#Yellow Pages Scraping

[actowizsolutions0]

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Related Data Scraping Services

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[quicklifesolutions]

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[dodgeballstuckonthegymceiling]

We all bleed. Accidents happen and shin breaks. Here is what some of the neighbors would do after seeing you bleed.

If you like my work, please consider commissioning me or leaving a tip on Ko-fi (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

Wally, Eddie and Sally when they see you bleed

Wally

★ When he saw you bleed for the first time he didn't know what to do. He's seen scratches, scuffs and torn fabric. But this? This is new. "That's not... Supposed to happen?" He asks, sounding unsure of himself. Watching the dark red liquid bead up.

★ You treated it as nothing out of the ordinary. Washing the red off with a bit of soap. And covering the spot with a bandaid. If you weren't worried about it, then maybe it's not a big deal. Still, he wants to know what happened. So that next time he can help.

★ He doesn't really understand the concept of blood. Your heart, that steady beat inside your chest, pushes it around. Delivering oxygen to keep you alive. That's why you breathe. But if you get injured this same blood leaks out. Can you blame him for being confused?

Eddie

★ It was an accident. Eddie wasn't paying attention to where he was going, and walked straight into you. Knocking you off your feet and onto the pavement. Knees scraping against the yellow asphalt. He panics, freezing at the sight of red liquid streaming down your leg.

★ "Oh!- On no! Neighbor in so sorry!' Sounding quite frantic. It reminds him of a torn envelope. Your blood is like spilled ink against a page. He ends up just hovering above you. Unsure if he should help or continue apologizing.

★ After a moment of panicking, Eddie reaches into his bag and pulls out a handkerchief. handing it to you. Not caring how stained it'll be by the end of this. Even after you patch yourself up, he keeps glancing at your knee.

Sally

★ She's caught off guard. Gasping with her eyes wide. "What is that?!" Moving closer to your side. Hands hovering over you, but not quite touching. "Is this normal? Are you supposed to be doing that?!" As dramatic as always. But this time her confusion was genuine.

★ As you wipe off the small droplets of red, she watches. Gaze focused on you. Expecting... Something. A complaint, wince, or an explanation at the very least. You just say "don't worry about it." Not realizing she was actually serious.

★ After you go home, Sally makes a phone call to Frank. To ask for his expertise on what's going on with your body. Cutting him off as he says "hello" to tell him what she saw. "The neighbor! They leaked!" There's a pause. Then, a clear sigh. "You mean they bled?"

[divaofmads]

ME and the DEVIL

Chapter I: Not Yet

Pairing Dr. Crane x Female Reader x Bruce Wayne

Summary: When you're caught between the man who steals your heart and the one who dissects your mind... even you might forget who you are.

Wayne’s smile might feel safe. But Crane’s silence... is slowly consuming you. And by the end of the night, whose eyes will haunt you?

Warnings!: Slow-Burn Tension, Dark Romance Elements, Mild Stalking Elements, Step Daddy Bruce, Subtle Erotic Undertones (Non-explicit), Jealousy / Envy, Obsessive Behavior, Age Gap, Yandere Themes / Possessiveness, Angst, Emotional trauma and guilt, English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional.

Word Count: 9k

Divirder by @sisterlucifergraphics @cafekitsune

Darkness seeps slowly through the cracked walls. A clock ticks in the room, not counting time... but the end.

You open your eyes, but your body won’t move. You’re lying in a child’s bed, under a torn blanket pulled up to your neck. The nightlight on the bedside table is broken; a dim yellow light flickers faintly, then blinks and disappears into darkness.

A wooden creak.

At the foot of the bed... something is there. It’s not moving, but it’s there. A puppet. It looks like a grotesque marionette, but its eyes... its eyes are human. Old. Wet. Glowing in the dark.

It laughs.

“Y/N... Do you remember me?” The voice... it’s your father's.

You want to scream, but no sound comes out. Like a knot has been tied in your throat. The puppet slowly turns its head, the hinge in its jaw creaking.

Then... other puppets enter the room. Walking by themselves. Wooden feet scraping against the crackling floor.

And each one carries a piece of your father's voice.

“Puppets see everything, Y/N. They never blink at night.”

“I never left you, I’m still with you. Inside you.”

“They don’t love you. Because I didn’t either. You were never my puppet. You didn’t obey.”

One of them climbs onto the edge of the bed. Its fingers are cracked, nails missing. It touches your cheek. Cold. Like a frozen, dead hand.

And then something stirs in the corner of the room. A shadow. Not human. Its posture is off, its head crooked. No face. But in its hand... are the strings of the puppets. Each one is connected to it by invisible threads. It’s the Puppeteer. Speaking in your father's voice, but the words belong to something else.

“You were a little girl... I never loved you... but then you grew up. You should have been a mute puppet, Y/N. You shouldn’t have spoken in your own voice. You shouldn’t have turned your head. You shouldn’t have resisted. Now we’ll remake you.”

The puppets suddenly leap into the air. Strings tighten. One comes so close its wooden teeth are just inches from your nose. It tilts its head and whispers: “You will be carved. We’ll hollow you out. Fill you again... You’ll love me... This time, you’ll look like me.”

You thrash, but your hands are tied.

The Puppeteer pulls out a long, rusty needle from the shadows. He threads a string through it. A new puppet will be born tonight.

And then...

As the Puppeteer approaches, all the puppets scream in unison: “Don’t close your eyes, Y/N! Because in the dark, WE have the eyes!”

“You are no longer flesh. You are now WOOD.”

You try to scream, but you feel something in your throat. A string. A voice whispers: “Don’t move. You’re a puppet now.”

09:47 AM - Internal Security Zone, D-Block

The lab was filled not with the chill of a sterile chemistry room, but with the unease of a dark experimentation chamber. Pale yellow lights cast a sinister hue over the white tiles; every footstep echoed through the windowless walls, imprinting itself into the concrete.

Dr. Jonathan Crane pulled a black-covered notebook from the pocket of his white coat. His long, thin fingers carefully flipped through the pages. Among them were handwritten notes, brainwave maps, cortisol measurements, and several chemical formulas corrected in red ink.

“The controllability of subjective fear response through artificial stimulants...” he murmured. “...the unconscious mind can only be explained by the suppression of fear. Fear... is the shape of freedom.”

Behind the transparent wall stood Subject 27, chained to a chair. A large, bald man with tattoos on his chest, whose eyes held more emptiness than sharpness. According to the file, his name was Marcus Till. Severe dissociative episodes, delusional paranoia, and daytime visual hallucinations. His criminal record included three executions and one case of abandonment leading to death.

But for Jonathan, the past wasn’t what mattered only the response to fear.

The door opened.

The sound was soft, but Jonathan recognized it immediately.

You. Y/N Wayne. Attentive, cheerful, yet not afraid to appear a little “silly.” A young intern.

In Dr. Crane’s eyes, someone who “talked too much, smiled too much, and reeked too much of Bruce Wayne.”

Jonathan didn’t look up from the file. He hadn’t expected you to be punctual; no one with the Wayne surname ever is. Punctuality is a small courtesy for ordinary people trying to prove themselves. The Waynes had no need for that.

There was hesitation in your steps.

You didn’t stumble, but you didn’t walk with confidence either.

He noticed that. But didn’t care.

“Those who get their internship here through their surname usually don’t last more than two weeks,” he said with clear disdain. “I was surprised you managed to survive a whole month.”

He spoke without looking directly at you. As if he were addressing a piece of furniture. His eyes were still focused on Marcus Till’s EEG results.

“Come closer. We’re going to prep the patient.”

There was a faint shadow under your eyes. You hadn’t slept. Your skin, normally glowing with a well-kept complexion, now carried a grayish pallor. Jonathan merely filed this as an observation. He wasn’t interested. He didn’t want to be interested.

Your hands trembled slightly as you reached for the IV set he handed you. Maybe you didn’t even notice, but Jonathan did.

And for the first time, he looked directly at you.

He slowly lifted his gaze. Cold, sharp analysis. No empathy. Only observation. “Your focus is off.” He put his pen on the desk. His voice still monotone, but the sentence was sharper. “Weren’t you trained in trauma response? Any lapse at Arkham can lead to death. Not your death. You killing someone.”

In the background, Marcus’s breathing grew heavier. Serum data streamed across the screen. You didn’t speak for a moment.

You swallowed. But then... you smiled.

Such a genuine, warm smile appeared on your face that Jonathan’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“You’re right, Dr. Crane,” you said. “Just had a rough night’s sleep. But it’s fine. I was only expected to last two weeks, wasn’t I? Making it a month is quite the achievement.”

Your tone was cheerful. But beneath your words, there was a metallic resistance.

And then, something else happened.

A corner of Jonathan Crane’s mind twitched slightly. Because he recognized that expression. The smile of those who bury fear deep within...

But he didn’t show it. He was about to say something else, but just then Marcus’s brain waves suddenly spiked.

Crane turned to the screen immediately.

“Beta frequency spike... 14.2 Hertz... Triggered.”

He adjusted his glasses. You leaned over the table, looking at the monitor. But you had to squint slightly to understand what you were seeing.

Jonathan noticed this. The effort to comprehend a subject you didn’t yet master. Not by rote, but with real curiosity.

But he still wasn’t affected.

“If this is the level you’re going to stay at,” he said calmly, “I could recommend an easier supervisor for you. Dr. Langley, for example. Less technical, but more patient. You’d bring the reports to me; no one expects perfection from you.”

The condescension this time was sharper, much more personal, and you felt a sting right at the tip of your nose. It had struck your pride.

But along with your pride, another part of you stirred: stubbornness.

“Thank you, but I’ll pass,” you said. “I believe I have a lot to learn from someone as perfect as you.”

Your eyes met Jonathan’s.

And for a moment, just a moment, your gaze trembled by a mere millimeter.

Because his eyes were searching for something else. Watching. Looking inside you.

And he hadn’t decided yet: Were you just a waste of his time—or something unnamed…?

As you stood up without taking your eyes off the monitor, Crane watched you only from the corner of his eye. Your trembling fingers moved toward your left wrist, and you subtly tugged at your sleeve to hide it. Another tremor, one you suppressed quickly. Crane noted it, even with a side glance. His mind worked like a notebook; every micro-expression, every small physical reflex was logged like a symptom.

But this time… he had trouble categorizing you.

“That kind of eye contact,” he thought, “a typical defense strategy. But not out of confidence. That’s the look of someone swallowing fear to survive.”

And then another voice in his mind spoke: “Wayne.”*

“Bruce Wayne’s daughter can’t be this fragile. Maybe she’s putting on a show. Or… is there a trauma beyond the usual life of luxury?”

He held a grudge against your family. Crane’s antipathy toward the Waynes wasn’t simple. Bruce’s authority to evaluate him as a psychological consultant had created an irreparable fracture in Crane’s ego, and now here you stood—trembling, despite bearing the Wayne name. This suggested two possibilities to him:

1. Either you were genuinely weak, sensitive, painfully fragile.

2. Or… there were traces of a much darker past being hidden from you.

Crane glanced at the EEG graphs on the monitor one last time. The results were inconclusive, but sufficient. The Marcus Till experiment could end here.

He powered down the screen and slowly stood. Closed the file, but his gaze lingered on your face.

He peered at you over his glasses.

“Tomorrow at eleven a.m., the Forensic Psychiatry Jury will convene,” he said. His voice echoed off the corners of the room. “The subject: Arnold Wesker.”

It was the first time you’d heard the name. You couldn’t help but frown.

“Arnold… Wesker?” You hadn’t meant to ask, but your tongue betrayed you.

Crane tilted his head slightly. A faint smile appeared on his lips—but it wasn’t a smile, more the expression of a clinician making a diagnosis.

“You don’t even know who you’re working with, do you?”

You didn’t respond. That only dug your grave deeper.

Crane walked to the desk, pulled out a file, placed his hand on it—but didn’t open it. This was more of a test. As if he were measuring your patience.

“Arnold Wesker,” he said, “also known as the Ventriloquist.

