somewhere else?” you ask weakly—your friends are nodding before you’ve even finished the question. “I want to get fucked up.”

  October 14th, 2019

Your head hurts.

Standing in front of Harry’s office, you wish that you’d forgone that final shot of tequila. Your stomach churns uneasily even now—hours later—and you find yourself struggling to recall certain points from last night. You don’t remember much, but what you do know is that Margaret hadn’t ended up being the one hunched over the toilet at three in the morning.

Where the fuck is he?

The door is locked, leaving you no choice but to stand outside in the hall and lean against the wall for support. Your eyes are puffy and red from lack of sleep. You’re fairly certain that your cheeks are swollen, too. You’d cried yourself into a fitful slumber just as the sun began to rise.

You touch your face; your skin feels grainy thanks to the tears that had escaped your eyes and soaked through the cotton of your pillowcase.

You check your phone and bite your lip. It’s a quarter past ten.

Harry is never late.

You’ll wait another ten minutes, you conclude, and if he doesn’t show up, you’ll just go home.

Only a minute after you settle on the decision, the squeaky sound of shoes slipping against polished tiles reaches your ears. You turn toward the sound just in time to watch Harry skid around the corner. Before you can stop yourself, your brows shoot up in dry disbelief.

He’s a mess.

“Hi,” Harry says, slightly out of breath. “Sorry to have kept you waiting.”

He’s wearing a pair of brown corduroy trousers that sit lopsided on his hips and a white button up tucked beneath a tan-coloured sweater vest. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up unevenly, and the vest itself is wrinkled near the hem. His tortoise-shell glasses are crooked on his face; his hair is disheveled. That same messenger bag is slung over his body, but there’s also a disorganized, rumpled pile of papers in his arms. A loose sheet slips from his grasp and flutters to the floor.

“Shit,” Harry mutters. Silently, you bend down, pick up the page, and hold it out to him. He grunts, wrestling one hand free to accept it. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” Your words are monotone; you refuse make eye contact with him.

Harry digs his fingers into his pocket and produces a set of keys. They jingle cheerfully as he jams one into the lock on the door and twists it to the side—you wince at the loud noise. A telling click echoes through the air. With a gentle push, the door swings open.

“Ladies first,” Harry mumbles. Forcing your chin up, you walk into his office.

The room is very different compared to how it had been a few days ago. It’s emptier. A couple of boxes are strewn across the floor, packed up with supplies. All that’s left on Harry’s bureau now is a red pen and a desktop computer. Even the tall bookshelf in the corner of the room is bare, void of all the novels that it had previously housed. You cock your head to the side, nibbling apprehensively on your bottom lip.

“Sorry about the mess,” Harry says, shutting the door and staggering over to his desk. He plops the pile of papers onto the corner of the table and collapses into his rolling chair. “Renovations start the day after tomorrow, so I’ve been clearing out my essentials.”

“All of your books are essential?” you mutter, gingerly taking a seat in one of the cushioned chairs across from him. You don’t intend for him to hear the question—it’s actually more of a taunt, if you’re being honest—but he does.

“I like to read.” He shrugs.

You unzip your bag and rustle around for your midterm. “Me too.”

When you finally retrieve the exam, you pull it out and look up at him for the first time that day. His lips twitch almost indiscernibly, and it’s a soft, mocking lilt when he says, “I know.”

It dawns on you, then, that you’ve already had the same conversation in this exact spot. Your face grows hot, but you compel yourself to shake off the embarrassment. Clearing your throat, you slide your midterm onto his desk in hopes of changing the subject. “Here you go.”

Harry’s eyes fall to the packet.

“Right,” he says, tucking himself in closer. He licks his lips, turning it to the side and opening it up to the first page of questions. “You can see it like this, yeah?”

You nod, placing your elbows on his desk and slyly trying to massage your temples with two fingers—your headache seems to have only gotten worse.

“Okay.” Harry shifts in his seat and points to the third question on the sheet. “This answer here was B. The common name for fluoxetine is Prozac.”

“Got it,” you say, nodding solemnly. You feel silly for having forgotten something as simple as a type of medication.

Harry’s eyes skim the paper before he shifts his finger to the bottom of the page. “And this one here—,” he starts, “The motor cortex is located in the frontal lobe, just before the central sulcus.”

“Oh, shit.” You cringe, pinching the bridge of your nose. “The one in the parietal lobe is the somatosensory cortex, right?”

“Exactly.”

You shake your head, and then immediately regret doing so—it feels like someone is drilling screws into your skull. “What a stupid mistake.”

“It’s not, really,” Harry says, scratching the underside of his jaw. “The parietal lobe tends to be responsible for processing sensory information—some of it is visual, but most of it is tactile. And because of that, it’s really easy to get it mixed up, because we tend to associate touch with movement.”

“That’s exactly what I did,” you admit, pursing your lips.

He shrugs. “It’s okay. You’re learning—that’s the point.”

You glance up at him and find his eyes trained on you. It’s like he’s trying to convey something unspoken, but you don’t quite know what it is. Your throat bobs with a heavy swallow, and you force yourself to look away.

“Next page,” you urge softly. Harry obliges.

He places his finger beside the first question at the top. “This answer was D—all of the above. Because yeah, cerebrospinal fluid is produced by the ependymal cells, but those are located in the choroid plexuses, which, in turn, are found in the ventricles.” He puckers his lips. “It was a bit of a trick question.”

“No kidding.”

Harry’s lips curl grimly.

He’s in the middle of explaining the next error on your exam when your stomach flips and the top of your throat pulses dangerously. You sit back in your seat, one hand flying to your belly while the other shoots up to cover your mouth. Harry looks up at you quizzically; his expression softens when he absorbs your wide, terrified eyes and your hunched shoulders.

“Are you gonna be sick?” he asks quickly, straightening up.

At that exact moment, the nausea passes. The tension melts from your body, and your chest visibly deflates. You exhale quietly; your hand drops from where it had been shielding the lower half of your face.

Nervously, you peer up at Harry, only to find him regarding you with a blank expression. His lips are tucked into a thin line, and his stare is shallow and emotionless. You open your mouth to say something, but he beats you to it.

“You’re hungover,” he states flatly. There’s no humour lacing the words.

“I—,” you grit your teeth. “Yeah, I am.”

Harry sighs regretfully, sinking back in his chair. He hooks his finger into the collar of his shirt and twists it around to loosen the material. Your lips part in shock, eyes nearly bulging out of your head.

“And you’re marked up,” you exclaim before you can stop yourself.

Harry’s brows knit together in confusion. As soon as the realisation strikes, though, he sits up straight, his nostrils flaring with a sharp inhale. His hand flies to cover his throat, but it’s too late—you’ve already seen them.

A number of dark, splotchy purple marks stand out against the smooth, tan skin of his neck. You’re not sure how many there are in total, and you don’t think that you want to know. Harry’s staring at you, his expression severe. You can’t tear your gaze away from his face—it feels like an eternity passes before either of you says anything.

“I think…,” Harry speaks slowly, his eyes flitting from side to side as he studies your features. “We should reschedule.”

“Good idea,” you breathe.

“And I think,” he adds, still using the same tone, “That we should both agree to keep this entire ordeal…confidential.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“Deal.”

You can’t help it, then—you snort once before dissolving into laughter. Though bewildered creases dig into Harry’s forehead, the corners of his lips slowly curve up into a smile. Before long, he’s joining you in your amusement, his chest vibrating with deep, rumbling chuckles. His blocky front teeth latch onto his bottom lip, and he covers his mouth with his fingers in an attempt to subdue the sounds.

Deep in your abdomen, you can feel a tight little ball of jealousy festering. It had been conceived yesterday upon seeing the bartender slip Harry that napkin, and it had grown once you’d witnessed him kissing her outside of the pub. The hickies on his neck should be sending you into a downward spiral, but the hilarity of your current situation is enough to overshadow the ugliness—at least for the time being.

Later, you know that you’ll probably feel sick to your stomach, but you’ll just choose to blame it on the surplus of alcohol from last night.

“Wait, wait,” you say, rubbing your palm over your cheek. There’s a small smile on your lips, and your shoulders tremble with silent giggles. “What—when do you want to meet, then? Didn’t you say that renovations are starting soon?”

“Oh, shit.” Harry’s face falls immediately. He frowns in thought. “Does tomorrow work? I’ll be here in the afternoon.”

“I’ve got class until noon, and then I’ve got to leave for a dentist appointment at one,” you say mournfully.

Harry curses under his breath. You rub your hands together anxiously, watching him come to the realisation that you’re both out of options. He pinches his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger, gazing down emptily at the exam still splayed out on the desk.

“Okay,” he murmurs. He looks up at you, speaking with a bit more conviction. “Come over to my place on Wednesday, then.”

The look of unapologetic shock on your face must be priceless, but Harry holds his ground. The gears in your mind immediately kick into overdrive; you try to quell the noise—it’s only going to make your headache worse. You look at Harry, hoping that he can’t see the way you’ve just swallowed down the hard lump in your throat.

“Your place,” you echo dumbly. “On Wednesday.”

Harry nods assuredly. “Yeah.”

It’s taking everything in you to steer clear of an overreaction. Harry’s suggesting it because he wants to help you improve in time for the final exam—he’s just trying to do his job. You don’t want to be the one to make it weird. There’s a certain kind of maturity to his idea, you think, and you want to show him the ease with which you can meet him on that level.

“Are you sure?” you ask. “I don’t want to, like, impose.”

“I’m sure.” His reply is firm. “You’re not imposing. I told you that I’d go over the midterm with you, and that’s what I’m going to do.”

You nod, rubbing your clammy hands against your thighs. “Okay.”

“Perfect,” Harry says. He reaches forward and folds your exam closed before sliding it back to you. “Can you make it for, let’s say, six in the evening?”

“Um, alright.” You hesitate. “Where exactly do you—?”

“I’ll e-mail you my address,” Harry promises before you can finish your question. You clamp your mouth shut, nodding again. You don’t miss the delicate curl of his lips, or the shallow, nearly invisible crinkles that appear at the corners of his eyes. You stand up, slipping your midterm back into your bag and tugging on the zipper to ensure that it stays secure.

“Okay, well…,” you look at him through your eyelashes, too afraid to fix him with a proper stare. “Have a good day, then.”

He shoots you a tight, pained smile. You wonder if he’s already regretting his offer.

“You too.”

And for the second time in less than a week, you find yourself exiting Harry’s office with a muddy mind, sweaty palms, and a racing heart.

  October 15th, 2019

“You’re going to his house?” Margaret shrieks.

You wince and bury your face into your palms. The half-eaten plate of gnocchi that you’d ordered is pushed off to your right, abandoned. Margaret stabs her lasagna with her silver fork, shovelling a piece past her lips and chewing frantically. “What were you thinking?” she demands through a mouthful of pasta.

In the dim lighting of the restaurant, her gaze is piercingly judgmental.

“I was thinking about my grade!” you retort defensively. You groan, squeezing your eyes shut. “And I didn’t want to be the one to make it awkward. Like, if he’s suggesting it, that obviously means that he doesn’t see anything wrong with it. So, if I get all freaked out, then I just end up looking like a child.”

Your friend turns your words over in her head, tilting her chin from side to side in acknowledgement. “I get that,” she says, swallowing her food. “But I’m still fucking upset about the other night.”

“You and me both,” you mumble, averting your gaze.

“Hey,” Margaret says sternly, fixing you with a strict glare. “You’re not allowed to feel embarrassed about that. You did nothing wrong—he’s just a dick.”

“He’s not a dick,” you tell her, a hint of admonishment creeping into your words. “And it’s not like he asked me out before hooking up with her. There’s no valid reason for me to be mad about this.”