A case of paranoid schizophrenia and dissociative identity disorder. But what makes him interesting isn’t the diagnosis—it’s the wooden puppet he owns. Scarface. The puppet is the dominant identity. Wesker is the passive host. Allegedly, the crimes are committed by the puppet. In other words… the mob boss inside his mind.”

That last phrase changed the atmosphere in the room.

Puppet. Scarface. Ventriloquist.

Each word stabbed your chest. Your heart rate subtly increased.

But your facial expression didn’t change a single millimeter.

Only your eyelids lowered slightly. Your pupils shrank by half a tone.

A trauma response of the type that shouldn’t be noticed.

But Crane noticed.

He didn’t open the file. Instead, he studied you.

And you were reliving the nightmare in your mind: Wooden joints. Clicking sounds. Puppets coming at you with fixed grins. And that dark sensation that turned you into a puppet against your will.

“Scarface…” Crane’s voice snapped you back to reality.

“Wesker fought on Joker’s side during the Joker-Riddler War. His psychotic breaks intensified afterward. Some sources claim that his puppet has evolved into a personality that no longer obeys him. Supposedly, the puppet… punishes him. A real projection of rage.”

You were silent. Very silent.

That gave you away. Not just to Jonathan—but to yourself.

Crane tilted his head slightly.

“Puppet phobia isn’t common,” he said suddenly. “But when combined with a sense of loss of control experienced during childhood… Puppets can lead to a collapse of identity perception in the unconscious. The fear here isn’t tied to the external object, but to the inner self.”

He’d hit a nerve.

Was it on purpose, or just analysis? You didn’t know.

But still, you didn’t give yourself away.

You smiled. So slight, so graceful a smile.

As if all this talk meant nothing to you. “Will you be attending the jury tomorrow, Dr. Crane?” Your voice was calm, but the tension beneath your tone laid you bare.

Crane paused briefly, then answered.

“I will. I’m an active member of the forensic psychiatry advisory board. The Wesker file is being brought with a recommendation for total isolation rather than medically assisted sentencing. And I don’t want him—or Scarface—back in Gotham.”

You nodded. “I understand,” you said. But you didn’t understand anything.

Well… you understood. But you couldn’t say anything.

Crane gave you one last look.

And in that moment… a spark.

Something about you unsettled him.

Your fear was deep. Very quiet. But real. And Crane knew how the subconscious worked better than anyone.

WAYNE MANOR – INDOOR POOL

Time: 9:27 PM

Outside, Gotham’s darkness had fallen like a gilded veil. The echo of footsteps in the wide halls of the manor had long ceased, the servants had settled into the rhythm of night. The indoor swimming pool, hidden behind the old stone walls of Wayne Manor’s west wing and rarely used, was now filled only with the sound of your breath and the soft rippling of water.

The towel left by the poolside, bearing Gotham’s crest, was damp. You moved through the water almost imperceptibly, surrendering your shoulders to the coolness with each stroke. When your fingers brushed the marble edge, the faint chime that rang out seemed to blend into the night like a melody. With every stroke, it was as if you were trying to shed the weight of the day.

Your head tilted back, hair spread out over the water. Your chest rose and fell quickly, but your face was calm. Your mind, however, was a storm.

“Swimming alone... not really your thing,” said that familiar voice, soft but carefully measured.

When you turned your head, you saw Bruce Wayne emerging from the shadows, dressed in a black t-shirt and loose gray sweatpants. With a towel slung over his shoulder and a relaxed walk, he almost looked ordinary. Almost.

“Shouldn’t you be at your computer by now, studying the city maps?” you said with a slight smirk as you turned in the water.

He smiled too.

But Bruce Wayne’s smile was more like a shadow of his past. It existed for a moment, then vanished again.

“Alfred told me,” he said as he came closer. “You haven’t talked much today. You probably mentioned Crane at dinner. You were smiling... but your eyes didn’t quite join in.”

He sat by the edge. Rested his elbows on his knees.

He didn’t look down at you, he spoke at eye level. That was his style. He didn’t corner anyone—he shared the space instead of stealing it.

You didn’t look away. But your voice was sarcastic, a little superficial.

“Oh, Dr. Jonathan Crane. The man who prides himself on terrifying everyone but whose shirt collar is soaked with sweat. I think he’ll always hate me. Actually, I’m sure. Today he frowned at the EEG monitor like it was me, probably the fifth time he couldn’t figure me out. Someone get him a coffee.”

Bruce let out a short chuckle through his nose. “Crane doesn’t like anyone. He doesn’t even consider himself. But if he’s trying to figure you out, that means he’s interested. He’s... a careful man.”

You tilted your head slightly. Your eyes seemed to shimmer, but it wasn’t joy—it was a kind of light seeping from a hollow place inside.

“Everyone who tries to figure me out ends up disappointed,” you said in a near whisper.

Bruce’s expression didn’t change. But he placed his hand on the edge of the pool, near you. Again, that silent space-sharing. Again, that “I’m here” stance.

“What happened?” His voice was slower now, lower in pitch. “Something happened today. It’s not just the Crane thing. Talk to me.”

You looked at the water for a while. You wanted to see your own reflection, but couldn’t. All that appeared were dim lights and emptiness.

“This morning... when I woke up,” you said, “it was the same nightmare again. Someone was there. Watching me. But it wasn’t me. I was like a puppet. Then... my father’s voice. Even though he’s dead…”

You paused. A knot had formed in your throat. Swallowing your pride was hard, but you didn’t fear being this vulnerable with Bruce. Because he always knew when you took off your mask.

“I know it’s stupid,” you said. “My dad’s dead. He put that gun to his own temple…” You closed your eyes. “But sometimes... I still feel like he’s going to come back from somewhere. Like... his darkness found a little place inside me. Like it’s still in my blood.”

Bruce lowered his head. Reached out his hand to the water, to you.

His palm was facing upward. He wouldn’t force you to take it. But if you did, he would offer it like a shelter.

You reached out without hesitation. When your fingers met his under the water, the touch of skin was warm and real.

“You’re not that man,” Bruce said. “And you never will be. Because I was there. That night, when they couldn’t silence you, you survived with your own scream. That shows who you are. You didn’t become a puppet to survive. You chose.”

His voice was deep enough to swallow every echo from the past. The affection he felt for you flowed silently.

You didn’t say anything for a while. Then you smiled slightly—this time, genuinely.

“Are you always going to read me this well?” you asked with a sweet reproach.

Bruce winked, then slowly stood up.

He took off his t-shirt. The old scars on his chest formed distorted shapes in the reflection of the water.

When he rolled up his pants and stepped into the pool, you tensed a little. Because with his entrance, the solitude was over. The darkness was no longer yours alone.

The water was warm. But Bruce’s presence was warmer. He came closer. He didn’t touch your face but placed a hand on your shoulder. That touch was not a father’s—it was that of a guardian, a friend, a...

...perhaps the one man you had always felt was missing.

“I’m here whenever you want,” he said in a low voice near your ear. “But unless you want it... no one can hold you.”

As you leaned into him, his warm breath echoed in your ears.

But your heart... had taken on a different rhythm.

Because he didn’t feel like a father. He shone like a fallen star. And without meaning to, you were growing more attached to him.

You were safe—and at the same time, that safety scared you. Having someone understand you this deeply... it was too much. A dangerous kind of closeness. The kind that blurred lines.

Then Bruce’s voice poured into your ear in a warm, slightly teasing tone.

“So... are you excited for the event in two days?”

You lifted your head slightly and looked at him. Your brows furrowed. He read the blankness in your eyes instantly.

“Event?” Your voice was laced with a suppressed panic, hidden behind a chuckle. “What event?”

Bruce narrowed his eyes slightly. Smiled.

That annoying smile of his—the one that told you he knew everything.

"Frankly, young lady," he said, his voice turning a little more theatrical, "for a young girl making her debut into society to forget a charity night planned months in advance... is definitely a scandal."

You put your hands over your mouth and giggled, albeit guiltily. "Bruce, I’m serious, it completely slipped my mind!" You splashed water toward him as you pulled back. "It was... because of Dr. Crane! I mean, he scolded me like, ‘the observation form is three days old but the linguistic analyses are missing,’ and I suddenly felt like a 45-year-old depressed academic writing a dissertation!"

Bruce staggered backward and fell, though he was already in the water — now he was submerged up to his shoulders.

He pushed his hair back after a wave hit his face, paused for a moment… then his gaze sharpened.

"So... you dared to threaten me with water? The one and only troublemaker of Wayne Manor... you little water creature."

You burst into laughter and tried to swim a step back, but it was too late. Bruce caught you in one swift move.

"No! No no Bruce, stop, don’t!" you said, flailing.

But he, maintaining his serious expression, wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you down into the water in one motion. The sound of your fall vanished among your shared laughter.

When you emerged, your hair was falling over your eyes, and you were breathless — but in the middle of a fit of laughter.

"You... you're so cruel!" you said, wiping the water from your face as tears streamed from your eyes from laughing.

Bruce, however, still looked serious. But it was a playful seriousness.

"If you ever push me into the water again, this won't be the end of it."

Amid your laughter, you rested your face against his chest. Your breathing was still uneven, but you could feel your heartbeat.

Beating in sync with his.

"But you never really get mad at me," you said in a sweet, childlike voice. "Because I always make you smile. Isn’t that right?"

Bruce lowered his head. His eyes grew more serious, but that protective gleam was still there. He cupped your cheek, brushing away a drop of water with his thumb as he studied you carefully.

"You... you're not someone easily forgotten," he said slowly. "Your laughter, sometimes it takes me back thirty years. But then I look again and you’re right here in this moment — and I find myself forgetting everything else."

You shivered inside. Leaning on him... wasn’t just about feeling safe. It was like thirsting for a warmth that shouldn’t be touched.

"Tomorrow Dr. Crane won’t be there," you said suddenly, as if changing the subject but actually making plans. "He’s on jury duty for the Arnold Wesker case. My whole day is yours."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. His smile now carried a different meaning. It also felt like a warning.

"That’s a dangerous offer. If you give me your whole day, I might threaten you with your whole life."

You smiled. But a seriousness settled on your face.

In the water, you moved closer to him, your fingers trailing on the surface as they reached for his chest. Your voice slowed.

"You’re the only one who's ever really stood up for me in my life. Maybe... everything started the moment I met you."

Bruce lowered his head, resting his forehead against yours.

He wasn’t touching — yet the closeness meant more than any touch.

And as the water enveloped your bodies, words gave way to presence.

Yours and his.

That morning, when the Wayne limousine pulled up at your door and you saw the gleaming black leather seats, the mini bar, and the soft notes of jazz playing inside, the feeling you suddenly had wasn’t one of indulgence.

It was acceptance.

You felt like you truly belonged to Gotham now — from the very top.

Bruce sat beside you. Wearing sunglasses, a classic Patek Philippe on his wrist. The most expensive suit in Gotham, but one that never showed off its brand. Navy blue, made of silk, tailor-made.

"Remember," he had said along the way, placing a hand gently on your knee,

"In this city, money talks, but attitude commands. When you walk in, make them forget who the Wayne is — but never let them forget who the Wayne is."

You smiled. As you walked in with him, every window display seemed to change in the blink of an eye. The moment you stepped into a boutique, the store was cleared out. Customers were politely ushered outside, and the staff lined up.

Bruce had only said one word: "Wayne."

That was enough.

Then everything began for you. Haute couture consultants, off-season collections specially brought from Paris and Milan, the quiet moments when tailors took your measurements.

Classical music drifting from a corner of the room, silk fabrics brushing gently against your skin, the Louboutins you tried on one after another, followed by Roger Vivier, and then a pair of avant-garde heels from Maison Margiela...

"If you wear this dress, every eye will be on you," Bruce said, handing you a Givenchy dress adorned with a sheer back.

The look in his eyes wasn’t just that of a father seeking elegance. He was studying you closely.

But with a kind of admiration he would never say aloud.

Maybe not even to himself.

Yet in every decision he made in silence, you were always a part of it.

As you tried on a dress, you looked at your reflection in the mirror. You gently grasped the thin gold necklace at your neck and said:

"Bruce, you know what? I wish the whole of Gotham wouldn’t see me or recognize me for just one night. But you... you, see me."

He paused for a moment. "I always see you," he said, slowly.

At that, you had let the dress fall, letting the silk slip away from you like it was leaving of its own will.

Then, suddenly, while your back was turned, you caught yourself watching him in the mirror.

He was sprawled on the armchair, resting his elbow on the armrest, watching you.

Not your nakedness, but you—as you were standing there.

"You’re beautiful enough to turn this city upside down," he said, as if the words slipped out without thinking. "And I love you not for that, but for being able to stay good despite yourself."

Something cracked in your heart at that moment.

You tried not to look at him, but you smiled. And taking the blame on yourself, you said,

"Unlike Dr. Crane’s gaze that tears me apart, you… you look into me without breaking me."

Bruce lowered his head, smiling. Then he stood up and took your hand.

"You have to make the final choice now," he said. "Because Alfred is already about to lose it. We had to open the third floor’s private gallery just for the shoes."

You tilted slightly, turning your hand inside his palm and narrowed your eyes.

"So if my little shopping frenzy has pissed off Alfred... we should blame Bruce Wayne’s spoiled ward. Everyone in this city has a role. Mine’s the fancy, pretty, but troublesome girl."

Bruce burst into laughter. He slowly leaned toward you, brushed your hair to the side, and whispered into your ear:

"No. Your role... is to be the woman who will change this city.

But tonight, first play the girl who will enchant it. With your eyes, your mind, your smile."

You let yourself fall into his hands.

But inside, another whisper was passing through:

"A man who blesses me this much... I must bless him in return."

And maybe that night, not just Gotham, but you too would change.

You were already on a path with no return.

And Bruce Wayne was waiting at the center of it.

Outside, Gotham’s purplish mist was pouring into the night…

The flickering reflections of yellow lights on the streets bent under the streetlamps like a kind of hopelessness.

But as you stepped into Le Pavé Noir, the city had left you at the door.

It was as if you had entered a protected zone.

As if Gotham paused at the sound of Bruce Wayne’s voice.

You and Bruce were sitting at the most isolated table inside, with a tall, thin vase between you, holding just one blue orchid.

Outside the glass, in the zen garden, tiny koi fish were circling as the ceiling slowly opened above you.

A starless Gotham night overhead… but still peaceful.

That evening, Bruce had chosen a black tuxedo. No tie, the first button left undone. A classic watch on his left wrist, his fingers resting on the stem of the glass.

And his eyes… were always on you.

You, on the other hand, were the embodiment of elegance that would make Audrey Hepburn jealous.

The Chanel dress Bruce had picked left your back completely bare, but somehow, it covered you even more.

Because it was his choice.

Even being at his boundary felt like armor.

"You look stunning," he said, as quietly as water.

You averted your gaze. Smiled. But your heart paused for a moment at those words.

"You spoil me too much," you said, trying to soften your voice.

"Just being here with you already feels like a dream."

Bruce watched you, long and carefully.

Maybe there were no lines at the corners of his eyes, but his gaze… was aged.

That night, he was not only cherishing you, but himself, too.

The waiters arrived almost invisibly and placed the food.

Thinly sliced wagyu beef sashimi, wild mushroom risotto heated on lava stone, and truffle butter brioche covered in gold dust.

But your appetite wasn’t for anything on the plate—it was for the man sitting across from you.

You watched him for a while without saying anything.

Drew circles in your food with the tip of your fork.

Then, tilting your head slightly, you lowered your voice:

"You know… as a child, my mother’s plates were always half full. My father… always finished everything.

Maybe that’s why I’m learning to feel full while working.

Like… when my mind is busy, my hunger disappears."

Bruce paused. Looked at you with that typical expression—not with pity, but trying to understand something.

"When someone can’t digest certain pains… they develop a different kind of appetite," he said.

"Yours is the hunger for work.

Some burn the city, others bury themselves.

But you… you chose to build yourself."

You didn’t want him to see the mist clouding your eyes.

You turned your head away.

But then his eyes pulled you back.

"Tomorrow," he said slowly, "if you want, you don’t have to go to your internship.

Tonight will be long. I don’t want to push you.

I can talk to Hugo Strange.

Taking a day off… wouldn’t be a problem at all."

You responded with that familiar, gentle smile.

"I have to go, Bruce. Dr. Crane wasn’t even there, and Arnold Wesker’s case kept him away from the hospital.

If he doesn’t see me tomorrow, I’ll have to deal with his annoying comments the day after." you said with a teasing tone.

Then, with a slightly somber look, you added,

"Actually… sometimes, my only way to quiet my mind is being with those people at the hospital.

And in their problems… I feel myself a little less. And I can live that way."

Bruce’s lips tightened.

He wanted to say something, but stayed silent.

Because there you were—glowing like a fragile, yet stubbornly resilient being, right in front of him.

Slowly, he reached out and took your hand.

He gently wrapped your tiny fingers in his palm.

It wasn’t a father’s tenderness—it was a man’s.

"I wish I could protect you from everything," he said.

"But that darkness you were born into… it made you different.

And that’s exactly what made you strong."

But you didn’t let go of his hand.

For a moment, you looked into his eyes.

There was another sentence inside you you tried to silence, but it slipped out anyway.

"When you look at me… sometimes I feel like someone else.

Not just the girl who carries the Wayne name.

Not just a student or an intern.

Like… actually me. Really me."

Bruce’s eyes became slightly misty, but he quickly gathered himself.

He looked away. Took a sip of his wine.

But you saw how hard it was for him to hide that.

Because just like you… he was holding himself back.

"Stay who you are," he said.

"I... I just want to be a light on your path.

Never… turn you into me."

But that sentence—“never turn you into me”—cut through you.

Because maybe… he already knew exactly who you most wanted to become.

And that night, after dinner, as he was putting you into the car, he looked at you once more before closing the door and whispered:

"Don’t forget... tomorrow night, you’ll show Gotham who you are.

But I see you today, at night, without the mask... too."

And in that moment, Bruce Wayne buried a feeling even deeper—one he would never confess.

But you?

The moment you looked into his eyes… you already understood everything.

06:12 AM

Location: Arkham Asylum – Psychiatry Wing, Dr. Crane’s Private Office

There was still over an hour left until the shift started. Gotham's heavy metal sky was cloaked in a dull gray, as if it resented the sun. The Asylum’s windows let in almost no light at this hour; outside was nothing but a world of mist drifting like sheer curtains. You had come in earlier than usual that morning. Your insides were restless, you were sleepless, but your mind was sharp like a blade. You had straightened the layout of the files on Dr. Crane’s desk and noted down a report listing the order of the cases to be reviewed that day.

No one had actually asked you to do any of that. But you wanted to prove that you were more than just a spoiled rich intern in Jonathan Crane’s eyes. Maybe an assistant. Maybe... something more.

After finishing with the files, you had moved to the leather chair tucked just behind the metal bookshelves in the corner. You took your notebook onto your lap. After biting down on the tip of your pen, you began to draw. The page filled first with a dark void; then emerged serpents eating their own tails, forked tongues, interwoven eyeballs, and eventually a humanoid figure with decayed internal organs... A woman, head bowed at the shoulder level. She had no eyes. Only sockets. And on her forehead was carved a single symbol: a “?” question mark.

Just then, the door opened. It wasn’t heavy, but you heard those signature dark footsteps Crane always walked in with—silent, composed. When you looked up, his tall silhouette had grown even larger against the faint backlight.

Dr. Jonathan Crane was wearing a dark navy suit. The collar of his cashmere coat was still up. He was cleaning the fog off his glasses when he noticed you.

He put on his glasses and tilted his head slightly, almost as if he’d seen a ghost.

“It’s rare… almost unheard of, for interns to be in my office before me.”

You smiled as you quickly closed the page you were drawing.

“Being early never hurts, right, Doctor?” you said, reaching to place the notebook on the table. “I just... wanted to prepare for today’s schedule. Thought I could be helpful.”

Crane’s eyes studied you carefully, but his gaze didn’t remain fixed. From behind his glasses, he examined you with the clinical chill of a scientist scanning data. Your clothes, how neatly your hair was arranged, whether you had washed your face that morning—he seemed to be decoding it all.

“Help... is a valuable word. Help… can save lives, if it comes from the right person.” His voice was soft. Almost hypnotic. Then he walked to his desk and reached toward the notebook you had just closed—but without letting you notice.

He paused suddenly.

“Actually… since you’re so eager, I could ask something of you. A file needs to be retrieved from Lab 3 on the lower floor. It requires my seal to open, so take this card.”

He handed you a silver-colored ID card embedded with a microchip.

“But be careful. It’s not the best place for the claustrophobic. The tunnels are... narrow. Dark. And due to the soundproof insulation, if you hear screaming, it’s not real.”

He smiled. It wasn’t warm. But it was polite. And strange.

As you stepped out, you turned slightly to glance at your notebook. Going back to get it might seem odd. You just hoped he wouldn’t look inside.

After you left, Dr. Jonathan Crane didn’t sit at his own chair. Instead, after sending you off, he walked toward the chair you had just occupied, where your body heat still lingered in the synthetic leather. He slowly removed his glasses and laid the metal frame on his knee. Your notebook was in front of him. Black cover, slightly worn corners, yet carefully used.

He stared at the cover for a few seconds. No name. No label. Only a subtle embossed phrase on the corner: “Nulla Vita Sine Arte.”

(Life without art is meaningless.)

With his long, slender fingers, he opened the cover. The first page was blank. Like a silent warning. A threshold. Crane turned the pages. One by one.

First Drawing

On the left, a female figure suspended by thin strings tied to her neck, being lifted skyward. No face. Just a flat, mask-like surface. Her abdomen was split open; a heart inside, fastened with spiderwebs. Beneath her right ribcage, a small cross mark. Her feet were chained—but the chains didn’t lead to the ground. They vanished into empty space.

Beneath it was written: “The order from above is balanced by punishment from below.”

Crane thought: “She codes herself as both victim and judge.”

“By erasing the skull’s features, she anonymizes her identity. This could either be from shame or to conceal a destructive urge. The heart is still fixed in place, that... is interesting. She retains the capacity to love. But what if she had to tear herself apart to keep those feelings alive?”

A faint smile traced his lips.

“She’s forgotten who she is, but she still remembers what she feels... how strange.”

Second Drawing

A hospital bed. A woman lying on it. Tubes connected to her veins, but instead of fluids, ink is flowing through them. The tubes link up to a massive pen-tip structure hanging above. Her eyes are blindfolded. Her face looks like it’s melted from crying. Above, a single word: “Diagnosis.”

Crane frowned.

“Ink… transformed into the venom of words. She’s attempted therapy through writing, but drowned in the text. In trying to empty her mind onto paper, she’s triggered incubation from within.”

Crane’s gaze darkened. A psychotic patient injecting herself with words through her veins. He was enthralled by the idea.

And only someone who harbors true darkness inside could draw such things, he thought. Yet his assumptions about you had always leaned another way. How could you have hidden the real “you” so well, especially next to someone like Dr. Crane?

Jonathan eagerly flipped through more pages. And there it was—the last drawing. The one you had just done.

Then he leaned back. Closed his eyes.

He inhaled the scent of your notebook. Printing ink, graphite dust, and that faint, citrusy perfume you used—sweet but bitter…

Silence.

His breath… almost stopped.

Suddenly, he stood up. He didn’t throw the notebook on the desk. He closed it gently. Then walked to the corner of the office.

Looked outside. Gotham was still drowning in mist.

“I need to understand her,” he thought. You were no longer just a subject for contemplation. This “understanding” had become something ritualistic. In Crane’s mind, you were no longer just a case… you were beginning to feel like a possession.

A subtle smile appeared at the corner of his lips. It wasn’t lustful.

It was closer to obsession.

And as Crane slowly returned to his desk, he whispered:

“I’ll enter your mind. With your own will… maybe even your desire. Because fear, Y/N... is the most powerful form of lust.”

The door handle knocked three times. Precise. Calm. Confident.

Crane slowly looked up. His voice was softer than usual. But the low-frequency vibration beneath it was something only trained ears would catch—a trace of extra attention, extra interest.

“Come in.”