“Say that again,” Margaret warns, pointing her fork in your direction, “And I’ll punch you straight in the tit.”

You snort.

“I still want you to sleep with him,” she says casually, popping another bite of lasagna into her mouth. “But if he wants my forgiveness, it better be a phenomenal fuck.”

“Margaret!”

“What? I’m just telling it like it is!”

“Jesus Christ.”

  October 16th, 2019

You had been looking forward to today’s lecture. It’s all about memory processes and mnemonic devices, retention and phenomena regarding recollection. You’d been hoping to integrate some of the information into your study habits—though you already know all about the spacing and testing effects, you’re always open to learning new tricks.

Yet you don’t find yourself as immersed in the class as you thought you’d be. Margaret and Mateo are beside you, giving themselves to Dr. Renault with rapt attention, but you can’t seem to devote to him that same level of focus. A small, naïve part of you wonders why, but deep down, you know the exact reason for your lack of concentration.

And that reason is currently standing off to the side of the room, his tattooed arms crossed over his chest and his olive eyes fixated shamelessly on you. You have to suppress a smile—he’s not even trying to hide it.

Around thirty minutes ago, Harry had returned the quizzes that you had all written last week. You’d looked down at your paper to find a perfect score, along with a messy red scribble in the corner.

Well done, love. See you tonight. H. x

You don’t think that your heart has ever swelled so rapidly. Even now, sitting in the middle of the room, you can hear the blood rushing through your ears. Sometimes, when you glance down at Harry, he’ll look away—other times, he just stares at you evenly, refusing to be the first to give in. You’ve witnessed his lips twitching with a forbidden smirk on multiple occasions. It takes everything in you to keep from grinning like a maniac.

What the fuck is going on?

He must be in a good mood, you decide. You peek down at him one last time—to your surprise, his attention is elsewhere, eyes trained on his watch to check the time. When he lifts his head back up, you deflect your gaze immediately and try to ignore the giddy warmth that erupts across your chest.

You refuse to look at him again, but in your peripheral vision, you swear that you see his shoulders rumble with a silent laugh.

~*~

Harry’s building is really nice. The floors in the lobby are shiny and polished, and glass chandeliers hang from the ceiling. Actual chandeliers! The windows are large and clear, letting in just enough natural light from outside to make you feel like you’re starring in an episode of Gossip Girl. You shoot a timid smile to the woman sitting behind the front desk—since when do apartment complexes have receptionists?

Even the elevators look like they’ve been recently renovated. The buttons light up when you press them, a thin ring of red surrounding each number. You find yourself humming along to the music playing softly from the speakers.

The elevator dings when you reach your level. “Fourth floor,” an automated voice announces. You chuckle incredulously as you step out into the hallway. How the hell is he living here?

Your eyes narrow as you scan the plaque on each door that you pass. 4A, 4B…

4C.

You stop short, running your fingers through your hair and tugging on the sleeves of your denim jacket. You pull your phone out from your pocket and glance at the time—it’s exactly six o’clock.

Before you can lose your nerve, you lift your fist and rap gently on the wood. The sound is drowned out by the ringing in your ears. You swallow heavily and shove your hands behind your back, waiting with a held breath and a racing pulse. The passing seconds feel like eons; you’re about to knock again, but then there’s a faint click, and the door is swinging open before you can blink.

“Hey,” Harry says, not unkindly.

You offer up a nervous smile. “Hey.”

The first thing you notice is that his outfit looks nothing like the usual ensemble he wears to your lectures. You were beginning to think that all he owned in his closet were slacks and button-ups and any other articles of clothing that make him look about twenty years older than he really is. But here he stands before you, sporting a light grey hoodie and a pair of black sweatpants. Cute little ankle socks cover his feet, and—as he had on the first day of class—he’s pinned his hair back using his glasses. His eyes seem brighter than usual, and his lips look slightly swollen, like he’s been chewing on them continuously. The prospect of him being antsy to see you makes your stomach flip with anticipation.

You force the thought out of your mind and silently berate yourself. He’s not eager to see you, and there’s nothing here for you to dissect—you’re reading too much into this.

“Come in,” Harry says, stepping away from the door and making room for you to pass through. You thank him softly, gliding past the threshold and taking a short moment to toe off your shoes.

“How are you?” you ask him, though you don’t meet his gaze.

“Good, thanks,” he replies. “You?”

“I’m good.”

“Good.”

You snicker hollowly—the playfulness he’d channeled today in class has clearly faded away. Harry turns on his heel and pads down the hall; unsure of what to do, you simply follow. You take advantage of the fact that he can’t see you, allowing your eyes to rake over his broad, muscular back. Your mouth waters when you cast only a momentary glance at his ass.

“I figured we could set up in the kitchen,” Harry tells you matter-of-factly.

“Sounds good.”

He nods and stops in front of another doorway. Just as he had done before, he steps aside and motions for you to enter first. “After you.”

You hate the weak articulation of your response. “Thank you.”

Everything in the kitchen is white, save for the black marble countertops and the sleek grey refrigerator standing proudly in the corner. On the table sits a bowl of bananas and a small stack of letters and bills. When you glance at Harry with a puzzled look on your face, he just shrugs.

“I really like bananas,” he says, somewhat sheepishly. His sudden awkwardness makes you smile.

“I prefer pomegranates,” you reply, a hint of teasing evident in your tone.

Harry nods. “Those are good.”

“Right?” you say, setting your bag down onto one of the kitchen chairs. “They’re a real bitch to peel, though.”

“I know,” he hums, rolling his eyes. “It takes forever.”

You chuckle and look up at him properly for the first time since he’d opened his front door. His irises twinkle with mischief, and the sight makes your heart flutter in your chest. You’re not used to seeing him like this—with just a few short sentences, it feels like he’s let down his guard and is allowing you to see a new side of him. You like it. You don’t want to screw it up.

“Have you got your exam?” Harry asks, snapping you out of your thoughts. You blink and nod quickly, unzipping your bag and pulling your midterm out of a random binder.

“Here we go,” you murmur, handing it over to him.

He hums gently before motioning for you to take a seat. You lower yourself into the chair at the head of the table, and he chooses to occupy the one adjacent to you. The skin on your arms prickles when he shifts a bit closer. He unfolds your exam, opening it up to the second page.

“Right, then,” he says, clearing his throat. He points to the top of the sheet. “We ended off with this question the other day, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Harry mumbles. He slides his index finger to the very bottom of the paper, where your next error is circled in red. Your attention is glued to the small cross tattooed on his hand.

“For this one,” he starts, tapping the page softly, “Sleep spindles become apparent on a monitor during the second stage of light sleep, not the third.”

“The third stage consists of delta waves, correct?” you ask. Harry nods—you think that there’s a trace of pride in his expression, but you can’t be sure.

“See?” he tells you, pinning you with a serious look. “You know this stuff. You just had a bad morning that day, that’s all.”

His words make you want to lean over the corner of the table and tackle him in a hug.

“I—thank you,” you stammer instead. You focus your attention on your exam, praying that he doesn’t catch the stupid smile that spreads across your face. Your cheeks are aflame, and your heart feels like it’s only seconds away from giving out. You adjust your position in the chair, crossing your legs and shoving your hands beneath your thighs to hide the way that they tremble.

The two of you work through most of the remaining questions together—you’re shocked at how many of the correct answers you actually know. You feel like an idiot for having gotten them wrong; when you mutter as much under your breath, Harry shoots you a stern glare.

“You’re not an idiot,” he tells you, a hard edge to his voice. You shrink beneath his piercing gaze. “This is why we encourage going to bed early the night before an exam. You know so many of these, but a lack of sleep can really just screw you over.”

“Yeah,” you say, sighing softly. A second later, you add, “Thanks for bearing with me.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Harry responds. He flips to the last page of the packet. “We’re nearly done,” he reveals, and you have to fight to hide your surprise when he smiles teasingly at you. “Then you’ll be able to get me out of your hair.”

You scoff and emit a nervous laugh. “If anything, I’m the one in your hair.”

“Not true,” Harry says. His shoulders shake with a cool shrug. “I wouldn’t have been doing anything tonight, anyway. Your presence is a welcome distraction.”

You snort, though the sound rapidly dissolves into a violent cough. Harry’s eyes widen, and he rubs his palm over his forehead when the realisation hits him.

“Fuck,” he murmurs before speaking up. “I didn’t even offer you something to drink, Christ. What can I get for you?”

“Um,” you choke out, placing your hand on your chest. “Water—water’s fine.”

“Brilliant.” He shoots up from his chair and darts around the counter. You curl your fingers into a fist and deliver a few gentle pounds to your sternum. When the hacking fit passes, you swallow heavily and squeeze your eyes shut, embarrassed beyond belief. You busy yourself with staring at the last page of your midterm, skimming mindlessly over the words on the sheet.

Lost in your humiliation, you don’t look up when the loud clinking of glass reaches your ears. It’s only when you hear the deep baritone of Harry’s voice that you lift your gaze.

“Er…would you mind?”

Your jaw drops.

“How the hell did you manage to do that?”

“It wasn’t my fault!” Harry protests as you stand. His features contort with concentration. “They all just fell down at once!”

You laugh and scurry around the counter quickly. Harry’s standing in front of an open cabinet, his forearms acting as the only barrier between several cups and the floor. He wrinkles his nose as he shifts, only to freeze immediately when one of the glasses slips further down. You pause beside him, looking for a way to provide help without causing anything to fall and shatter.

“Why’re you just standing there?” he demands, but the question is laced with laughter.

“I’m trying to find a way to get in here!” you say, giggling. You gnaw on your bottom lip to suppress a smile, stepping closer to him and placing your fingertips delicately onto his elbow.

“Okay, maybe—lift your arm a bit for me.”

“What?”

“Lift your arm!”

“Alright, shit!” Harry obeys.

You hunch your shoulders and slip in between him and the counter, ending up with your back pressed against his chest. His breath washes out onto the shell of your left ear—a shiver races down your spine. You bite down harshly on your tongue as you lift your own arms, carefully plucking each glass from its teetering position and placing them all safely back onto the shelf.  

“There we go,” you murmur, holding out your hands in front of the cabinet—one last act of caution. His arms fall from where they were outstretched next to yours. You give yourself a mental pat on the back, smirking proudly and turning around.

Your breath gets caught in your throat.

Harry hasn’t moved an inch.

His expression is unreadable, features stony. His eyes stare at you with such intensity you feel as though he’s pulling you apart layer by layer and scrutinizing everything that lies beneath. You watch anxiously as his tongue dips out to wet his lips—the action is over just as quickly as it begins. His strong chest moves against yours, rising and falling with shallow, sporadic gasps. You swallow roughly, refusing to make the first move.

But then Harry lets out a defeated sigh.

“Fuck it all,” he says.

A pair of large hands fly up to grip the sides of your face, and he covers your lips with his.

~*~

If someone had told you a week ago that you’d end up like this, you’re pretty sure that you would have cackled right in their face. Hell, if someone had told you ten minutes ago that you’d end up like this, you would have considered it to be the grandest comedy special of the century.

But there’s nothing funny about this situation.

You fail to see any bit of humour in the way that Harry presses his lips to yours with a bruising force. You don’t laugh when he steps closer to you, trapping you against the counter and sliding his fingers into your hair to keep you near. And you’re not fucking around one bit when you melt against him, your hands slipping past his waist and your fingers interlocking at the small of his back. A soft, pleased sigh escapes your lips.

Finally.

“I’ve thought—,” Harry breathes against your mouth, cutting himself off so that he can pepper hard kisses to the corner of your lips. “—thought about this so much, you’ve got no idea.”