There you stood at the threshold. Your left hand clutched a file tight to your chest, your right shoulder slumped slightly. Under the flickering fluorescent light, your pupils vanished in the dark for a moment, then gleamed again.

When you entered, the notebook was exactly where it had been.

As you handed him the file, Crane let his thumb brush briefly across the back of your hand. The touch stayed within professional bounds—but it was calculated. He wasn’t wearing gloves.

“Lower floor, Lab 3... I’m surprised,” he said softly, without looking at you. “Many interns manage to get lost down there.”

You laughed lightly, partly to ease the tension.

“It’s... interesting down there. A lot of old equipment, useless bottles, but organized. As if someone archived the past.”

Crane turned his gaze to you. Behind the lenses, his eyes met yours directly for the first time.

“You try to understand the spaces you enter. You believe you can’t move forward without understanding.”

You averted your eyes. For a moment, you felt naked in his gaze.

As you leaned forward to place the file down, Crane placed his hand on the edge of the desk. His fingers were level with yours. At that moment, only a hand’s width separated your bodies. And that space… seemed to shrink with every breath.

You placed the file on the desk. Just as you were about to ask what else you needed to do—

"Starting today, you’ll be present in some of the sessions with me," he said suddenly.

His words seemed to fall from the air.

No explanation given, none needed.

As if it wasn’t a task, but… a ritualistic invitation.

You didn’t understand. Your eyes widened, but your mouth stayed silent. Then, with a forced smile:

"You... weren’t very warm to the idea at first."

Crane sat in his chair and fixed his gaze on you.

"Trust should be chosen carefully. Trust doesn’t form through chemistry, but through physical proximity. Your observation skills are sharp. Besides... watching patients opens more than just them. It opens you, too. It allows me to discover you."

That last sentence. It slithered between the words like a snake. Discover... you?

You didn’t know what to say. Your lips twitched.

You turned, took a step toward the door.

"Y/N?"

It was the first time he said your name with such weight. His voice held both syllabic admiration and restrained command. You paused.

"Have you ever analyzed your own fears?"

That question… wasn’t random. He had read your notebook. He had touched your words. Maybe he had decoded your mind, line by line.

But you didn’t yet know how deep he’d delved into your psyche.

"Fears… open doors," he said in a low voice, almost like whispering to himself. "But some doors... once opened, never close."

Then he looked down. Gave you permission to leave.

But one thing had become clear: He would no longer be content just watching you. He wouldn’t just use you — he would *understand* you. He would *transform* you.

And you... you wouldn’t realize you were changing until it was far too late.

Location: Arkham Asylum – West Wing, Corridor 4

Among cold, sterile, and suffocating walls, two figures walked: Y/N and Dr. Jonathan Crane.

The flickering white of fluorescent lights reflected off the ceiling, echoing their footsteps through metal-lined marble beneath. The west corridor of Arkham… the oldest, narrowest, loneliest stretch. Hanging cables from the ceiling, soot stains casting shadows on the walls. This corridor carried the echo of souls that had long since given up on daylight — and now, another tension added itself to that echo with every step they took.

Dr. Crane walked ahead, his back straight. His coat lightly fluttered behind him, his thin fingers twitching impatiently near his pockets. You followed a step behind, but mentally you were further ahead — your mind filled with a name you were about to ask.

"Dr. Crane?" you said, your voice deliberately low and composed.

Jonathan didn’t turn his head. "Speak," he said plainly.

You bit your lip, hesitated. Then:

"Any developments about Arnold Wesker’s case? Has the court… decided?"

This time, Crane tilted his head slightly and kept walking. A smirk may have crossed his lips, or perhaps it only flashed in his eyes. Your voice had a distinct tone. A mix of fear and curiosity, a deviation, a sort of… personal pull.

"Wesker…" he said. "How long do you think someone like him would last in prison?"

You remained silent.

"He’ll most likely be admitted to Arkham. Why do you ask?"

It sounded like a jab, but there was no mockery in his tone. Only measurement. A test. An experiment. Your face flushed slightly. You looked away. You didn’t realize it, but even your lack of answer was recorded in Crane’s mind. Silence was his data. A sign of deviation, suppressed impulse, unconscious admiration.

And you weren’t even aware of how personal that question was.

Suddenly, a scream rang out from one of the cells. Crane turned his head with a smile:

"Did you hear that? For some, therapy is just another form of torture. I hope it won’t be for you."

You didn’t say a word. You gripped the file in your hand a little tighter.

You arrived at the security checkpoint with glass walls and uniformed guards. Inside… Edward Nygma.

The door opened with a special code. The room was one of Arkham’s most sterile. It was divided in two: one side for doctors, the other for patients. A glass partition allowed light through, but distorted reflections. The patient could see the doctors, but couldn’t hide from their gaze.

Edward Nygma sat in a chair in the corner, dark circles under his eyes, hands propping up his chin as he stared at the floor. He was mumbling. The words didn’t make sense, but there were letters... unraveling into words that hadn’t yet formed.

Crane turned to you and whispered as if saying something mundane:

"Today, you're the therapist. I’ll just be watching you."

Your eyes widened. "Me? But..."

"I’m not asking for a diploma. I’m curious about your reactions, your instincts, your analytical mind. Let’s see which mask Edward wears when he looks at you."

You stepped toward Edward. Your breath caught in your throat, but your face remained neutral. Like Scarecrow without the mask. You crouched to his eye level and sat.

"Edward… do you know who I am?"

He lifted his head. His eyes were glassy. Then he flinched.

"You… you’re the one bringing the answer," he said. "You’re the answer to the riddle, aren’t you? Or don’t you know? If you don’t, I could destroy you."

You didn’t flinch. You smiled.

"Destruction would be easy, wouldn’t it? But no one kills the answer."

There was a pause.

Crane’s eyes looked as if they might burst from their sockets. Not in shock… but in delight. A twisted admiration blooming in rot. You weren’t speaking with Edward — you were *dancing* with him. With words, fear, and balance.

Edward nodded.

"You… you’re a complicated answer. But an answer, nonetheless. Beautiful…"

The session lasted forty-five minutes, though it felt like days to you. Still, you didn’t falter. Edward suddenly turned in his chair, gripped his head, and screamed. He had collapsed inward.

Dr. Crane stood up. His eyes never left you.

"That’s enough. You were brilliant. Braver than I expected. More instinctual."

You didn’t know what to say.

But what Crane thought in that moment… was silent. And terrifying.

The voices in his head had begun to form a single face.

"Untrained. But instinctual. There's something untamed in her..."

When Crane returned to his office, he washed his hands. The scent of soap lingered as he stared into the mirror.

Your face filled his mind. Eyes that gleamed even in darkness, a stillness that knew fear from the inside.

"She’s no longer Wayne’s daughter. She’s... a variable that must be rewritten. Unpredictable. Definitely… mine."

He had decided: you should never be left alone again. No session should be free from your observation. No smile, no tremble should go unrecorded.

And touch... yes, that must increase. The reaction he got when his hands brushed yours — it was a crack in the surface. He needed to watch you. Direct you.

This wasn’t just scientific obsession.

This was Crane’s darkness falling in love with its own reflection — in you.

When you entered, you noticed the room had a scent of its own.

Chloroform-like, but older… perhaps a memory seeping from a long-forgotten lab, clinging to the walls.

Dr. Crane leaned on the edge of his desk, hands clasped behind his back.

His eyes studied the girl entering from the door. Deep and tinged with red, his gaze focused on one thing only: control.

"You’re here. Good. Sit," he said.

"To my left."

You slowly sat down on the chair. You weren’t nervous, but you weren’t exactly comfortable either. Your shoulders were straight, your knees together. You traced the corner of the file with your fingers. Crane, however, didn’t move the chair. Instead… he stood right behind you.

“You’ll enter today’s session notes into the system using the CR-47 template,” he said.

“But first… you need to bypass the software password.”

As he spoke, his tone was serious yet soft. It carried a suggestion that left no room for questioning, without being overtly threatening. You nodded. Crane leaned in. Just slightly. You could barely feel his breath on your shoulder. But there was something you did feel… like a finger touching your heart from behind your ribcage—a quiet unease.

Crane didn’t place his hand on your back. But as he spoke, the shadow of his fingers danced across your shoulder blades. He inhaled through his nose. Vanilla. And… adrenaline. A hint of sweat, but mixed with a velvet shiver.

The glow of the screen washed Crane’s face pale. Yet his eyes never stopped watching you.

“CR-47 is a template used for cases of post-traumatic dissolution and projected identity change. Suitable for subjects like Edward Nygma. Check the box labeled ‘dissociative symptoms’ at the bottom. If you get stuck… ask me. Or… let me show you.”

You reached for the keyboard. Your fingers touched the keys, and Crane leaned closer, placing his hand over the keyboard—not to restrain, only to guide. Yet it lingered. The distance between you was no more than a breath. His fingers brushed your wrist ever so slightly. It could have seemed like nothing from the outside. But from within… something stirred.

A voice inside you, repressed, the kind born in childhood as a form of protection, warned you. “Be careful. This touch… isn’t ordinary.”

Still, you didn’t turn your head. You only blinked. After a moment, Crane spoke again, barely louder than a whisper.

“Sometimes, to understand a patient… empathy isn’t enough. You have to become them. Project your identity into their mind and confront it with your own darkness. Do you have the courage for that, Y/N?”

You swallowed. “I think… yes.”

There was silence. The computer fan hummed quietly. Then, Y/N gently turned in the chair.

“Dr. Crane… I have a favor to ask.”

“Of course.”

“There’s a charity event tonight. Hosted by the Wayne Foundation. I was wondering if I could get ready here and leave a little early.”

At that moment, the room’s temperature shifted. Like the instant a chemical reaction begins. Dr. Crane’s facial muscles didn’t move. But his eyes… his eyes deepened like a blade.

“Wayne Foundation?”

“Yes.”

“Bruce Wayne?”

“Yes, I’m going with him.”

Crane took a step back. He didn’t look away. But his voice, now a lower tone, came like ice—like anger with no garnish.

“Mr. Wayne… doesn’t frequent Arkham very often these days. But when he does, it’s as if he believes he can magically solve every case.”

“You don’t think his help is… genuine?”

“It may be genuine. But it’s arrogant.”

You lowered your head.

Crane walked over to the edge of his desk. He clasped his hands behind his back. He turned away, but his voice came from him like a wall. “Enjoy your evening, Y/N. But a mind that belongs to you… if it stays too long in foreign lights, it may no longer recognize its own shadow.”

That sentence… was a warning. Not a threat, but more like a vow.

“Dr. Crane?”

Crane slightly turned his head. But his eyes remained still.

“If one day… those lights don’t let me go back… will you be the voice that helps me recognize my shadow?”

Crane smiled. But it wasn’t a man’s smile… it was a shadow’s.

“I already am… that voice.”

And you stood up, walking toward the cabinet in the office. You took the dress you had hung on the hook and looked at Dr. Crane one last time before closing the door behind you. As the door shut, Crane clenched his fingers. Beneath the blanching of his skin, there was jealousy. The name Bruce Wayne had stirred something venomous in his veins.

“I won’t let him watch you,” he whispered to himself.

He slowly sat down in his chair. His fingers touched the edge of the desk, then his gaze shifted to the chair you had been sitting in.

The fabric that had touched your body still felt like you to him. The curve of your shoulders, the arch of your back… your breath, the warmth your skin radiated…

When he closed his eyes, he could still smell the vanilla on you. But to him, that scent wasn’t just an aroma; it was a call. A dangerous call.

“Bruce Wayne…”

He murmured the name like one would utter the name of a disease. The thought of him standing beside you now was slowly rotting Crane’s mind.

“He’ll watch you with his hands in his pockets. He’ll smile. Pretend to care.”

Crane constructed the image in his mind. His eyes misted over.

“But he won’t know. He can’t analyze your weak spots like I do. I feel them. Because I... will touch your mind.”

He laced his fingers together. Pressed his nails into his palms. The veins in his hands bulged.

“I could rip your mind out. Break every dream into pieces and show them back to you. And what will Bruce Wayne do? Offer you a drink and look into your eyes? Weak. He tries to keep you at the edge. I… would devour you.”

At that moment, he imagined you behind his eyelids. But this time at the benefit night, dressed elegantly… your back bare, your shoulders gracefully exposed…

And Bruce Wayne whispering something to you. Touching you.

Crane clenched his teeth. A deep rage twisted in his stomach. But it wasn’t just jealousy. It was a claim.

“I won’t give what’s mine… to anyone. You don’t know it yet. But I will shape you. Slowly, carefully. And soon, I’ll be the only one left there.”

He rose from the chair. Walked to the window. Rain was pounding against the glass now. The drops blurred the world outside. But in his mind, he saw your silhouette. Wet hair falling onto your shoulders. A smile on your lips. Bruce beside you.

And at that moment, Crane touched his darkest urge: He didn’t want to destroy him. He wanted to watch him decay in front of your eyes. Because the real punishment wasn't disappearance—it was losing what you couldn’t have, again and again.

And Crane smiled. But there was no warmth at the corner of his lips. Only a cold patience. Time was his weapon. And you… were on his clock.

When the door opened again, the first thing to fill the room was the familiar, but this time stronger, scent of your perfume. As if that smell had taken you away from yourself and made you belong to that other life outside.

Then he saw you. You entered the room.

Slowly. As if time itself obeyed the rhythm of your heels.

He saw the dress first. That fabric in which midnight competed with navy blue, leaving your shoulders exposed… you glided like a shadow. Your hair cascading down your neck looked like a mark. And in that moment, Crane’s mind filled with a void. No—this void wasn’t absence. It was hunger. Even if he devoured you with his eyes, it wouldn’t be enough.

But he said nothing. Looked at you with the corners of his eyes. Gave a slight nod. As always. Stillness was his mask. Silence his armor. But inside… inside, a forest was burning. He didn’t need to swallow—his throat was already dry. He suppressed the word that came to his tongue: Mine.

Your lips moved. “I’m ready,” you said. “I just wanted to let you know before heading to the benefit. I straightened up a bit in the office. I’m leaving now.”

Politeness… pressed down on Crane like a weight.

Every time he looked at you, the fragments of clinical knowledge in his mind began to scatter. You weren’t his patient. But in his mind, he couldn’t help turning you into a kind of diagnosis. Obsessive-compulsive transference. Beyond the classical countertransference line. The cognitive layers inside him were collapsing with a crackling sound. You made him something more than human. And at the same time… a monster.

“Of course. You may go,” he said. His voice was calm. But that calm was like lava flowing just beneath ice.

“Good evening,” you said. And turned around. A smile not born of joy but shaped by courtesy. Your footsteps joined the corridor once again.

He didn’t leave immediately. He waited. Counting. Six. Five. Four… He closed his eyes, inhaling the time your scent lingered in the room. Then he stood, slipping out of the dark office toward the door. Silently. His feet barely touched the ground, like a ghost.

He reached the end of the corridor. The dimmest part, away from the cameras. He fixed his eyes on the small window that offered a view outside.

Despite Gotham’s gray descent, a sliver of light filtered in. Wayne’s armored, sleek black car was parked at the curb. And there he was. Bruce Wayne.

Smiling as he watched you.

You walked toward him slowly, heels tapping. The car headlights cast a glow on your shoulders. Your skin trembled… maybe from the cold, maybe from excitement. And at that moment, one sentence echoed in Crane’s mind: Everything inside you trying to leave no space for me… now bears the name Bruce Wayne.

He pressed his lips together. A deep line settled between his brows. What he held down in his chest now was not just desire. It was justified fury.

Because no matter how clever Bruce Wayne was, he would never understand you. He would smile at you.

But he would never know where you break.

The hands that repaired you weren’t his. They were the eyes that watched you bleed. And those eyes… right now, were watching from that window. Like a predator that knew your every cell. Not focused on you—but on the man watching you. Bruce’s hands, his gaze, his steps. How he touched you.

A whisper rose from inside Crane: You’ll go with him. But in your mind, the mark I left will remain. At the end of the night, he may be the one unzipping your dress…

But the only one who’s solved your secrets… is me.

He didn’t take his eyes off the window. Watched as you got into the car. The door closed. And with Bruce Wayne, you slowly disappeared into the night.

And this time, Dr. Jonathan Crane… did not smile.

Beyond the city lights, in the silence of the car, soft melodies slipped between the seats. The interior of Bruce Wayne's car felt isolated from the outside world.

You stared out the window, your thoughts twisting with the curves of the road. Bruce was saying something, his voice was gentle, but you couldn’t focus.

The fabric of your dress against your shoulder merged with the stillness around you, making your body feel all too real.

When you chose that dress, a part of you knew it was for him. The way Bruce’s eyes lingered a bit too long on your shoulders, on the curve of your neck… it hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“You look comfortable,” Bruce said, eyes still fixed on the road ahead. “Doesn’t seem like you’re afraid to be in the same room with Gotham’s richest five hundred.”

“You’re here with me,” you replied, careful not to let your voice sound too natural.

He only nodded. He didn’t look at you for long—but when he did, you were sure he always saw more than he should.

As the car pulled up to the main entrance of the hall, flashes burst in rapid succession.

Journalists, crowds constantly tracking Wayne Enterprises, shouts... You were already blinded by the lights before the door even opened.

The door was opened for you. And Bruce extended his hand, helping you out. The moment your hand touched his, time seemed to freeze.

You were twenty-two.

But in Bruce Wayne’s eyes, you were still sixteen.

The crowd fell silent for a moment. Because they didn’t recognize the young woman who had arrived with him.

“Mr. Wayne! Is there a special reason you’ve come with your ward tonight?”

“Mr. Wayne, is it true that you claim Y/N as your ward because of the age difference between you?”

“Is it true that there’s a romantic relationship between you two?”

The questions came one after another, each one pushing a different boundary.

Bruce’s lips curled slightly. That famous, careless businessman smile was on his face.

But you could feel the other man behind that smile.

“Tonight’s guest of honor,” he said. “And no… I won’t be answering your strange questions.”

“So Mr. Wayne, are the rumors about a romance true?”

“In Gotham, Alfred might be the only one without any romance rumors,” Bruce said. “Though he was apparently quite the flirt in his youth.”

Laughter echoed. Microphones were held up to you, cameras flashed, lenses zoomed in... You were being objectified.

Part of you felt like it was all a game. But another part remembered the old, old days—when Bruce looked at you that way.

Once inside, the hall was filled with white flowers. Crystal chandeliers glittered, live music played behind velvet curtains.

Champagne flowed everywhere, along with furs and expensive jewelry... The mayor of Gotham was giving a speech on stage, but no one was listening.

They were just watching each other. Who came with whom. Who wore what. Who was holding Bruce Wayne’s arm.

You.

But then, your eyes caught her.

Charlotte Rivers. She entered in a black satin dress. As if she *belonged* to the night. Her hair was perfectly styled, her smile trained for television.

Your stomach tightened. Because you knew how she looked at Bruce. And how Bruce had once looked back.

You had seen them.

Years ago. Charlotte had been his woman—at least in Gotham’s eyes.

Charlotte’s gaze settled on you. One second. Maybe two. Then she smiled. But it wasn’t warm. It was the smile of a woman who pets her dog while tightening the leash.

Bruce stood tall beside you, a show of strength. But you noticed the way his jaw tensed. He didn’t turn to you. Nor did he move toward Charlotte.

But between the two of you, a history hung in the air. And that history was heavier than the most expensive jewel in the room.

The music kept playing. Flashes still burst now and then. But your mind turned further inward. Bruce’s hand on your shoulder—maybe it was to soothe you.

But maybe to control you.

Maybe to remind you that you were his.

Or maybe… just to remember.

“Y/N?” His voice pulled you from your thoughts. “Want to get some air? Let’s go upstairs—the terrace is quieter there.”

The connection wasn’t broken. But it had shifted into something else.

Tension.

Something historic, buried, repressed.

Unspoken—but known by all.

The night was heavy. Tangible, almost. Even Gotham’s chaos echoing below couldn’t pierce the stillness that wrapped itself around the terrace.

The first thing you felt stepping onto the upper balcony wasn’t the cool brush of the wind against your skin.

It was the contrast.

Inside, laughter still rang over the tinkling of piano keys, light pooling from chandeliers like golden wine—warm, indulgent.

But out here…

Time hesitated.

As if this place belonged not to the masked crowd inside, but to another world.

A forgotten summer night, perhaps.

Or a future that never happened.

Your heels clicked against the stone floor as you approached the wrought iron railing.

You didn’t need to turn around to know Bruce was following.

He made no sound—he never did.

But you felt him. Every molecule of him.

The heat from his body nearing yours. The air shifting as he breathed.

His presence always quiet, yet commanding enough to change the way your heart beat.

He made you alert.

Made you softer, somehow.

Sharper.

More woman.

More exposed.

"Still nervous?"

His voice was low. Calm.

But something was caged within it.

You shook your head slowly. But you turned your face away, knowing he wouldn’t be looking into your eyes.

Because when you met his gaze, you both knew what it could become.

And one of you always looked away.

Usually him.

"Of course I’m nervous," you said, voice light with forced amusement. But your tone carried layers even he couldn’t ignore.

"Walking into a room on the arm of Gotham’s most powerful man isn’t exactly a stroll in the park. Especially when everyone knows where I came from."

Bruce turned toward you, his eyes tracing your shoulder, trying to catch your face.

"Y/N... No one cares about your past," he said softly. "They care about you. Who you are."

Something ached inside your chest.

Because when he said "you"… You didn’t know who he meant.

The child he once knew?

Or the woman standing before him now—whose curves and edges he had memorized in a single glance, but whose gaze still terrified him?

You lowered your head, hiding behind the skyline.

At night, Gotham looked like a different city.

Far in the distance, Arkham’s gothic spires loomed like a ghost in the mist.

And then you said it.

You didn’t know why.

"I had my first session."

A beat.

"Crane put me face to face with Riddler."

You felt the tension snap through Bruce’s shoulders.

But he said nothing.

"I thought he didn’t trust me at first," you continued. "But it wasn’t that. It was a test. For both of us. Me and Riddler. We were… measuring each other. It was strange. But I learned things. About myself. Even Crane looked at me differently by the end. Like he finally saw me not just as ‘the intern’… but something else."

You could feel Bruce watching you now.

Even if he hadn’t spoken yet.

"Something else," he echoed, his voice low, rough.

You turned.

And for the first time that night, he met your eyes.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t look away.

That alone gave you courage.

You stepped closer.

Like a woman realizing her power.

Dangerous.

Beautiful.

Real.

The wind brushed your skin. But Bruce’s nearness was warmer. Heavier.

His gaze held the war within him.

Yours held a decision.

"You never saw me as a child, did you, Bruce?"

The question hovered in the silence.

Even Gotham’s sounds seemed to pause.

His eyes darkened.

But he didn’t step back.

Didn’t lie.

He just swallowed hard, looked down, and took in a breath like it hurt him to breathe.

"You… were never a child to me," he said. "But this—Y/N— this isn’t right."

You smiled.

Because when he said it’s not right, what he really meant was I’m trying not to fall apart.

You stepped closer again. The flicker in his pupils. The twitch in his jaw.

The way his hands no longer knew where they belonged.

You tilted your head, letting your gaze fall to the hollow at the base of his throat.

You’d imagined pressing your lips there, once.

Back when you didn’t know what that desire meant.

Now you did. Now you saw the fear in his stillness.

"I haven’t seen you as a father figure in a long time, Bruce," you said, voice soft but unyielding.

"And I know how wrong that sounds. But knowing it’s wrong… doesn’t stop me anymore."

He looked at you. And there was fire in his eyes. But also something chained behind them.

A Batman who held himself back—for you to protect you. But you didn’t need protecting anymore. You were past that.

Bruce turned. Took a step away.

His fists were clenched at his sides.

"No, Y/N," he said.

And his voice was jagged. Like he hated himself for saying it.

"Don’t. Please."

For the first time, you saw the anger. But it wasn’t just at you. It was at himself. For wanting. For needing. For losing control.