“Shut up,” you murmur, digging your nails into his back through the thick material of his sweater. He presses a forceful kiss to the curve of your jaw; you can feel the way his cheeks lift with a smirk.

It’s frenzied, it’s feverish, and it’s been a long time coming. Harry doesn’t waste a second, hiking you up onto the counter and tugging your denim jacket from your shoulders. You whimper delightedly at the action. His fingers find the hem of your white t-shirt, slipping beneath the soft cotton and rucking it up your sides. His nails scrape gently across your skin, leaving a searing path behind. Your top falls to the floor, leaving you in a plain, nude bra.

Your face heats up in embarrassment—of course, you’re wearing the foulest undergarments you own. You hadn’t exactly expected to wind up here.

“You too,” you protest breathlessly, trying to turn his attention away from the sheer ugliness of your intimates. You ball the fabric of Harry’s hoodie up in your fists; his body rumbles with a faint chuckle. He steps back, fixing you with an intense stare as his grip curls into the collar of his sweater. You watch with hot cheeks and dilated pupils, clenching your thighs together when he finally rids himself of the material.

He’s got a few dozen more tattoos hidden beneath the sweatshirt, designs littered across his shoulders and his chest. You’re not even surprised. Your gaze falls to the intricate butterfly inked across his abdomen. Harry moves back into your space, and you reach out to trail your fingers along the insect’s ebony wings.

“It’s gorgeous,” you mumble softly.

“I want you,” he replies.

You look up at him with wide eyes. “Have me, then,” you say, lunging for the knot on the waistband of his sweatpants.

“Wait.” He stops you, his long fingers circling around your wrists. “Not yet. First, I’ve got to—”

“What is it?” you ask, somewhat impatiently. You duck your face down, intending to sponge kisses up and down his neck. Your urges are dashed, however, when you catch a glimpse of the marks already scattered across his throat. The hickies aren’t as dark as they had been a couple of days ago (they’ve faded into a light brown, now), but the mere sight of them still leaves you paralyzed with resentment.

You sit back on the counter, your features hardening. Harry watches you in confusion before it dawns on him. One of his hands shoots up to cover his neck.

“She—it didn’t mean anything,” he tells you quickly.

You choke on a dry laugh. “And this does?”

His eyes grow dark. He cups your face in his palms, leaning forward so that his lips brush against yours when he speaks.

“You have no idea,” he says lowly, “how much this means to me.”

You gulp. Your voice shakes when you say, “Prove it.”

Harry kisses you urgently, wrestling his way in between your legs. Your thighs fall open easily, welcoming him closer. He growls gruffly when you hook one of your calves around his hips, drawing him in. His fingers dance up your spine, playing hesitantly with the clasp of your bra. You arch your back, silently encouraging him to take it off.

He makes quick work of the ordeal, undoing the three little hooks in a matter of seconds. Your lips detach from his with a loud smacking sound when the cups loosen around your chest and the straps slide from your shoulders.

“Lemme see, love,” Harry rasps. “Please.”

You swear that those four words are enough to have you soaking through your jeans.

You pull your bra from your body, tossing it away mindlessly. Harry diverts all of his attention to your breasts, reaching up to caress them in his hands. His thumbs stroke over your skin. Your nipples grow tight with arousal, and you’re about to beg him to just do something, but then he bends down and engulfs one of them into his mouth.

“Shit,” you breathe, tilting your head back. “That feels good.”

Harry continues to fondle your other breast with his left hand, while the right slips down so that he can plant a firm grasp on your waist. He rubs his fingers soothingly along the space just above the waistband of your bottoms. You’re torn between pushing your hips back against his touch and curving your torso forward into his mouth.

He pops off of your chest, licking his lips and scattering a haphazard trail of kisses along your cleavage until he reaches the other side. He’s quick to pamper your other nipple with the same amount of attention, sucking avidly and swirling his tongue around it. You whimper, his actions unearthing something wild buried deep in the pit of your belly.

“Harry,” you moan, gripping the edge of the counter tightly. “Please.”

“My hair…,” he mumbles quietly, moving away from your chest and leaving a path of wet kisses up your neck. You sigh when he bites down gently on your collarbone.

“What?” you murmur, your eyes fluttering shut. Harry snickers.

“Pull—”

He kisses your throat.

“—my—”

He kisses your chin.

“—hair.”

He kisses your lips.

Your fingers twine immediately through the wavy brown tendrils at the back of his neck. You stroke his hair zealously, your nails bumping against the glasses that are still perched on top of his head.

“Take these off,” you mumble, giggling against his lips. Harry smiles, removing the frames. Instead of folding them up, though, he slides them onto the bridge of your nose, his cheeks dimpling with a smug smirk.

“You look hot,” he says matter-of-factly. “I’d love to fuck you while you’re wearing my glasses, but I think you’d just end up with a headache afterwards.”

“My God,” you mutter, shaking your head softly and pulling them off. His words are intended to mock, but they’ve only succeeded in turning you on beyond belief. You leg tightens around Harry’s waist, and you place your hand on his right shoulder to guide him down for a kiss.

“Are we—do you wanna—?” you inquire between soft smacks of your lips against his. Harry seems to catch on to what you’re trying to ask. He nods vehemently, winding his arms around your waist and squeezing you tightly. Your breasts squish against his bare chest—the contact sends a shiver down your spine.

“C’mere,” Harry says, helping you stand from the counter. You reach out for the knot on his sweatpants again, but just like before, he interrupts the act.

“Stop that,” he instructs, his lips twitching in amusement when he registers the pout on your face. “I wanna do something else, first.”

“What is it?” you whine. Harry flips your hands over and traces small circles into your palms. He plants a few chaste pecks on your lips before guiding your fingers into his hair once more.

“Keep them there,” he murmurs as he kisses down your neck. “You’re gonna need something to hold onto.”

You open your mouth to question him, but then he’s dropping to his knees and fiddling with the button on your jeans, and your voice betrays you. Harry tugs your zipper down slowly, peering up at you through his eyelashes and fighting to mask a conceited grin. You wiggle your hips as he jerks your pants down your legs, eventually stepping out of the material once it pools at your feet.

“I can smell you, love,” Harry whispers, groaning wantonly and pressing his forehead against the top of your left thigh. You swallow violently at the pure lust coating each syllable of his sentence, arranging your feet so that they’re planted a bit further apart.

“Can I have it?” Harry asks, looking up at you for permission. His fingers hook into the fabric of your panties.

You nod feebly, choking on the word. “Yes.”

With that, he yanks your underwear smoothly down your legs, throws one of your thighs over his shoulder, and goes to town.

You tilt your head backward as he licks a wide stripe up the length of your folds. His plush, swollen lips pepper kisses against the innermost parts of your core. Your clit throbs when he pulls it into his mouth and sucks gently. He grunts appreciatively when you tug on his hair.

“Don’t stop,” you breathe, your eyes fluttering shut. The cold edge of the marble counter presses into the small of your back, but you pay it no attention. Harry places one hand on your waist, while the other snakes around to cup your ass. He pinches your bum lightly, chuckling when you squeak and twitch in response.

“How’s it feel?” he asks, sticking his tongue out and flicking it rapidly against your clit. Your lips part with a lewd moan, and your fingers tighten in his curls. You feel him smirk against your cunt, evidently satisfied with your answer.

“Harry,” you breathe, your chest heaving. “You’re gonna make me cum.”

“Good.”

He doubles his efforts after that. You can’t even be embarrassed about the sounds that leave your mouth. It feels like he’s everywhere at once, pressing kisses to the inside of your thighs and lapping fervently at your folds. You jump when he circles your entrance with the tip of his index finger, and whimper as he slowly sinks the digit inside of you. He probes around, cursing at the sensation of your walls bearing down on him.

You can’t believe that this is happening. Never in a million years would you have predicted that you’d be standing in Harry’s ridiculously expensive kitchen, stark naked, with his lips and his tongue guiding you to the brink of an orgasm.

Things have a funny way of working out, you suppose.

Harry hooks his finger inside of you, petting a rough, sensitive spot. You cry out and fall over the edge. The muscles in your legs shake so violently that you have to lean against the counter to keep yourself upright. The heel of your foot digs into Harry’s back, and your grasp on his hair grows unbelievably strong. He continues to pump his finger in and out of your cunt, his thumb rubbing against your clit as he pulls back to watch your features contort in pleasure.

“Beautiful,” he mumbles, kissing the skin just beneath your navel. “So fuckin’ beautiful.”

“Damn,” you whisper, inhaling deeply. You pause when you realise that you’ve still got an ironlike grip on the wavy tendrils atop his head. Releasing his curls, you flex your fingers and wipe your sweaty palms against the sides of your bare thighs. Harry’s eyes glitter.

“You’re good at that,” you say breathlessly. He grins, and you swoon upon spotting the deep crevice of his dimple.

“Can I kiss you again?” he requests.

A winded laugh falls from your mouth. “You didn’t ask me if you could before.”

“I should’ve.” He grimaces. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you seriously saying that right now?” Your eyebrows climb up your forehead.

A low grunt escapes Harry’s lips when he stands. You watch, amused, as he places a hand on his lower back and stretches. His nose wrinkles in contempt.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Back problems.”

“Why’re you apologising?” The corner of your mouth quirks up. Harry pauses, looking down at you before an incredulous chuckle rumbles from deep in his chest.

“You’re something else,” he says, shaking his head. You smile, winding your arms around his neck and steering him in for a long, lazy kiss.

He tastes like you. The realisation makes you moan.

Sneakily, you run your hands down his back, taking only a moment to marvel at the way his muscles shift beneath his skin. You stop right above his bum, gliding your fingers over the elastic of his bottoms and circling back to the front. Harry scoffs when you begin tinkering with the tie on his sweatpants, and you giggle. Despite his slight jeer, though, he allows you to continue.

You pull at the string, and it promptly comes loose. “Wait,” Harry says.

You groan.

“I swear to God,” you exclaim. “If you don’t let me get you naked—”

He grabs your face in his palms and cuts you off with a bruising kiss. Your empty threat dies on the tip of your tongue.

“I just meant—,” Harry mumbles, the words hot and sticky, “—maybe we should take this to my room.”

You pull back and blink. “That’s awfully forward of you.”

His face is vacant until your sentence sinks in, and then he laughs. The sound comes from deep in his diaphragm, capping off at the end with a high-pitched squeak. It makes you want to grab him and cover his lips with yours until you’re both struggling to breathe.

“C’mon,” Harry commands, tangling his fingers with yours.

He leads you out of the kitchen and down the hall, stopping at the last door on the left. As soon as you step into his room, you note that his bed is preposterously big. That’s the only observation you’re able to make, though, because then he’s picking you up in all of your naked glory and flinging you onto the mattress.

You yelp in surprise, scrambling up to where a mountain of pillows is propped against the headboard. Harry watches you as he saunters over, his eyes hungry and voracious. His tongue swipes over his teeth as he joins you on the bed. You giggle eagerly.

Once your lips convene again, the atmosphere shifts. The playfulness is gone, replaced by something deeper, something greedier. Harry licks into your mouth, ravenous. You whimper, wrapping your legs around his waist and subconsciously bucking your hips up off the duvet. You can feel his cock inside his bottoms, hard and heavy and waiting to be freed. Fed up with the numerous delays, you grab onto material covering his thighs and yank it down. He notices your struggle, and he sits back on his knees to help you in your quest to get him undressed.

“I’m not—,” Harry begins, but he’s too slow.

Your eyes grow wide when they land on what lies beneath his sweatpants.

I’m not small, he might have started to say, or perhaps, I’m not wearing any underwear.