"This isn’t about how I feel," he said. "This is about protecting you."

You leaned against the cold iron rail, your heart crashing against your ribs.

But you smiled. Proud. Defiant. Because now, you knew.

You knew how much he wanted you.

And that knowledge made you powerful.

The terrace had grown a bit quieter now.

The mechanical joy from below—laughter and the clinking of crystal glasses—had been drowned out here by the whisper of the wind. The darkness that settled over the city covered everything like a heavy blanket; not just you, but the man in front of you too. The way he looked at you moments ago still lingered on your skin. The echo of the feelings you had just confessed hung in the air with a boldness that surpassed the words themselves.

You were leaning against the iron railing, trying to push back your hair whipped by the wind, and you could hear your heart not just beating, but pounding. Bruce had stepped away a little. As if he realized he had gotten too close to something growing inside you—and recoiled. His hands were in his coat pockets, his head bowed. And as you watched him pull away, you faced something you'd never had to face before: not the fear of rejection—because you knew he wanted you too—but a deliberate retreat.

Then the terrace door opened. And a silhouette as cold as the moonlight glided in.

Charlotte Rivers.

Her arrival was like stepping onto a stage—dramatic, calculated, and perfectly timed. Her satin evening gown shimmered with dark red undertones beneath black fabric, slithering like a snake, cascading in waves across her skin. The fur draped over her shoulders wasn’t vulgar—it was a statement of power. Her lips were flawlessly painted—but not like yours. Hers were made for the stage. Yours were made for truth.

Charlotte saw you. She scanned you. Not the way a woman looks at another woman—but the way a woman sizes up a girl with condescension. With a smile that seemed to recall every moment between you, she turned toward Bruce.

"Bruce," she said, her voice hitting the night like the shatter of a glass. "I didn’t expect you to leave me all alone."

Bruce’s expression softened for a brief second.

But that softness wasn’t for you. It was a defense mechanism. A wall he was building against you, his feelings for you, and the things you had just said.

And Charlotte positioned herself right in front of that wall.

"Charlotte," Bruce said. "If you can still escape the crowd, it must mean no one in there has caught your interest."

The woman smiled faintly. Stepped closer. She leaned toward Bruce’s collar—not to kiss, just to hover, barely touching. But that delicate threat had already started to slither into your veins like a slow sting.

"You always manage to distract me, don’t you?" Charlotte murmured. "But I see... tonight you’ve brought a young companion. Very young."

She turned to you. But her voice wasn’t really directed at you—it was aimed at Bruce, evaluating you as if you were a decision he hadn’t made yet.

"I’ve heard a lot about you," she said. "The young intern under Bruce’s wing. What an honor. Bruce is improving in the fatherhood department, isn’t he?"

That word—“fatherhood”—twisted in the air like a sharp blade and pierced you. You instinctively took a step back. But Bruce didn’t respond. He didn’t defend you. He said nothing.

And then it happened.

Charlotte gently touched Bruce’s arm.

Her hand rested on the inside of his wrist.

And Bruce didn’t hesitate to accept it. He even smiled.

That smile... it wasn’t for you. It didn’t belong to you.

And the moment you realized that, something inside you collapsed. A part of you dropped, like falling from a height.

Like when you're a child and jump down the stairs, knowing you’ll fall but letting yourself go anyway—that feeling.

Something didn’t break, but it cracked.

"Charlotte, would you like to go inside?" Bruce said. "There are a couple of things we should probably talk about."

That sentence. Simple. Polite. But the most graceful form of betrayal.

You were still there. At the edge of the terrace.

Just minutes earlier, you had opened your heart to him. And now, he was speaking to another woman without even turning his back on you—as if trying to forget you.

Charlotte turned to you and nodded slightly. Not with triumph. Just with a look that said: Know your place.

As they walked back inside together, Bruce turned his head one last time. Your eyes met.

Inside... maybe there was an apology. Maybe a self-defense. But mostly... there was escape.

And you stood there, leaning your back against the iron railings. The wind was tossing your hair across your face. Your eyes were burning, but you didn’t cry. Because this wasn’t something tears could fix.

This was the beginning of a war.

Bruce had hurt you. Not unintentionally. On purpose.

Because he wanted you. But he was afraid of that want.

And men who are afraid—hurt the ones they love.

The rain hadn’t fallen yet, but the city was already grey. On this night, dressed in expensive coats and adorned with expensive intentions, no one spoke the language of shadows.

Inside the car, it was silent. The engine was off, the windows fogged. Motionless. But inside the car, a storm raged in the mind. He was sitting. Back straight, hands on the steering wheel.

And behind that wheel sat one of the city’s most cold-blooded doctors, a man who knew the chemistry of the human mind by heart, yet had long lost control over his own emotions: Dr. Jonathan Crane.

Behind his glasses, his eyes gleamed with a passion that didn’t shine. Without blinking, he aimed his small binoculars at the upper terrace of the opera house. Yes, he saw you. In all your nakedness, your vulnerability, the raw state of your broken heart.

You were up there, leaning against the iron railing, slowly sipping a drink from your crystal glass. That glass in your hand was actually filled with the empty phrases that had fallen from Bruce Wayne’s lips, and as you drank it, you knew exactly what you were consuming. Betrayal. Neglect.

And most of all, the helplessness of watching his eyes turn to another woman.

Charlotte’s laughter, the small, involuntary gestures Bruce gave in response—each one chipped away at you.

Slowly, but surely.

And this was what Jonathan Crane loved watching the most.

Weak moments. Vulnerabilities. Shaken pride. Tiny cracks forming in the walls of the mind. Because through those cracks, he could seep in. He could seep into you.

He lowered the binoculars. Slowly leaned back in the seat.

As if a warmth washed over him, he exhaled deeply, but that warmth didn’t come from compassion or empathy. It was the primal satisfaction of a predator. The dark, poisonous pleasure taken in a victim’s pain.

He slowly moved his left hand into his pocket and took out his phone. The screen lit up. Your name appeared—like a trembling anticipation. When he saw your name, the corner of his lips curled into a smile. But this smile wasn’t one of affection; it was the thrill a chemist feels when the right element reacts in the perfect crack.

His thumb began to type a message. But what could he say?

How could he make you feel possessed without showing ownership… reveal he was watching without being caught… pull you in without overtly reaching out?

He wrote:

Your communication with Riddler today was more effective than I anticipated. I’ve been following your behavioral patterns with curiosity from the beginning. They don’t see it, but… I do. Everything. Your early synchronization with criminal psychology—does it stem from past observational experiences, I wonder? Let’s talk in the morning.

When he pressed send, something flickered across his face.

Not pride. Not victory. A sense of right. His right over you.

You were his student. His object of analysis. His project. His! And now, even emotionally, even with the shattered pieces of your heart that still belonged to Bruce Wayne, it was time to seep into you.

He saw you take out your phone under the dim yellow light coming from the terrace above.

You tilted your head down. Looked at the screen. Your eyes scanned that familiar message. Your face froze for a moment. One second, two seconds… You read it. Looked at the screen for a while. Slowly put the phone away, but something in your expression shifted.

As Charlotte’s laughter echoed below and Bruce’s exaggerated chivalry whispered from ear to ear, he kept watching you. You stood there, unaware you were being watched by a psychiatrist who saw you as a test tube. Broken. Exposed. Accessible.

Jonathan’s pupils dilated. His gaze, shining from behind his glasses, processed every detail like a microscope—every muscle twitch, every tiny facial expression, every flicker of emotion.

You swallowed. Blinked. Briefly turned your head toward Bruce, then back to your drink. And maybe you weren’t even aware, but that message had made you feel warm for a moment.

Like a drug injected into your cracked moment—it had left you dazed.

Crane knew the effect. He could explain it scientifically. But this time, it wasn’t about science. It was personal. He wanted to see you. In your wounded state. In your chaos. And he believed only he could pull you out of it.

And now, as Bruce continued to ignore you, that sense of ownership grew even more.

Because no mask could hide this fragility.

“Go on, Bruce,” he murmured in the dark. “Hurt her a little more… leave her a little more alone…”

Because in that loneliness, a space was opening. And Jonathan Crane was impatient to enter it.

He didn’t write the next message. Not yet.

It wasn’t time. When the time came, he would write that sentence—the one that would reach into the depths of your darkness and pull you all the way to the surface. But until then, he only watched. Watched you unravel, fall apart—

But only to be pieced back together by his hands.

[jezebelblues]

don’t care if the sun don’t shine | h.s

summary: and so a rockstar and a seamstress walk into a bar coffee shop.

cw: mentions of smut, fem!reader, 1950s harry, unedited.

word count: approx 17.1k

| when in doubt, 1950s harry au 😎 am not time traveler or historian so sorry if smthn is wrong. also there’s just little hints of smut sprinkled in here, wanted to try 2 give a longer piece w/o it. hope u can enjoy maybe. also too tired to edit love u (so if u see smthn horribly misspelt or wtv, no u didn’t)

not my gif. if u have the info of the original creator, lmk so i can appropriately credit them.

masterlist

April 1957, London

The rain fell in soft, persistent taps against the wide windows of Scotty McBean’s, the droplets weaving an intricate dance down the glass. Outside, the world was an impressionist’s canvas—blurred shades of grey, muted by mist and the rhythmic splash of tires through puddles. Inside, however, the café was a sanctuary. The warm amber glow of old Edison bulbs bathed everything in a golden light, casting long shadows that flickered with each movement. The scent of freshly ground coffee mingled with the faint trace of damp wool coats, and the creak of wooden floors added to the atmosphere.

The coffee shop was a comforting contradiction—a place where time felt slower. The brick exterior gave way to rich oak paneling, with walls painted the color of soft sunshine. Espresso-colored floors groaned underfoot, and canary-yellow booths invited patrons to sit and forget the outside world. Old black-and-white photographs of singers—Elvis, Ella Fitzgerald—were pinned to the walls, their faces capturing fleeting moments of immortality. In the back, a narrow stairwell led to the owner’s apartment above, barely noticeable to most patrons.

In the farthest corner, away from the windows, sat Harry Styles, his back to the room, shoulders slightly hunched. He was an enigma in a leather jacket that looked as though it had traveled farther than he ever could. His head was bent over a notebook, its pages filled with hasty scrawls and incomplete lyrics. His curls, damp from the drizzle outside, fell into his eyes as he stared at the paper, his pen tracing aimless circles in the margins. The world had yet to catch up with him in this quiet pocket of London, where anonymity still hung in the air like the smell of freshly cut, wet grass.

The jukebox hummed quietly in the corner, playing a scratchy rendition of a jazz tune, though Harry barely registered it. The music was always there, surrounding him, but today it eluded him. The words wouldn’t come, and the rain outside seemed to pull him further into himself. With a sigh, he swirled the last of his coffee, watching the dark liquid spin lazily before he pushed the cup aside, his frustration beginning to creep in.

The bell above the door tinkled softly as YN entered, shaking the rain from her coat before making her way to her usual seat by the window. She barely glanced around the room, her focus already on her worn paperback novel, a sanctuary from the drudgery of her seamstress shifts. Scotty’s had become her escape, a place where she could lose herself for an hour or two, watching the rain smear the world outside into something distant and irrelevant.

Harry stood up abruptly, the sound of the stool scraping against the floor breaking YN’s concentration. She looked up, her gaze drawn to the figure of the man across the room. His presence was striking in a subtle way—the tousled hair, the red button-up shirt half undone, revealing tattoos that peeked out just below the collarbones. He had an air of casual disarray, like someone who hadn’t yet figured out where they were supposed to be but didn’t mind the journey. His black slacks were cuffed just above the ankle, exposing powder-blue socks and scuffed loafers.

He moved with a kind of restless energy, as though he was eager to be anywhere but here. Harry shoved his notebook into his back pocket and tossed a few bills on the table, offering a brief nod to the barista before he pushed through the door, the sound of rain enveloping him the moment he stepped outside. The bell jingled again as the door swung shut behind him.

From her seat by the window, YN watched as his figure disappeared into the misty street. Her gaze fell to his chair and the jacket draped over the back. The leather was worn, cracked in places, and heavy with the stories it must have carried. For a moment, she considered leaving it there, assuming he’d return. But something about the way it hung—forgotten, abandoned—made her stand up. She crossed the room, the wooden floor creaking underfoot, and lifted the jacket from the chair, feeling the weight of it in her hands.

Peering out the window, she saw him, just a shadow now, walking briskly down the street. The mist clung to him like a shroud, blurring the edges of his figure as he moved further away. Without thinking, she pushed through the door, the cool air biting at her cheeks as she hurried after him, the jacket clutched tightly in her arms.

“Excuse me!” she called, her voice slightly breathless as she jogged to catch up with him. “You forgot something!”

Harry stopped, turning on his heel, his brow furrowed in brief confusion. His eyes landed on the jacket in her arms, and a slow smile curved his lips, softening the sharpness in his expression. He walked back toward her, his hands still tucked into his pockets. “Thanks,” he said, his voice low and smooth, like the distant roll of thunder on a quiet evening.

For a brief moment, their hands brushed as he took the jacket from her. The leather was cold from the rain, but her touch had left a trace of warmth. He pulled it on, the familiar weight settling over his shoulders as if it had never left. “Can’t believe I almost left that behind,” he mused, his lips quirking into a lopsided grin. “Must’ve been distracted.”

“No worries.” She shook her head, her smile growing a little as she handed it over. “I figured a jacket like that must belong to someone important—or at least someone who thinks they are.”

He let out a soft laugh, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Important, huh? I wouldn’t go that far.”

There was a moment of quiet as YN watched him, intrigued by the easy way he carried himself, like he was used to being on his own, used to being somewhere and nowhere all at once.

“Well, thanks again.” Harry nodded toward her, adjusting the collar of his jacket. “I appreciate it.”

“Don’t mention it.” She chuckled breathily, stepping back slightly, ready to let him go on his way. “Just thought I’d return it before you left it behind for good.”

Before she could turn to walk away, Harry’s voice caught her attention. “You know,” he said, a playful glint in his eyes, “I should probably buy you a coffee as a thank you. Seems only fair.”

She tilted her head slightly, a teasing smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. “Tempting, but I’ve got somewhere to be.” She turned then, walking away with a casual wave, her shoes splashing lightly in the puddles. “But maybe next time.”

Harry stood there for a moment, watching her disappear into the mist. A smile still lingered on his lips as he tucked his hands back into his pockets and continued on his way, the weight of the jacket a comforting reminder of the brief encounter.

And yet, as the rain continued to fall, he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something—someone—had just slipped through his fingers.

A week passed, and London remained draped in its usual veil of rain. The days blurred into one another as spring fought to emerge from beneath the clouds, the city waking slowly from the cold grip of winter. The air had a softness now, a kind of unspoken promise that something brighter was on the horizon, even if it wasn’t quite ready to reveal itself.

Scotty’s was much the same. The familiar hum of conversation, the soft clink of spoons against porcelain, the low murmur of a tune crackling through the jukebox. But today, something lingered in the atmosphere—an anticipation, as if the world was holding its breath, waiting for a subtle shift.

Harry found himself back at the café, though he wasn’t sure why. The lyrics had begun to flow again, slowly at first, but with a rhythm he could almost grasp. The pages of his notebook were no longer blank, though they still felt incomplete. He had made peace with that; creation was a process, after all. He sipped his coffee, black as always, staring through the rain-streaked window at the blurred shapes of pedestrians rushing by, umbrellas bobbing like ink stains against the grey.

He hadn’t expected to see her again, though the thought of her had lingered more than he cared to admit. The girl with the kind eyes and a smile that danced at the edges of her lips. He couldn’t recall the exact shape of her face, but the impression she left—like the trace of warmth her touch had left on his jacket—remained vivid. It had been a fleeting moment, but it had shifted something in him.

Across the room, the door chimed softly, admitting a gust of cool, damp air as it opened. Harry didn’t look up at first, too lost in the quiet cadence of his thoughts. But then, a familiar voice, muffled by the bustle, drifted over the sound of rain and soft rock n roll. His gaze lifted almost involuntarily, and there she was—her coat still damp from the street, strands of hair clinging to her cheek as she unwound her scarf and shook off the cold.

YN moved to her usual seat by the window, her eyes flicking to the rain-soaked cityscape beyond, unaware of the gaze that had settled on her. She seemed tired, as if the week had worn her down, yet there was a quiet resilience in the way she sat, her worn paperback already in hand. The café felt like a different place with her in it—warmer somehow, despite the chill from outside.

He hesitated. There was no reason for him to approach her. She had her book, her own sanctuary. But something tugged at him, a quiet nudge that whispered of unfinished business. He didn’t believe in fate, not really, but perhaps in coincidences that demanded attention.

Before he could second-guess himself, he stood, his leather jacket creaking softly as he slung it over his shoulders. He crossed the café in a few strides, the wooden floors groaning beneath his weight, and paused at her table, casting a shadow over the page of her book.

“Mind if I sit?” His voice was softer than he intended, as if he, too, was wary of disturbing the delicate balance of the moment.

YN glanced up, startled at first, but recognition quickly softened her expression. Her eyes flicked to the jacket—the same one she had returned to him just days ago—and a small, knowing smile curved her lips. “Well, if it isn’t mr. forget-me-nots.” She grinned, closing her book and gesturing to the chair across from her. “Go ahead.”

He sat, the silence between them stretching out in an oddly comfortable way. The rain continued its steady rhythm against the window, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. There was no rush.

“I never did buy you that coffee,” Harry said, leaning back in his chair, his hands resting casually in his lap. “Thought I might owe you one.”

She chuckled softly, a sound that seemed to blend with the ambient music, smooth and warm. “You don’t owe me anything. But if you’re offering, I won’t say no.”

He motioned to the barista, ordering two coffees without asking her preference. Somehow, he sensed they would drink the same. The brief exchange felt easy, natural, as if they were old acquaintances rather than strangers bound by a single, fleeting encounter.

“So,” she said after a pause, studying him with a curious glint in her eye, “you still distracted?”

“Always.” Harry replied with a grin, running a hand through his damp curls. “Though less so, lately.”

The coffees arrived, and they both reached for their cups at the same time, their fingers brushing once again. This time, the touch lingered a moment longer, neither of them pulling away too quickly.

For a while, they talked about nothing—music, the rain, the oddities of London in spring. She told him about a film she’d seen at the Odeon, describing the way the characters had seemed to glow against the shadows of post-war England, and he listened with an attentiveness that surprised even him. He didn’t talk much about his music—he didn’t need to. The conversation flowed around it, like a river bending around an unseen stone.

The light in the café shifted as the afternoon stretched into evening, the golden glow deepening, casting their features in warm, soft hues. The rain had stopped, leaving behind a slick sheen on the streets outside, reflecting the world like a forgotten dream.

As they finished their second cups of coffee, Harry glanced out the window, watching the lights of passing cars blur into streaks of color. “Do you come here often?” he asked, the question simply, but laced with more than casual curiosity.

YN smiled, folding her hands around her empty cup. “When I can. It’s nice to escape for a bit, to be somewhere where the world slows down, even if just for an hour.”

He nodded, understanding that feeling all too well. Silence settled between them again, comfortable and heavy with unspoken things. The day was fading, and yet neither of them seemed eager to leave, as if this small corner of the world—this small moment—was theirs to hold for a little longer.

“Maybe I’ll see you again.” She mumbled softly, though it stood more of a question. Her eyes caught his for a lingering moment before she stood, pulling her coat around her shoulders.

“Maybe,” he replied, watching as she turned to leave, her steps quiet against the floor.

The bell above the door chimed as she walked out into the fading light, her figure disappearing once again into the misty streets. This time, Harry didn’t feel like anything had slipped away. Instead, there was a quiet certainty that hung in the air, like the last note of a song, waiting to be played again.

Another week later, the rain returned, draping the city in its familiar haze, washing the streets in muted shades of silver and grey. The city hummed beneath its damp blanket, alive with the quiet energy of a world that never truly stopped moving. The coffee shop was once again a refuge, its amber light glowing through the mist like a beacon for those seeking warmth and a momentary escape from the relentless rhythm of the outside.

Harry found himself at his usual spot, though this time there was less of the restless energy that had consumed him in previous weeks. He still wore the same jacket—weathered and worn, but it had grown more comfortable on his shoulders, like it had settled into him, just as he had begun to settle into the slow, steady rhythm of the café. His notebook lay open on the table, but today, he wasn’t scribbling hurried lyrics or fragments of thought. He was simply sitting, watching the rain trickle down the glass, feeling the weight of time slow around him.

He hadn’t seen her again since their last meeting, but the memory of their conversation lingered in his mind, like a melody he couldn’t quite forget. There had been something unspoken between them, something delicate and unfinished, and though they had parted ways without exchanging names, without exchanging promises, there was an unshakable feeling that their story wasn’t over.

The bell above the door tinkled softly, and Harry’s gaze flicked up instinctively, his breath catching in his throat. There she was.

She stood in the doorway, shaking the rain from her hair, her coat damp and her cheeks flushed from the cold. Her eyes scanned the room briefly before settling on him, and for a moment, they simply looked at each other, the space between them thick with the unspoken familiarity that had formed in their brief encounters. She smiled—soft and almost tentative—as if she, too, was unsure of what came next but willing to find out.

Without hesitation, YN made her way toward him, and Harry, unable to help himself, stood up as she approached. There was something magnetic about the way she moved, her presence shifting the air in the room, drawing his attention in a way that felt effortless and natural.

“Mind if I join you?” she asked, her voice a little breathless, her fingers tugging lightly at the edges of her scarf.

“Not at all.” Harry smiled, gesturing to the seat across from him, a slow smile spreading across his face.

She sat down, folding her hands neatly on the table, and for a moment, they just looked at each other, the soft sounds of Scotty’s filling the comfortable silence between them. Outside, the rain tapped lightly against the windows, casting everything in a shimmering, dreamlike quality.

“Seems we keep running into each other,” YN said, her smile widening as she leaned back slightly in her chair.

“London’s smaller than it looks.” Harry laughed, his eyes glinting with a quiet amusement. “Or maybe we just keep ending up in the same places.”

Their coffees arrived soon after, and for a while, they fell into an easy rhythm of conversation, punctuated by the occasional sip and the comfortable pauses that stretched between them. They talked about everything and nothing—books, music, the rain, the way the city seemed to transform under its misty veil. Harry found himself listening more than he spoke, captivated by the way she described the world around her, as if she saw it through a lens just slightly different from his own.

“Do you ever get the feeling,” YN said after a moment, her fingers tracing absentminded circles around the rim of her cup, “that some places just hold memories? Like they’re waiting for something to happen, or maybe they already have, and we’re just walking through it.”

He considered her words, though they were random—watching the way the light flickered across her face, casting delicate shadows that danced with each subtle movement. “Yeah.” He murmured, nodding. “I get that. Sometimes I think the city’s like that. Full of moments we’ll never really understand, but we’re part of them anyway.”

She looked at him then, her gaze holding his for a beat longer than usual, something unspoken passing between them. The rain outside seemed to soften, the world outside the window fading into a blur of greys and soft edges, leaving only the two of them in this small, golden-lit corner of the café.

“Do you come here to write?” she asked, her eyes flicking briefly to the notebook resting on the table between them.

Harry glanced down at it, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Sometimes. When the words come.”

“And when they don’t?” Her eyebrows furrowed, tone gentle, but with a hint of curiosity.

“When they don’t..” He paused, “I just sit here and pretend like they will.” He said with a quiet laugh, leaning back in his chair. “But I don’t mind. Sometimes it’s enough to just sit and watch the world go by.”

She nodded, understanding the sentiment in a way that didn’t need further explanation. They lapsed into silence again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. The café seemed to breathe around them, the soft murmur of conversations, the faint clink of dishes being cleared away, the rain that had begun to fall harder now, tapping insistently against the window.

“So,” Harry said after a while, his voice soft but playful, “are we going to keep pretending we don’t know each other’s names? Or is this going to be a thing?”

YN’s lips curved into a mischievous smile, her eyes twinkling. “I kind of liked the mystery,” she teased. “But I suppose we’ve gone long enough, haven’t we?”