You’re not sure which statement it would have been, because both are true. He’s now equally as naked as you, his cock swollen and curved against his stomach. The tip is flushed a light pink, dotted with clear drops of arousal. A prominent vein runs along the underside—you’re suddenly overcome by the urge to feel it against your tongue. A few inches lower, there’s a tattoo of a tiger’s face inked on his thigh. You feel your stomach tighten as an entirely new wave of desire washes over you.

You look up at Harry with unreadable eyes. He stares back at you, and—for what may be the first time ever—you think you see a hint of insecurity brewing in his gaze. He swallows; you get the feeling that he’s going to say something, but you beat him to it.

“You’re so sexy,” you tell him earnestly, and then you kiss him again.

He ruts against you, his cock sliding along the inner crease of your thigh as the two of you move together. His hands slither up your body to squeeze your breasts, and you arch into his touch. After a few minutes of him devoting his attention to your chest, he reaches over and pulls open the top drawer of his nightstand.

“I’m clean,” he says, panting. “But…just in case.”

You nod once. “Agreed.”

He fishes out a condom, the foil packet crinkling loudly in his grasp. The sound snaps you out of whatever trance you’d fallen into.

You’re really about to have sex with Harry.

Harry, who grades your papers.

Harry, who is employed by the university that you’re currently attending.

Harry, who ignored you for weeks.

All of those things should send off warning bells in your brain. They should remind you that what you’re doing is wrong, and the two of you could get into an unbelievable amount of trouble. Your academic career might very well never recover. Harry could lose his job.

But you don’t care. Because though he’s the same Harry who grades your papers and who works for your university and who ignored you for weeks, he’s also Harry, who writes little notes on all of your tests and assignments. Harry, who bought you a coffee just because he felt like it. Harry, who was willing to devote a hefty portion of his free time to reviewing your midterm with you and showing you where you went wrong.

“You good?”

His innocent inquiry pulls you out of your haze. The condom has been rolled on.

You nod firmly, your legs falling open with a surprising amount of ease. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Let’s do it.”

When his cock first enters you, it takes a minute to get used to the intrusion. Harry watches your features for any sign of discomfort; you find it sweet. You pulse around him, and his hips falter as he swears softly.

“Sorry,” he says. “It feels good.”

“Glad to hear it,” you say wryly. He smirks.

You take deep breaths as you try to grow accustomed to the way he’s spreading you apart. He leans down, balancing on his forearms and sprinkling dozens of kisses across your face. His lips land on your forehead, your nose, your cheeks, your chin. The small displays of affection help you loosen up.

“I think it’s okay, now,” you whisper, pushing his hair out of his face. Harry seals his lips against yours, gradually pulling out and thrusting back in. His pace is still slow, cautious, wary; you cup his jaw and skirt your thumb over the small mole by the corner of his mouth.

Steadily, he begins to pick up speed. Within minutes, you’ve got your lips parted and your back curved, your little mewls of pleasure filling the air. Harry curses, sitting back on his heels and searching for a secure grip on your waist. He pistons his hips, pulling you onto his cock with each drive forward. Your fingers dig into the duvet.

“Fuck,” you whine, covering your face with your hands. “It’s so good.”

Harry reaches forward to pull your hands away. “Don’t,” he gasps, his forehead gleaming with a thin sheen of sweat. “Lemme hear you, I wanna—,” he groans, “I wanna hear you.”

You moan in response. The headboard creaks incessantly, but neither of you pay the noise any attention. Harry’s chest is flushed a dark shade of pink, matching the blush on his cheeks. His hair has flopped over onto his forehead; he doesn’t even attempt to move it out of the way. You can feel his thighs flexing against your bum as he fills you to the brim with every thrust.

“Bloody fuck.” He grits his teeth, a vein in his neck popping. “So fuckin’ tight, love. You’re squeezing me.”

At that, you deliberately clench around his cock. One of Harry’s hands splays out over your navel abruptly. The next drive of his dick inside of you is hard and sudden—a form of admonishment. It makes you gasp.

“Don’t,” he warns softly, sliding his palm upward and pinching your left nipple. “Be—be good for me.”

His hand continues further north, and your eyes widen when you feel him wrap his fingers around your throat. He doesn’t apply much pressure, but you moan loudly anyway. His thumb strokes over the gentle curve of your jaw, and his middle finger prods gently at your mouth. Without hesitating, you take the digit past your lips, laving your tongue over his knuckle.

“You’re incredible,” he whispers. He stares at you—completely awestruck—like he can’t fathom that you’re real. You whine and buck your hips against his, urging him to resume his previous pace.

“Filthy,” Harry mutters, shaking his head in disbelief. He releases your neck, trailing his finger down your sternum and leaving behind a damp path of your own saliva.

“I’m almost there,” you tell him, biting on the inside of your cheek to keep your sounds from increasing in volume.

“Yeah?” he asks breathlessly. “Gonna cum for me? Please, darling—I wanna see it.”

“Fuck me,” you gasp, twitching at the lewdness of his demand.

Harry grunts, and with the finger that was just inside of your mouth, he rubs frantic, messy shapes against your clit. The sudden onslaught of stimulation catches you by surprise, and you shriek when your orgasm crashes into you unexpectedly.

“Holy shit!” you cry out, squeezing your eyes shut. Your climax is powerful, splintering through your entire body. Your toes curl into the mattress and your thighs quiver pugnaciously. Harry continues to fuck you, alternating between deep, languid strokes, and short staccato pumps. He digs his fingers into your skin as his rhythm wavers.

“Fuck, I’m cumming,” he groans, his face screwing up in pleasure. You grasp at his wrist with shaky hands, stroking over the anchor on his arm when he releases a string of cusses. Harry snaps into your cunt one, two, three more times before stilling and collapsing on top of you, utterly depleted.

The two of you lie there for eons, it seems. Your bodies are hot, spent, and slick with sweat. He sighs, nuzzling into you and delivering a gentle kiss to your temple. Your chest rises and falls unevenly as you struggle to regain your bearings. The room is silent, except for the shifting of limbs and the sound of Harry’s breathing in your ear.

“Was good,” he croaks, lifting a hand and tucking your hair away from your face with feeble fingers.

You hum and turn to the side, the tip of your nose brushing his chin. “Yeah. It was.”

“We’re fucked,” he adds weakly.

You purse your lips. “Yeah,” you repeat. “We are.”

  October 23rd, 2019

The next week, Harry isn’t in class. Instead, settled in the corner of the room, there’s a short Korean girl with dark silky hair and a bright shade of red daubed on her lips. She’s wearing a brown knitted-sweater that looks awfully cozy, and her feet are covered by a clunky pair of combat boots.

Who would transfer into a class this late in the semester? You wonder. Is that even allowed?

At that exact moment, Dr. Renault clears his throat. His announcement makes all of the blood in your body run cold.

“Good morning, everyone. Unfortunately, Harry will no longer be accompanying us on our exciting quest to learn about the brain.” He gestures to the Korean girl standing off to the side. “This is Hana. She will be my new assistant for the remainder of the course.”

November 13th, 2019

“Oh my God, here it comes!” Margaret squeals, her nails digging into your bicep. You laugh at her excitement. Mateo leans over to pull her painted claws out of your skin.

“Jesus, woman, you’re gonna draw blood,” he berates her. Margaret rolls her eyes and faces him with her hands on her hips.

“I didn’t see her complaining!”

“I was about to,” you pipe up, shooting her a dry smile. Your friend turns on you, her features warping with an expression of betrayal, but before she can say anything, the barista sets three tall cups of coffee onto the counter and calls out your orders.

“That’s us, bitch!” Margaret exclaims. “Thank you,” she adds in a softer tone. The barista just smiles, giggling quietly and wishing you a good day.

You reach out for your latte, taking a small sip and humming appreciatively at the taste. “I fucking missed this place,” you say. “Nobody does coffee like Grounded.”

“Agreed.” Mateo nods.

The three of you make your way down the hall, the sounds of whirring espresso machines and jingling coins growing fainter in the distance. The corridor is teeming with students, people engrossed in animated conversations as they head to their next class. Margaret is rambling about how she can’t wait to resume her routine of drinking three cups of caffeine a day, and Mateo is marvelling at the spotlessness of the basement floors.

“They really cleaned this place up,” he says. “I guess renovations aren’t useless, after all.”

“Mhm,” you hum in response.

You balance your coffee in one hand as you rifle through your bag for the little pot of lip balm that you know is hidden somewhere in the smallest pocket. You’re so absorbed in your search that you don’t notice a tall figure walk right out of the door in front of you and into your path.

“Oh, shit!” you hiss, bumping into a solid body. A few drops of coffee spill from your cup and run down your fingers. The liquid is still hot; you whimper.

“I’m so sorry,” you ramble, lifting your gaze as you apologise to the stranger. “I wasn’t looking where I was—”

You stop in your tracks, and the rest of your sentence fizzles out. Harry’s peering down at you with piercing green eyes, seeming to stare through your soul. He’s wearing a maroon crewneck and a pair of dark brown trousers, and his glasses are tucked securely into the collar of his shirt. His hair has grown since you’d last seen him all those weeks ago, wispy tendrils curling just beneath his ears. Your skin tingles with the memory of running your fingers through the soft strands, and you have to hold back a sigh.

“Hi,” Harry says, the greeting deep and guttural. You swallow heavily, gripping your coffee with both hands.

“Hi,” you whisper.

He buries his knuckles into his pockets, his brown loafers squeaking against the floor. “How’ve you been?”

“Fine.” Your answer is curt. “You?”

“I’ve been alright, yeah.”

“That’s good.”

A beat of silence passes before someone beside you clears their throat. You jump; you’d forgotten all about your friends.

“Okay, well, we’re gonna go…,” Margaret says slowly, drawing out the last vowel of her sentence. She’s only referring to Mateo and herself, but you put your hand on her forearm to keep her still for a second longer.

“I’ll come with you,” you tell her quickly, refusing to look at the man standing in front of you.

“Actually,” Harry pipes up. “I was wondering if I could talk to you about something.”

You force yourself to meet his eyes. Margaret and Mateo step away leisurely. “What is it?”

“It’s about your midterm,” Harry says, even though both of you know that it’s not. Everything on his face reveals to you that his words are a lie, from the pursing of his lips to the furrowing of his brows. Despite your irritation, though, you find yourself nodding apprehensively.

Harry steps back, holding out his arm and motioning for you to walk into his office. You don’t bother shooting your friends one last glance before you oblige.

They’ll be fine; you’re not worried about them.

You’re worried about yourself.

You don’t miss the sound of the lock on the door clicking into place. You busy yourself with studying the office—Harry has begun moving his supplies back into place. The bookshelf in the corner is half-full; a few boxes—each of them are filled to the brim with novels—sit on the floor as they wait to be emptied. There’s a tall pile of papers on Harry’s desk. Your brows furrow in confusion for only a moment before you remember that he’s also serving as a teaching assistant for Dr. Chen’s psychopathology course.

“Er…,” Harry says from behind you. You keep your back to him, choosing instead to run your fingers over the smooth surface of his desk.

“What’s up?” you ask, trying to keep your voice level.

He sighs. “I quit my position in Dr. Renault’s class.”

“Really?” you say. Your tone is light, but the sarcasm in your words carries a harsh bite. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Your name leaves Harry’s lips in a quiet plea. It shocks you so much that you instinctively turn around to face him.

“Don’t be like that,” he implores. “Please.”

“Like what?” you snap, scowling at him. “What exactly am I doing?”

“You’re upset with me,” Harry states weakly. A dry, hollow laugh falls from your mouth.

“Maybe I am.” You shrug, the corners of your mouth curling disdainfully. “Wouldn’t you be upset if the person you’d fucked just decided to ghost you for a month?”

“I didn’t—,” he starts, but you cut him off without hesitating.

“Yes, you did,” you say, a hard edge creeping into your voice. “You kissed me, we fucked, and then you fell off the face of the planet.”

Harry remains silent, because he knows that you’re right. You grip your coffee tightly in one hand, the other coming up to rub tiredly at your forehead. Your heart is about to beat out of your chest, but there’s an odd, gratifying sensation spreading through your body. It feels good to tell him off, you realise. The anger and resentment brewing within you for the past month has made you astonishingly bitter.

“Why did you bring me in here, Harry?” you ask, sighing. “To tell me you quit Doctor Renault’s class? Because I already knew that.”

The words hurt as they exit your mouth. Hana seems like an absolute sweetheart, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss the little notes scrawled in messy, boyish handwriting at the top of your weekly quizzes. You blink rapidly and will the reflection out of your mind, drumming your fingers against the side of your latte.

“Bloody hell,” Harry mutters, shaking his head. “Why the fuck do you think I quit?”

“Excuse me?” Your brows knit together.

“Why do you think I quit?” Harry demands, his lips twisting into a frown. You balk, hating that the question has caught you by surprise.

“I—,” you start, growing frustrated. “How the hell am I supposed to know?”

“God, you really are quite dense, aren’t you?” Harry asks, chuckling sardonically.

You narrow your eyes. “I didn’t come here to be belittled.”

“What did you come here for, then?” he shoots back. “Why’d you agree to speak with me?”

“Because I wanted an explanation,” you say, feeling your chest grow tight. The words are thick when they leave your lips. “But if you’re not going to give me one, then…”

“Fuck, wait,” Harry rushes out. He blocks the path to the door as you try to sidestep his broad frame. “Please, just…lemme figure out a way to say what I’m thinking.”

You cross your arms over your chest and glare at him.  “You’ve got two minutes.”

He scratches the back of his neck, pulling gently on the collar of his dark sweater. You watch him turn phrases over in his head and hate that even now, in the middle of an argument, you still want to kiss him. Your lips prickle as you recall what it felt like to lick into his mouth, and how he swallowed up every single one of your moans.

“We had sex,” Harry finally says carefully. “That’s against the university’s policy.”

“I’m aware,” you say. You’ve realised this—why is he reiterating what you already know?

“I’m not allowed to be involved with a student in the classes where I’m…,” he continues and shakes his head, “Basically, if I’m a teaching assistant for a certain course, the people enrolled in it are off-limits.”

“I know.” You’re growing impatient, now. Harry’s mouth twitches.

“But I’m no longer the teaching assistant for Doctor Renault’s class,” he says softly. His stare is earnest, like he’s trying to tell you something without actually saying it.

You pause, allowing his words to sink in. Your lips part when the situation dawns on you, and you suddenly understand what he chose to do—what he’s done. You look up at him with wide, disbelieving eyes, your fingers constricting so tightly around your coffee that the cup nearly dents under the pressure.

“You—,” you initiate, but Harry interrupts you before you can continue.

“Have dinner with me,” he requests with prudence, approaching you slowly. “I’ll take you wherever you want to go. We can even see a movie after, if you’d like.”

Despite your dispute from only a few minutes ago, a small smile creeps onto your face. Harry takes another step toward you, and your stomach flips in anticipation. You gaze into his eyes, taking note of the way his green irises glimmer with hope. He lifts his hand and runs his thumb over your jaw. You find yourself leaning into his touch.

“You want to take me out on a date?” you ask, fighting to keep your eyelids from drifting shut. Harry smirks, his dimple popping on his cheek.

“I do,” he confirms, pinching your chin gently. “Will you let me?”

“I guess,” you say dreamily, and then your lips are on his. He exhales in relief, wrapping his arms around your waist as yours loop behind his neck.

Sparks are whizzing around in your brain. You’re sure that, realistically, they can be attributed to some sort of neurotransmitter, but you choose to believe that it’s just The Harry Effect.

You eventually pull apart for air, gasping hotly and scattering kisses anywhere you can reach. “As much as I’d love to continue this,” you say, sighing delicately as Harry delivers several hard pecks to your lips, “I need to head home and finish up a research report for my experimental psych class. It’s due on Friday.”

“Fine.” Harry drags himself away from you but keeps your face nestled in his hands. He runs his index finger along the seam of your mouth. “Go on, then. Congratulations on being a responsible student, I suppose.”

You smile and hold out your hand. “Give me your phone,” you order. His lifts an eyebrow teasingly; you mirror his coy expression and elaborate. “Let me put my number in. That way, we don’t have to e-mail back and forth like we’re in our fucking fifties.”

“I like to think that e-mailing is a very efficient way of sending messages,” Harry says.

You laugh. “Are you saying that you don’t want my number, then?”

“No, no,” he backtracks quickly, fishing his phone out of his pocket and unlocking it before handing it over to you. “Here, by all means.”

“That’s what I thought,” you simper. You key your information into the device, grinning as you pass it back to him. “There we go.”

Harry leans down, stealing a chaste kiss before you can even register what’s happening. He pulls back, humming impishly at the stunned expression on your face. “There we go,” he repeats, flashing you a crooked smirk.

He escorts you out of his office, down the hall, and up onto the main floor. Every so often, your hands brush as you walk. When you reach one of the many exits in the building, you turn to him.

“You’ll text me, right?” you check, succumbing to the small sliver of doubt that nags at your brain.

He nods. “I promise.”

“Okay.” You chew on your bottom lip. Your mouth subconsciously lifts into a doting smile. “Have a good day, Harry.”

His eyes are full of tenderness. “You too, love. Take care.”

You turn and push through the doors without looking back.

When you finally find your car in the winding maze of the parking lot, you feel your phone vibrate in your back pocket. You dig it out and open it absentmindedly. A soft laugh slips past your lips when you discover a text sent from an unknown number.

“He’s cute,” you murmur to yourself, your eyes scanning over the message.

It was really nice seeing you. I look forward to having dinner with you soon. H. x

~*~

thank you for reading 💖 and thank you to @all-things-fic, @emotionally-imbruised, and @imethiminthemorning for being my betas! i love you guys [masterlist] [askbox]

Dopamine (a Serotonin extra)

if you enjoyed this piece, please consider donating to my ko-fi! thank you bunches <3

[quiet-onset]

Boys’ Night

Pairing: Sam Wilson x black!reader

WC: 840

A/N: I hope everyone’s doing alright and being safe during the pandemic and protest! I’ve been really stressed and enraged as of late with everything going on, but writing still relaxes me so hopefully, my fics can help you guys relax too! I’ll still be reblogging important info, but I’ll also be posting some of my WIPs soon (hopefully lol).

Sam hadn’t been out in awhile, so when Steve planned a boys’ night out, he jumped at the opportunity. It ended in its usual tomfoolery that left the trio doubled over in laughter. He’d had a few drinks, beer mostly. He was nowhere near drunk, but there was a comfortable buzz and a hot strip of skin just behind his ears. But the time he got back to the Tower, it was around three in the morning. 

Sam has made one final joke about Bucky’s haircut before making it to his floor. Bucky placed his palm in the middle of Sam’s back and pushed, knocking him out the doors. Stevewas hunkered in the corner as he laughed at the two and told them to play nice. Bucky lifted his chin, “Hey, by the way, apologize to Y/N for me.”

“For what?”

“We keep leaving her with your dumbass every night.”

“Har dee har har.”

“Get some sleep, Sam.” Steve said, finally managing to breathe between laughs. 

“Remember to breathe, Steve.” Sam joked back.

Finally, the doors closed and reality set in. He was home and could finally spend some time with his girl, even it was just sleeping. He loved that about your relationship. It was the mundane things that made him fall harder in love with you. Watching you brush your teeth, sitting with you as you read book after book, listening to talk about your latest infatuation. He loved the way your eyes lit up at the tiniest thing. How your nose crinkled when you slept. It was the simple constant in his increasingly crazy life. 

However, as he walked closer to the bedroom, he realized you were not asleep. He could hear little sniffles and whimpers, but thought nothing of it. She’s probably watching that sad movie again, Sam thought. Hatchi. That damn dog made me cry too.

But when he entered the bedroom, he saw no movie playing. Just you, curled up in the comforter and tears streaming down your face. When he saw you, he immediately rushed over but you pulled the blanket over your head, embarrassed that he’d caught you like this. “I’m okay.”

Sam sat next to you, placing a hand over your blanket-covered hip. “You’re crying.”

You paused. “No, I’m not.”

“Nice try, sweetcheeks.” He chuckled. “C’mon, Y/N, tell me what’s wrong.”

“I said I’m—“ You cut yourself off with a groan, tending to and curling in on yourself again. You gritted your teeth, “I’m fine.”

Just then, it hit him. “Babe, are you having cramps?”

You peeked your head from under the blanket, your eyes still filled with tears. “Maybe.”

You finally allowed Sam to pull the blankets down, whining when he wouldn’t allow you to cover your face. Sam’s brow was furrowed with concern as he placed a hand on your forehead. Somewhere under all the deep pain in your stomach, you could feel the same butterflies from the day you met. The guy who joked around like there was no tomorrow but who also got straight to business when it came to his loved ones. “I’ve never seen you this bad before,” He noted. He placed his warm hands on your stomach and you sighed ever so slightly. “That feel better?”

“A little.” You admitted. 

“Where are your pain killers? I’ll grab them and get you some water.”

“I ran out this afternoon.”

“Why didn’t you call me, Y/N?” He cooed, rubbing your stomach in small circles. “I would have picked some up, brought them home for you.”

“It’s boys’ night out!” You defended. 

“Babe, if Steve or Bucky knew that I left you here, in pain, just because it’s boys’ night, they’d beat the shit out of me.” He chuckled. “I don’t care what day it is. If you need something, tell me, okay?”

“Okay.” You mumbled.

“What was that?” He taunted, rubbing your stomach faster. 

You chuckled, “Okay.”

“Gotta speak up, can’t hear you.”

“I said okay, damn.” You grabbed his wrist and stopped him, giggles passing through your lips. “Gonna start a fire if you keep that up.”

“Are you calling yourself ashy? Or me?”

“What happened to caring boyfriend Sam? I want that one back.”

“Fine, fine.” He conceded. “I think I've got some mild muscle relaxers around here, that should help. I’ll grab those and the heating pad. And I’ll make you some hot tea. How’s that sound?”

“Amazing.”

Sam leaned down and pecked your lips. “Great. I’ll be right back.”

As soon as he got to the door, you called him back, “Ooh wait, and ice cream.”

“You want hot tea and ice cream?” He deadpanned. “At the same time?”

You picked up the phone and pretended to dial a number. “Steve? Bucky? You’ll never guess what Sam did tonight.”

“Ice cream coming right up.” Sam rolled his eyes playfully as he walked down the hall. With a smile on his lips he calls back to you, “I pour my heart out, and this is what I get!”

“Love you!”

[always-and-forever-a-killjoy]

Hello good morning and welcome to chili's- is that even the right reference? Whatever. Anyways, welcome to 'auri can't stop fucking writing about party poison and cherri cola' hours. They have such a fascinating bond ANYWAYS also welcome to a fucking trainwreck that i wrote all this morning.

Title: everybody wants to change the world

Wordcount: 2047

Summary:

Party Poison goes out, gets hurt, and chooses a different place for help than they usually would.

This has literally no plot beyond me making Poison have a bad time.

Warnings: injury, blood, death mentions.

Taglist: @wishiwasthemoon-tonight @sleevesareforlosers @stressed-depressed-emo-mess @tasteofamnesia @dagger-queen​ @no-braincells-here @piratecherricola (message me, send an ask, or reblog/reply to one of my posts if you want to be added or removed)

AO3 Link

(Actual fic under the cut)

Party Poison swore under their breath as they staggered back to the Trans Am, pressing a hand to their side. They were going to fucking bleed out here, outside a Mad Gear concert in Zone 4, all because they were a fucking dumbass and got themself stabbed. Because Poison could never live quietly, they didn't know how. All they knew was picking fights with random 'joys and listening to the music that blared from the speakers, way too loud and easily drowning out their thoughts. Now that was catching up to them, they guessed, as they slid into the car and put their bloody hand on the wheel.

"Home we go, baby."

No. Not home. Kobra had said, Kobra had told them 'don't go out and get hurt again, don't go picking fights, dumbass'. And Poison had gone and done it anyways. Gone and been a fucking idiot, as Kobes would say. So no, they were not going back to the diner yet. Not bleeding this heavily, anyways. The Girl didn't deserve to see this, nor did she deserve to watch them and Kobra fight about it.

That left Poison with the question of where, exactly, they were going to go. There weren't a lot of people in the world they trusted to see them like this, injured and exhausted and close to crying because it all hurt, it always had. In fact, most of those people, four of them, lived in the old diner where they couldn't -wouldn't- go. Most of those people...but not all of them.

Poison turned the Trans Am to a different path, speeding towards a little radio shack in the middle of the desert. If nothing else, they knew Dr. D would be happy to fix them up and send them on their way again, and then they could head back to diner late at night when no one was awake and no one would need to know they had gotten stabbed like a dumbass.

Unluckily for them, it was one in the fucking morning, and Dr. D was soundly asleep when they stumbled into the station. They assumed, at least, given that he was nowhere to be seen and the radio station was quiet. Empty, in fact. Or at least the living room was. Poison stumbled towards the broadcasting room, hearing a low voice from that direction.

Cherri Cola looked up they stumbled in the door, pausing in the middle of reading off a poem. "Poison?"

"Pepsi! I got stabbed." Poison tried to grin at him, the smile turning into a grimace at the pain in their side.

Cherri stared at them for a few moments, then turned back to the broadcast. "Well, WKIL listeners, I'm afraid this where I leave you for tonight, given that we've got a bit of a situation going on, but I should be back for later this night- well, this morning, technically, I'd say we're coming up on one am now. Cherri Cola, signing off." He turned back to Poison with a sigh. "Where did you get stabbed?"

They tried not to be offended at his huff. "Here. Where my hand is."

Cherri stood, gesturing to them to follow him back to the living room area, where he grabbed a first aid kit. "Lay down on the sofa, that much blood means I probably need to stitch you up."

"Great."

"I'm going to peel back your shirt, okay? Only as far as I need to clean and stitch it," Cherri promised.

Poison shrugged, pulling their jacket off before they laid down. "Do what y'have to."

His hands were scarred and calloused, the skin rough, but he was gentle when he pulled the bloody fabric away and started cleaning out the wound. They gasped in pain anyways, gritting their teeth as their side sent flickers of agony running through them.

"Sorry, sorry," Cherri said quietly. "I promise only a bit more to go, I just need to stitch this."

Poison nearly screamed when he started the first stitch, letting out a strangled yelp instead. "How much longer?"

"Three more stitches, then I'm done."

They gritted their teeth again, clenching their fists by their sides as he tied off the next stitch, and the next, and the next.

"Okay, done." Cherri set the needle aside, closing the first aid kit. "You okay?"

Poison would have laughed if they weren't in so much pain. "Of course 'm not fucking okay. Why would I be fucking okay?"

They hated the pity on his face as he gently scooted them over to sit down next to them. "Silly question, I'm sorry. What's wrong?"

Poison could have been dignified, but they chose to lean against him instead as the feelings they had been bottling up came pouring out. "Everything. Everything is wrong because Kobes is always angry and Jet's always sad and Ghoul's scared and Motorbaby shouldn't have to grow up here, shouldn't have to see us fall apart. What's the point? What's the point, Cola? What are we fighting for? Is there even a future ahead of us? What's even the point of life?"

"Honestly?"

"Honestly."

"There isn't a point." Poison gaped at him. "There isn't a point to life, not unless you make one. You have to decide what you want, what's worth fighting for."

The words fell softly into the quiet of the radio station, shattered by Poison's harsh voice. "And how the fuck am I supposed t' do that?"

"It's hard to describe, but..." Cherri trailed off. "Find what means something to you. What you love. For me that's poetry, and Newsie, and D and Pone and you and your crew, and the stars. Also, Mad Gear, they're vastly superior to Benny and the Trampolines."

Poison managed a small laugh. "True that. But what is the point, to you?"

“Well, in the simplest form...the point of life is happiness.”

“I thought the point of my life was to change the world,” they muttered bitterly. Maybe it made them an asshole, maybe the other was trying to help, but it was their fucking job to change things and they were tired of it.

Cherri’s voice was heartbreakingly gentle. “It doesn’t matter how big of a difference you made to the world. All that matters is that you made a different to you.”

Poison found that their eyes were stinging, tears collecting in them. “Are you sure?” Their voice sounded small and pathetic, and they hated it.

“I’m sure. You deserve happiness, more than anything else. It should never be your job to save the world, not so young. Never.”

They tried to speak again, but all that came out was a shuddering, gasping sob. Some small part of them was embarrassed, mortified to be crying in front of Cherri Cola, of all people, but the bigger part of their mind couldn’t bring themself to care. Not when their heart ached more than the wound in their side, not when Cherri was holding his arms out silently, clearly an offer.

Maybe it made them weak, but Poison took the comfort, letting themself be encased safely in the older killjoy’s arms. “I don’t want to die, Cola.” They hated how their voice shook. “I don’t want to die.”

“I know. I know.”

“I want to save everyone, I want to make a difference.” They let out another sob. “But I don’t want to die.”

“Your life should never be the price,” Cherri murmured.

“But it is. But it is! I have to- I’m going to die ch- changing the world. I’m supposed to- to save everyone, even if I have to d-die to do it.”

Poison thought they heard his usually unshakable voice waver a little. “No, Poison, no. This never should have been your job."

"Well who- who was g- going to do it?"

They couldn't see his face, but his voice was very quiet. "It was supposed to be D and I, years and years ago. Me, and D, and Lily. It shouldn't have even been Newsie and Chimp, shouldn't have been Pony, definitely shouldn't have been you. I'm sorry, Poison."

"'s okay." They found themself curling up further, head leaning on his shoulder. "Who's Lily?"

"White Lily, leader of the first rebellion, said to be one of the first of the killjoys," Cherri murmured. "Giver of plastic flower hairclips, the only person who was allowed to call Newsie 'News', and one of my three siblings. In a way."

"Oh." Another sob made its way out of their throat, but this mysterious 'Lily' was a good distraction. "Tell me about her?"

"Well, the day I met her, she was twenty-one and she asked me 'Did this softy offer you a place to stay?'..." Cherri launched into a quiet story about two kind killjoys who offered a desperate sixteen-year-old the first real home he had ever known. His voice was low, soothing, and Poison let themself relax a little bit as they listened to the story.

"D' you have any more stories about 'your day'?"

"I think I have some poems about it, actually," Cherri replied dryly. "Stories, yes, but also poems, which are easier."

"Not easier to understand," Poison muttered, but they let him half carry them back into the broadcast room and proceeded to drape themself over his lap when he started up again.

"Hello there, my late-night crash queen friends, it's me, Cherri Cola, back again. At the request of my companion, the next few poems of the corner will be about the olden days, back before you rock and rollers were out on the road." He started on a poem which Poison thought must have been about Dr. D, plenty of metaphors about the voice of the desert. After that one and one more was finished, he switched on some music and turned back to them.

"When is your crew expecting you home?"

"Don't know. Concert was over at midnight, but they know I sometimes stay out later. For all I know, they all went to bed."

"I'm going to radio the diner, if that's okay?"

"Don't want them t' know I got hurt." Their words were mashed up more from sleepiness than blood loss by now.

"I'll say you got lost." Cherri's tone was joking, but his voice grew serious again as he went on. "Or I'll just say you're staying here tonight, you don't owe them an explanation of why. You do owe it to them to make sure they aren't worried for you, though."

"Okay." They felt rather schooled, staring down at the perpetually dirty floor of the radio station as Cherri fiddled with the radio.

Eventually, Fun Ghoul picked up, sounding sleepy. "Hello?"

"Hey, Ghoul."

"What is it, Cola? You got word of Party?"

"They decided to drop by after the concert, so we're hanging out tonight. They'll be okay, just too tired to drive the Am safely. I'll send them back tomorrow morning by the time you need the Trans Am for anything, but please tell the others not to worry."

"Gotcha. Motorbaby got sleepy, took Jet and Kobra to get her to sleep 'cause Pois is out, then they conked out. I told them to. But if they wake up, I'll tell them, and I won't worry toooo much. Tell Pois I said hi!"

Poison was incredibly thankful Ghoul had picked up instead of one of the other two, since xe wasn't the sort to ask many questions. Kobra would have been suspicious, and Jet would have been pretty decent about it but concerned. And Poison didn't need those two's concern right now.

"Right, well, sleep well, Ghoul. Pois says hi," Cherri said. That was technically a lie, since Poison hadn't said anything, but they didn't really mind. Ghoul deserved some reassurance, even if it was false.

Cherri clicked the radio off. "Right, my stabbed friend. I've got some more broadcasting to do, but you're welcome to stay."

"You're an insufferable bastard," Poison yawned.

"Yes, I am. Sleep well, Sleepy Poison."

Poison had absolutely not intended in any way, shape, or form to fall asleep on Cherri's lap, but they found themself yawning again as he started on another poem. And before they or he had a chance to say goodnight, they were out like a light.

[pyroandtheprincess]

Hey y’all. I hope everyone’s well. Yes, I’d give my left foot for NaLu, but I’m multi ship garbage. You may or may not be aware that I post and reblog a lot of #kacchako on my page. I find them utterly adorable and I’ve been sitting on a few ideas with them for a while. I decided to finally put some of my thoughts into writing. This is the first part to one of the many mini stories I think of as I’m trying to sleep at night, and it just so happens to be pretty ~angsty~. What can I say, the quarantine has me in my feelings. I’m sorry, but I needed to release some of the tension. As with most of my writing, I didn’t feel like editing so please be kind. I hope you enjoy, but if you don’t that’s okay too. All the best and happy reading! 🥰

“Rookie Mistakes” (part 1/2)

They are fucked, royally fucked. As much as they both have trouble admitting it, they are in deep shit.

How could he have let this happen? How could either of them have let this happen? How could a routine stake out of a suspected hideout (a warehouse of course because villains aren’t creative or original) turn into something so out of his control? He is the fucking number two hero and his badass wife is number fucking eight. They own their own hero agency. They literally train rookies. Only rookies would make these kinds of mistakes. Fucking extras. How could they walk right into a trap? Are villains getting smarter? No. The hero’s who assigned them to this god forsaken mission just underestimated the powers of the new recruits in the this damn villain organization they are investigating. This fucker they are facing is totally not who they were expecting. A quirk that creates large puffs of air from blinking seems harmless until the “puffs” are actually razor sharp blades that are deadly accurate and fast as fuck. Well, atleast the fucking idiots were able to recognize his quirk comes from his fucking eyes! Fucking way to go! He should have done his own damn research. He and Ochako were completely blindsided and now they are scrambling to dodge him.

Once again, they are fucked.

They need to come up with a game plan and fast. Katsuki needs to find a way to pull Ochako away for a second so they can figure this shit out. As he just barely weaves out of the way from yet another blade of air flying past his face, he makes a split decision. Thinking on his feet, he sets off a chain reaction of smoke bombs in a move he calls “smoke screen” and tugs his wife behind a crate. The villain quickly moves to place his dumb looking, bulky sunglasses over his eyes and disappears into the black cloud.

They both take a moment to collect themselves before Ochako speaks up.

“This is bad, Katsuki. We need a plan or we are seriously fucked.” Ochako whispers as she peaks her head out from behind the crate to scope out the area still covered in a plume of smoke.

“No shit, Cheeks.” He whispers back. She glares at him briefly, letting his out burst slide knowing he is just frustrated with their performance thus far. “Any and all bright ideas are welcome.”

She sighs, “Ideas are still formulating. But, did you notice that his attacks don’t happen every time he blinks? Either he is controlling when they happen, or they are random.”

“Great.” Katsuki huffs, joining her in peaking over the crate. “We can’t fucking form a plan until we know if he is actually in control or not. If he isn’t we could take advantage and charge at him. But, if he is we need to strategize so we will be able to dodge and strike him down.”

She is quiet for a second before she responds, “You know, having been your partner since before we starting dating, coupled with the experience of being your wife these past 5 years, it still amazes me that you can actually control your impatience and plan out your attacks. Who could have guessed this from you after UA?”

“Oi. Not the time to be pushing my buttons.”

“You aren’t denying it,” He could hear her smug grin, and it almost made him crack a smile. Almost. “But, with what you said in mind, I think we can actually take advantage of either outcome. I noticed his attacks are linear, he can only target one of us at a time head on. I think our best option is to split up. I’ll take the left and you should take the right side of the floor. That way if he targets one of us, the other can take him down from behind-where he can’t actively project his quirk- before he can turn around.”

Katsuki couldn’t hold back his proud smirk, “Good eyes,” he pauses for a second, “We’ve been married for 6 years in 2 weeks.”

She looks at him briefly to playfully roll her eyes, “Technically, it’s still 5.” She shifts so she can lean her back against the crate and pulls him down to her eye level, all playfulness in her demeanor has shifted to steady focus. He loves when she gets serious.

“I also think he needs those ridiculous glasses to protect his eyes from anything entering them. Since they block his eyes, they must somehow be rigged to stop his quirk. That means if I’m right he can’t use it right now and we should definitely get going before the smoke’s all cleared.”

Her quick plan was definitely their best bet. Guess his gamble paid off in more ways than one. His grin widens at the exciting thought of the tides turning in his favor. He’s ready to kick ass.

“Let’s move.”

With that they nod to each other once and stealthily start moving toward the cloud of now semi disappearing smoke.

Katsuki slowly makes his way through the right side of the plume. Although it’s dissipating, it’s still too thick to see through. He’s grateful that his eyes are no longer sensitive to the burn of smoke after years of training. He sometimes thinks his tear ducts have been burned away after so many high heat explosions, only to remember his tears on his wedding day and when both his kids were born. Man, love has made him soft.

Suddenly he hears the distinct sound of cheap plastic (he blames his parents) falling and skipping across the concrete floor. That could mean only one thing, stupid looking sunglasses. Dumbass must have tripped! He reacts in the speed of a lightning strike, lifting his gauntlet and setting off an ear shattering explosion in the direction of the sound. The force of which blows the remaining screen away.

Lowering his arm, a triumphant smile on his face, pro hero Ground Zero fully expects his villain to be out cold in front of him, ready to be cuffed and sent to prison so he and Ochako could wrap up and get home. He couldn’t be more wrong.

Instead, in front of him stands a concrete pillar with a sizable chunk missing from it. Dust from the debris floats around taunting him. His blood boils.

His smile falls and he quickly turns around to face his opponent already looking at him with a sinister smile and a very dark look in his eye. Dumb sunglasses no longer on his person, thrown as an annoying clever decoy.

He had been fooled into clearing the rest of the smoke with another explosion. And now he is an open target.

“Fuck.” Is all Katsuki can mutter because in the blink of an eye, literally, blades shoot towards him.

“NO! KATSUKI!”

For the first time in Katsuki’s life, time moves in slow motion. He hears only the echos of his wife shrieking his name and his adrenaline pumping blood through his ears. With each beat of his pounding heart, Ochako’s frantic scream fades away until he is left with nothing but himself, this mother fucking villain, and the blades of air rushing toward him. It was as if they were transported somewhere else far away.

Katsuki was a very smart and observant man. These traits helped him become a great, no, a fucking great hero. He knew many things with certainty, two of which he could recognize now. The first blaringly obvious thing he knew was the two razor sharp blades of air barreling towards him were, without a doubt, moving at speed even his lighting fast reflexes wouldn’t be able to react to. There was no way in hell he could dodge them. With that being said, the second thing he knew was that if these blades hit him, which they most certainly would, he was going to die.

As the attack reaches the halfway point between him and his attacker, number 2 hero Ground Zero, Katsuki Bakugo, feels a wave of emotions crash into him that he can’t place. They are emotions so foreign, he wouldn’t be able to find their origin even if they were circled on a map for him. With them come a heavy dose of realization.

It’s over. All his hopes, all his plans for the future will never come to fruition. Being number one hero? Kiss that goodbye. Since he got his quirk he has been working to be at the very top. For years he has put his everything into being a hero. Blood, sweat, even fucking tears have been shead to get him to where he is. But as devastating as that is, it’s nothing is compared to when he thinks of his family.

He will never see his daughters smiling face again. He’ll never hold his son in his arms again. He will never get to tell or show Ochako how much he fucking loves her. Man, he really has gone soft, but his fucking pride or ego or whatever the hell can fuck off. All the people he loves are flashing before his eyes and sending a massive wave of sadness, regret, dread, fear, and, most damning of all, hopelessness, washing over him.

He is terrified and he is going to die.

Suddenly, he is doing the most cowardly thing he has ever done. His eyes are betraying him and beginning to close, not wanting to see his end coming. Not wanting it to be over with such a bright and happy future ahead of him. If he has to accept it, he doesn’t want to watch it leave. He just hopes that Ochako can forgive him and his young children will remember him.

But, just as his eyes are about to shut. They widen in surprise as he feels himself being slowly pushed out of the time warp and physically forced aside.

It’s her, it has to be.

Ochako’s shoulder slams into his side with the force of a freight train. Just as he begins falling he notices a piece of debris, with the help of zero gravity, hurtling towards the villain. It successfully smashes him in the middle of his face definitely breaking his nose and, based on the loud crack, potentially fractures his skull. He drops like a rock before Katsuki hits the ground.

Katsuki’s eyes flick over in time to see the blade hit Ochako. Blood splatters, floating around her as if she’d used her quirk on it. The force of the blow is enough to send her flying a few feet backwards and flip her body over mid air. The horrible sound that resonates after her impact with the floor signals real time again.

On the ground, his hip and shoulder throbbing, Katsuki’s heart is about to burst out of his chest with how fast it’s beating. He’s in shock and can hardly breathe, but he isn’t concerned about himself.

“Cheeks?!” He shoots upright, ignoring the feeling of bruises forming, and turns his head slightly to see his wife laying on her side with her back to him. There is blood along the ground, trailing to the pillar he had hit were a another sizable divot has made its place slashed into it. A small pool is already starting to form beneath her.

“No...no.” He says feebly.

He scrambles across the floor to her, turning her over to see the gash in her side and a split in her forehead from her impact with the floor. The sight hits Katsuki with another horrible hard to process feeling.

“Oh god, please no.” He rasps as he scoops her up and places her into his lap slightly upright so her head rests into the crook of his neck.

One of his hands cradles her head to and the other moves to apply pressure on the wound to her side. Blood sleeps through his gloved fingers. He can feel her breathing faintly against his neck, but that does nothing to ease his rising anxiety. He leans into her, maneuvering his head just above hers so that he can use his finger to press against his ear piece.

“SOMEONE SEND A MEDIC, URAVITY IS DOWN!” He bellows, “I REPEAT, GET YOUR ASSES OVER HERE NOW!”

He let’s go of the button and instantly gets feedback that help is on the way. A small amount of relief washes over him, but his breath is stolen by the sound he hears next.

“Kat-suki?” A weak, garbly voice asks. The voice of an angel.

“Ochako!” A relieved smile creeps on to his face as he cups her cheek, “Oh thank fucking god! Hey look at me, keep talking to me,” he moves her face so she can look at him with glassy brown eyes.

“You... You okay?” She slurs, “Where’s the vill-?” She moves to sit up, but Katsuki stops her, applying more pressure to her side which causes her to wince.

His smile falters, “Hey, don’t move tiger. Don’t worry about him, you already took him out remember? Just keep your eyes open and keep talking to me.”

“I...did?” Her eye brows crease in confusion. She’s not fully with it right now, he can tell by the look in her eye. Her rosy cheeks are starting to lose their color. His fear is settling in.

Memory loss? Not good. She’s losing to much blood and she definitely has a concussion. If Katsuki wasn’t concerned before, he is about to freak out now. He is reminded once again of his tear ducts existence, but he needs to stay calm and strong for her. He has never been the best rescue hero but he certainly is not the stupid kid he used to be. He can feel her sinking deeper into his embrace, and her eyes are getting droopier by the second, where the hell is this back up?

“‘Chaks what are our kid’s names?” He knows he needs to keep her awake and talking.

“This... hurts.” she says grabbing weakly on to his arm applying pressure to her side. She’s not listening, his eyes are watering now.

“Ochako,” he pleads placing his forehead against hers and squeezing his eyes shut to stop the tears rolling down his cheeks, “Please, talk with me. What are y-our babies names? Tell me.”

“Katsuki...”

“No that’s my n-“ his voice cracks and she stops him with gentle carcass to his face. Her hands are trembling.

She whispers something he can’t quite make out and then her hand falls limply to the floor just as the steel doors fly open.

Katsuki doesn’t sleep that night.

————————- end of part 1 of 2

[all1e23]

Swallow [Pt.6]

Chapter: Barely Holding On

Pairings: Bucky x Reader

Summary: Can two hopelessly damaged people find healing in each other?

Warnings:  Adulty themes. Yes, I’m a grown-up, and I said adulty themes. Heavy Angst (I know. What else is new with series right?) 18+

A/N:   I’m sorry it’s been so long between updates, but tbh this fic takes a lot out of me when I write it – it’s emotionally exhausting to write. If you want something to listen to while reading, I would recommend ‘It’s been a while’ and ‘Everything changes’ by Staind. I know some of you will be surprised by this chapter, but this has been a clear theme throughout the series. Send me love because I’m needy.  No beta. Read at your own risk. ;-)

***My fics are not to be saved or posted on any other sites without my written permission. Reblogs are my jam though! Thanks!*

The days apart stretched into weeks and the weeks turned into a month, and with each passing hour, you found yourself struggling to put one foot in front of the other. You wanted to leave. It would be so easy to start your life over. You’ve done it once you could surely do it again. Nothing was keeping you in this shit hole of a town. You were still jobless after all this time being home. So much for nursing always being in demand and as much as you loved Clint, you were starting to suffocate under the weight of all the memories encompassing you. The only real tether to this town was the one reason you should leave it.

If there was ever going to be a reason for you to leave and never look back, Bucky was it.

And it wasn’t just affecting you anymore. Clint had not been to the club since the day you went on your ride with Bucky. He wouldn’t say what happened, but you haven’t seen his kutte in over a month, and Clint told Nat she wasn’t allowed to work the bar for a while. That didn’t go over well. If your dumbass brother had simply asked her not to she would have agreed but he had to go all caveman – he slept on the couch for a few nights after that.

Clint doesn’t always think things through when he’s upset. You might get that charming quality from him.

It’ had been a month since Bucky told you the truth, but it didn’t change anything, did it?  Bucky was still the same man you fell in love with – flaws and all. It’s taken an embarrassingly long time for you to realize you were always going to come second to James Barnes and yet, you couldn’t stay away from him. No matter what happened or how hard you sought to keep your distance the pull between you was louder than any reasoning your brain could come up with.  

That’s how you knew you would end up here the moment you decided to come home – outside the clubhouse at two in the morning, fingers trembling as you typed in your old code. Your body sagged in relief as the light flashed green and the handle unlocked allowing you to slip in.

This was not the first time you crept into the clubhouse while everyone was asleep. It was the first time you had done it alone. The floor, couches and pool tables were covered in unconscious lumps and most snoring away. It wasn’t uncommon to see when multiple charters were getting together, patch overs, or family announcements. Whatever happened last night you missed one hell of a party. Times like these made it hard to be on the outside. Good times and bad, you were no longer a part of Bucky’s world, and it chipped away another piece of your heart every time it was shoved in your face.

“Y/n,” Steve said, hushed, careful of the people sleeping on couches around them. He was leaning on the bar watching you with an amused grin.

“Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

Steve chuckled quietly and walked towards you. “Shouldn’t you be at home?” He snarked back. You narrowed your eyes, but the corner of your lips curled up into a small smile. 

“Is his room still his room?” Steve nodded and followed you as you walked towards the back hallway stepping over the sleeping men on the floor as you went.

“Y/n?” You turned back to look at him brow raised in question. “If you go back there, it needs to be for good. I’m not telling you to take him back or saying you have to walk away. You should follow your heart but whatever you choose needs to be forever. He needs all of you. Not this half in bullshit. If you’re done, let him go.”

“I know.” You assured him. “That’s why I’m here, Steve. No more half in.”

--------

Torture.

Untold agony.

Plain and simple.

This last month has been sheer agony. Bucky hasn’t seen or spoken to you in over a month, and the only thing keeping him from completely wasting away was knowing you hadn’t skipped town. He half expected to wake up that first morning to find Clint beating down his door because you took off in the middle of the night again – a burning need to get away as far away from him as you could. Clint never came, and your jeep has been parked outside of Clint’s place since Peter drove it home.

There was a bit of contentment in all the anguish. A realization. Bucky needed to let you go, but it has never been that simple. If it were, he would have done it when your life was at risk six years ago.  Bucky’s been fighting to let you go since the day you left, and there were times when he thought he made it through and then there were nights like tonight where he didn’t believe he would ever be free of the ache that came from losing you. One of these days, he hoped, your love wouldn’t have this grasp on him anymore. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to live in a world where he no longer loved you.

No, that was not a hurt he wanted to endure. This was all pointless if his heart doesn’t belong to you.

There was a soft knock at his door, and Bucky was immediately irritated. Steve checking in on him again. He did the same thing five years ago. Always stopping by at random hours as if Bucky was going to drink himself to death or something else equally stupid. He pushed his hair back out of his face not bothering to put a shirt on. If Steve wanted to bug him at two in the morning, he got to see Bucky in nothing but dirty ass sweatpants. Maybe he will think twice before waking someone up after this – not that he has been sleeping at all since your fight.

“Steve I swear to God–” Bucky stiffened and sucked in a sharp breath when he saw you standing on the other side of the door, wide-eyed and restlessly fiddling with your bracelets.  Damn, he should have put on a shirt. No words were exchanged – words weren’t needed when it came to you. He let go of the doorknob and stepped back giving you space to come in when you were ready. It needed to be your choice just like it would be your choice if the door stayed open.

You slipped into the small space he left ajar and quickly shut the door behind you. You both stared at each other unsure who should speak up first or what to say once you did.  His brow wrinkled, mouth opened and then shut. Bucky didn’t know where to start, Why are you here? What the hell took you so long? Is this what the end looks like? Two in the morning and dirty sweats? Because I’m done for if you leave again. I can’t go another day without you.

The stillness in the air made your heart pound against your chest threatening to break free and reveal all your weaknesses. Your eyes roam over his chest taking in the new additions to his skin. Your eyes followed the black ink along his left arm, ‘sine timore’ sticking out in the middle of his bicep as of reminder of what comes first. Every member had those words inked somewhere on their skin, and you hated them with everything you had There was only one addition you noticed – a date over his heart.

The date you met.

It had been added to the work he had over the left side of his chest, and your heart was heavy from the weight of your guilt and all the things you kept from him. Your fingers fiddled with the straps of your bracelets and with your heart pounding in your ears the soft brown leather slipped from your fingers landing on the floor between you.

Bucky’s eyes fell to your wrist trying to understand what you were doing, but the second he saw it, he knew. His eyes snapped up to meet yours, they were begging you for an explanation, and all you could give him was a shrug. Because you didn’t know why it was still there. You couldn’t count the number of times you had tried to get it removed, but it never felt right. No matter what how hard you endeavored you couldn’t erase him from your skin. 

He moved slowly towards you until your back was pressed flat against the closed bedroom door, his hand was on your wrist the second you were within reach and pad of his thumb pressing heavily against the swallow still imprinted on your delicate skin. Bucky bent forward slightly, his eyes watching you silently asking for your permission. It’s always had to be your decision. Yeah, in the past, he wouldn’t have held back at a time like this, but things were different now. Tattoo or not, you weren’t his, and you haven’t been his in years.

It’s taken him a long time to admit that, still, all Bucky could see was your lips.

Your chin raised silently giving him the permission he was seeking. His hips pushed into yours pinning you against the door, and his lips were on yours before either of you could think about the consequences. His lips brushed over yours, delicate and demanding – devouring every inch of you. A hand came up and cupped your jaw holding you still, your eyes fluttered closed letting his touch, his lips consume you entirely. Bucky didn’t let up until you were both panting and breathless.

He released your jaw and tightened his hold on your wrist as he pulled you back towards the bed, his grip loose enough that you could pull away not that you were going to. Your heart has been struggling to find it’s place since you returned and it finally found it.

--------

Bucky blew out a thick cloud of smoke and put out the last of his cigarette in the ashtray next to him. The sun had been up for a few hours now and there were hushed movements in the kitchen but he was in no hurry to move. There was plenty of reasons to not leave his bed this morning, and every one of them was wrapped up in you.

A soft orange light was peeking through the cracks in the blinds covering his bedroom window, setting a gentle glow against your skin. He stared at you laying in bed next to him, your back rising and falling steadily with each breath and your arms wrapped tightly around his pillow. Fuck, he really messed this up. Bucky didn’t want things to go down like that way this time. He was trying hard to not repeat his past mistakes, but it seemed Bucky couldn’t escape them no matter how hard he attempted to right all the wrongs he had done to you.

The thin white sheet was barely covering your lower half – a sight he never thought he would see again after your talk. He ached to be happy that you were here, but his brain wouldn't let go of every way this could go wrong. What was going to happen when you woke up? The whole night felt like a mistake. The rock sitting in his gut was telling him this was a mistake. It was too sudden, too rash and after everything that happened, he should have taken his time. The genuine fear was eating away at his heart telling him you were going to bolt when the realization of last night finally hit you.

His knuckles grazed down the back of your arm as you began to stir.  Time to face the music then. You reached out in your sleepy haze and wrapped an arm around his waist attempting to pull him closer to you.  He obliged and grinned at the sight of his name scrolled on your ribs following the curve of your left breast. Bucky was the only one that knew it was there and he wanted to keep it that way – or he thought he was the only one. A pang of jealousy washed over him as his mind wandered to the five years you were gone, and he wondered how many men have seen it.

Probably better if he doesn’t dwell on ‘what ifs’ this morning. You were there in his bed, and that was all that matters. He bent down and pressed a kiss to your temple. The heady scent of cigarettes and soap pulled you from the soft waves of sleep you were floating in.

“Hi,” You croaked, hoarse from sleep as you caught his eyes.

“Hey.”

Bucky smiled and ran his left hand down your back letting his hand rest on your lower back, fingers skimming the edge of the sheet. He could just not say anything. You could both avoid the inevitable and live in this little bubble for a few moments longer, but it would be an insult to both of you. Bucky knew all too well he can’t hide from what’s beyond that door and all that was expected of him.

“We should talk about last night, pretty girl. Last night was incredible. Unexpected but incredible. I thought–” He ran his right hand along his jaw. “It’s been over a month. I thought I lost you and all this. Then you show up here in the middle of the night, and we slip right back into old habits.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Buck.” You admitted before he got any further because it was the truth. You didn’t know what you were doing when you showed up at his door, all you knew was this is where you should be regardless of the history you shared and the warning bells that were echoing, loudly, in your head.

“Clint?” 

You answered him with a simple head shake. No, Clint didn’t know you were at the clubhouse and in bed with Bucky. Though he would be figuring it out here any minute when he went to wake you for breakfast only to find an empty bed and a hastily written note stuck to mirror above your dresser.

“We can chalk up to lingering feelings and a late-night mistake. No one has to know,” Bucky breathed, distressed and worn from the sheer thought of having to forget the feel of your skin under his hands. 

“Steve knows.” You whispered, “He caught me trying to sneak in.”

Bucky chuckled as his fingers slipped under the sheet and ghosted over the delicate skin hiding beneath the covers.  “Okay, just the three – or, four of us have to know.”

“Peggy?”

“Yeah, he definitely told Pegs.” He said with a roll of his eyes. “Steve spills everything the second they are alone. They won’t say a thing if I tell them not to. Say the word, and it’s forgotten.”

It would be easy to claim it was all a foolhardy slip-up spurred from the closure neither of you was granted years ago. There was no doubt that there were flames still burning, embers still smoldering for him – there would always be pieces of you lingering within his soul. Forgetting would be the easy out for you both.

“What if I don’t want to do that.” You whispered, soft and hesitant, a silent tremor in your voice.

“Do what, baby?”

You’re either in love with him, or you’re not.

“I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen, but I’m scared this is going to blow up in my face again.” You mumbled, your voice barely above a whisper.  “I think I’m addicted to you. There are good reasons they say addictions break you down and tear you apart.”

“I promise you nothing is going to break you down again,” Bucky swore, scrambling not to lose this second chance.  “I know there are more than enough reasons for you to never trust me again and I know you deserve better than me, but I swear I’ll do whatever it takes to make us work this time.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat watching your fingers trace the swallow on the top of his hand. Steve was right, and man did you hate it when he was right. You couldn’t continue to be half in, one foot out the door always ready to run if something doesn’t go your way. You either loved him, or you didn’t, and you needed to make a choice. Right then. The right decision was palpable, and you knew what choice you were going to make.

“If we do this you can’t hide things from me. Even things that might hurt me and all the things that you’re scared of. You have to show me all of you, even the broken pieces you don’t want me to see.”

“Baby.” He sighed and let his forehead rest against yours. “I’ll show you the broken parts of my soul if you promise not to run when you see the monster I am because of them.”

“You are many things, Buck,” You whispered softly. “But a monster isn’t one of them.”

Doubt and worry were flashing vividly in his eyes. You could practically hear his mind racing as he tried to figure it all out that very second. He needed it all planned out before either of you made it out bed and that wouldn't happen. It wouldn’t be that easy. Your relationship was too complicated for that. Bucky brought your hand up and placed a gentle kiss to your wrist – The two of you were gonna have a chat about that here soon you had a strong suspicion.

“What does this mean?” He asked finally.

“It means,” You said, interrupting the raging thoughts you knew were surging in his head. “We are going to take things one day at a time.”

“One day at a time,” Bucky repeated. “I can do one day at a time.”

Slow and steady. Bucky could do that if that’s what you needed. He would do whatever it takes to make this forever.

Forever won’t happen overnight, but he can make it one day at a time.

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