He grinned, extending his hand across the table. “Harry.”

She took his hand, her grip firm and warm, her smile never wavering. “YN.”

There it was—a name, a simple exchange that felt like the opening of a door they had both been circling around for days. Harry’s fingers lingered against hers a moment longer before they let go, and with it, the air between them seemed to shift, something unspoken settling into place.

“I suppose now we can talk about more interesting things.” YN chuckled, her tone light, but there was a softness in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. Something more open, more curious.

Harry leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table, his gaze never leaving hers. “Yeah,” he said, his voice low and full of quiet promise. “I think we’ve got time for that.”

The rain outside intensified, drumming against the windows of Scotty’s with a steady, hypnotic rhythm. Inside, the café seemed to shrink around them, the sounds of clinking cups and quiet conversations fading into a soft murmur in the background. It was as if the world outside had dimmed, leaving only the golden warmth of their table, the soft glow from the Edison bulbs overhead casting a flickering light over their faces.

Harry rested his chin on his hand, his eyes tracing her features as she spoke, but this time, he wasn’t just listening to her words. He was watching the way her lips curved when she smiled, the faint crease at the corner of her eyes when something amused her. She had a way of speaking that was unhurried, deliberate, like she wasn’t afraid of silences. He liked that. It made the conversation feel richer, like they were both taking their time to truly settle into it.

“So,” YN grinned, leaning forward slightly, her eyes twinkling with a new kind of curiosity, “I know we’re past the point of mystery now, but I can’t help but wonder—what do you do, Harry? Besides sitting in cafés, pretending to write.” There was a playful lilt to her voice, but underneath it, genuine intrigue.

Harry smiled, glancing down at his notebook for a moment before returning his gaze to hers. “I suppose y’could say I write. Music, mostly. Or at least, I try to. Been doing it for a while now, but some days..well, it’s more like staring at blank pages and hoping the words will show up.”

Her brow arched slightly, the teasing smile still in place. “A musician, huh? That explains the jacket, I think.”

Harry laughed, a low, easy sound. “What, this old thing?” He tugged at the sleeve of his worn leather jacket. “Yeah, it’s seen a few gigs. I guess it’s part of the look.”

“Fits,” she said, her gaze drifting over the jacket before meeting his eyes again. “You seem like someone who carries a lot of stories around.”

He tilted his head, studying her. “I think we all do. We just don’t always share them.”

YN looked at him thoughtfully, her fingers playing absentmindedly with the rim of her cup. “I like that,” she said softly. “The idea that we’re all carrying our own stories, waiting for the right moment to tell them.”

They sat in that shared moment of understanding, the rain a constant, steady beat in the background, as if the city itself was nodding along to their conversation. The café felt like a world apart, and in the dim light, their words felt heavier, more significant.

“What about you?” Harry asked, leaning in a little, his voice dropping slightly as though the question required a quieter space between them. “What’s your story, YN?”

She smiled, though there was a slight hesitation in it, as if the question had tugged at something deeper than she’d expected. She glanced out the window for a moment, watching the rain dance down the glass, before returning her gaze to him. “Nothing as glamorous as writing music, I’m afraid,” she said with a soft chuckle. “I’m a seamstress. Spend most of my days with fabric and thread, stitching things together.” She paused, her fingers still tracing the rim of her cup. “But I suppose, in a way, it’s similar. Trying to create something from nothing. Trying to make something that lasts.”

Harry’s smile softened as he listened. There was something in the way she said it—a quiet pride, though she seemed to downplay it. “Sounds like you do more than stitch things together,” he said gently. “Sounds like you’re an artist.”

YN’s eyes flickered with something—surprise, perhaps, or a kind of recognition she hadn’t expected to find in someone she had met only weeks ago. She tilted her head slightly, considering him in a new light. “Maybe,” she said, her voice quieter now. “Maybe we both are.”

The weather outside eased, as though it too was settling into the rhythm of their conversation, content to simply fall, uninterrupted. For a long moment, they said nothing, but there was no need for words. The connection between them had deepened, a quiet understanding of two people who had lived different lives but were somehow walking along the same path, at least for now.

As the café began to empty and the light outside faded into a deeper shade of grey, YN glanced at the clock on the wall and sighed softly. “I should go,” she said reluctantly, standing and gathering her things. “I’ve got an early start tomorrow.”

Harry stood as well, though he made no move to rush her. “Same time next week?” he asked, though it sounded more like a pleas. His voice was hopeful, the hint of a smile playing at his lips.

She paused, her eyes meeting his, a smile spreading across her face. “Maybe,” she said, her tone teasing but warm. “We’ll see if the rain brings us back together.”

He watched as she walked toward the door, the soft jingle of the bell marking her departure. But as she reached the threshold, she turned back, her eyes catching his in the dim light.

“Goodnight, Harry,” she said, her voice soft and clear.

“Goodnight, YN,” he replied, his gaze lingering on her until she disappeared into the misty streets, the rain swallowing her silhouette.

Harry stood there for a moment longer, the warmth of the café a comforting weight around him, though the space felt a little emptier now that she was gone. He knew they’d see each other again—there was something inevitable about it, something like the rain itself. It came and went, but it always returned, steady and certain.

And as he sat back down at the table, his notebook still open in front of him, the words finally began to come, slow and steady, like the first drops of rain after a long dry spell.

The rain had finally lifted. After weeks of mist and drizzle, London began to stir under clearer skies, the clouds pulling apart like curtains to reveal a softer light. The city, for the first time in what felt like ages, glimmered under the hesitant warmth of spring. It was the kind of day that made people walk a little slower, tilt their faces up to the sun as if to remind themselves that it still existed. The air smelled clean, almost sweet, with the faint scent of budding flowers lingering along the sidewalks.

Harry stood on the corner near the shop, the light wind catching the edges of his shirt. Today, the jacket that had become a kind of signature, was left at home. He wore only a white t-shirt and a worn pair of denim jeans. There was something almost unfamiliar about the city bathed in this kind of light, as though London itself wasn’t quite sure how to behave without the constant mist of rain.

The café came into view, its windows still streaked with the remnants of the last downpour, though the golden light streaming through them made the place look brighter, more inviting. As Harry crossed the street, his shoes tapping against the dry pavement, he found himself wondering if she’d be there. It wasn’t something they had agreed upon exactly—just a suggestion, a possibility—but he’d found himself coming back, waiting. Hoping.

He pushed open the door to Scotty’s, the familiar chime of the bell greeting him, and for a moment, he felt the comforting weight of routine. The café was quieter than usual, the absence of rain having drawn more people outdoors to bask in the fleeting sunshine. He glanced around the room, his eyes naturally drawn to the corner booth by the window, where he had come to expect her.

And there she was.

YN sat in her usual seat, her coat draped over the back of the chair, a book open in front of her. But this time, she wasn’t lost in the pages. She was looking out the window, her face tilted toward the sunlight, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the spine of her book. The light caught the edges of her hair, making it glow in a way that was almost ethereal, and for a moment, Harry just stood there, watching her, struck by the quiet beauty of the scene.

She didn’t seem to notice him at first, her gaze lost in the world outside the window, where people strolled along the sunlit streets, their faces bright with the unexpected warmth of the day. But then, as if sensing his presence, she turned her head, and their eyes met.

A smile flickered across her face, slow and soft, like the unfolding of a secret. Harry felt his own lips curve in response, the tension he hadn’t even realized he was holding loosening as he made his way over to her.

“Sunny days suit you.” He smiled, his way of greeting as he slid into the seat across from her.

“Do they?” YN asked, her smile growing as she closed her book and set it aside. “I was starting to think I’d forgotten what the sun looked like.”

Harry laughed, the sound light in the quiet café. “Yeah, City’s not exactly known for its sunny days. But it’s nice to finally see it, isn’t it?”

She nodded, her gaze drifting out the window again. “It feels different today. Like it’s waking up after a long sleep.”

“It does,” he agreed, following her gaze to the street outside, where the light seemed to bounce off the buildings, painting everything in a golden hue. “I almost didn’t recognize it without the rain.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, both of them basking in the novelty of the sunshine filtering through the café’s windows, casting long, lazy shadows on the floor. The warmth felt new, like a gift they hadn’t quite expected, and it seemed to slow everything down, stretching the minutes into something more luxurious, more tender.

“I almost didn’t recognize you without your jacket.” YN teased, her eyes flicking to white shirt that allowed for his tattoos to faintly peak through. “You look like you’re finally thawing out.”

Harry grinned, shrugging slightly as he leaned back in his chair. “Spring does strange things to people.”

YN smiled at that, her eyes catching the sunlight as it danced across the table. “Maybe it’s not so strange. Maybe it’s just the world reminding us there’s more to life than waiting out the rain.”

Harry looked at her for a moment, her words hanging in the air between them, their meaning sinking deeper than the lighthearted tone in which they were said. There was something about her that pulled him in, something beyond the casual conversations they’d had over coffee. She spoke with a quiet wisdom, as if she saw the world in a way that others missed, catching the subtleties in moments that most people let slip by.

“I like that,” he said softly. “I like the idea that there’s more.”

Their coffees arrived, interrupting the moment, and for a while, they settled into an easy rhythm—sipping, talking, the light stretching across the table as the day moved forward. The conversation flowed easily, as it always did, but today it felt lighter, less burdened by the weight of grey skies and rain-soaked streets. They laughed more, their words lifting with the warmth of the sun, as if the change in weather had loosened something in both of them.

“Do you ever wonder what would have happened if you hadn’t come back for your jacket?” YN asked suddenly, her tone playful but with a hint of genuine curiosity. “If you’d just walked away that day?”

He smiled, the memory of their first encounter flickering in his mind. “I’d probably still be wandering around, writing terrible songs and cursing the rain.”

She laughed, the sound bright and full, and Harry couldn’t help but join in, the warmth of it filling the space between them. But as their laughter faded, he looked at her more seriously, his gaze soft but steady.

“I’m glad I came back,” he said quietly, his voice low. “It feels like everything’s been a little brighter since then.”

YN met his eyes, her own expression softening, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Yeah,” she murmured, her voice just as quiet. “It has, hasn’t it?”

Outside, the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the streets, but inside the café, the golden light lingered, wrapping around them like something tangible. There was a new kind of warmth between them now, one that wasn’t just about the weather.

It felt like the beginning of something more, something that had been waiting for the sun to finally come out.

As the day slowly gave way to evening, neither of them moved, content to stay in this moment a little longer, their hands resting on the table, close but not quite touching, as if they were waiting for the right time to close the distance.

And for the first time in weeks, Harry wasn’t in a hurry to leave. The clink of cups and low murmur of conversations filled the café, but in this corner, it felt as though the world had slowed just for them.

Then, the bell above the door jingled, followed by a burst of energy as a group of teenage girls entered the café, their school uniforms slightly rumpled after a long day of lessons. Their chatter filled the air—laughter, the soft rustle of notebooks, and the sound of footsteps shuffling toward the counter. They looked like they were regulars here, perhaps stopping by for a post-school treat, the brightness of their presence contrasting with the calm, almost serene mood of the café.

At first, he barely noticed them, his attention still on YN. But then, one of the girls, no more than sixteen, froze in place, her eyes wide as they landed on him. Her breath caught in her throat, and she nudged her friend beside her, whispering hurriedly, “It’s him! Oh my gosh, it’s really him!”

The group turned in unison, their excited whispers rising in pitch. Their eyes were fixed on Harry, who hadn’t fully noticed yet, too absorbed in his conversation with YN. But the girls didn’t move—just stood there, staring with a mix of awe and disbelief, as though they had stumbled upon something out of a dream.

Suddenly, one of them gathered the courage to step forward. She clutched a worn notebook in her hands, her voice trembling slightly with excitement as she approached the booth. “Excuse me are you–are you Harry Styles?”

He looked up, momentarily taken aback by the intensity of the gaze directed at him. The girls stood there, wide-eyed and hopeful, as if the entire café had shifted its attention to this one moment.

Harry blinked, a slow smile forming on his lips as he leaned back in his seat. He wasn’t quite used to this, especially not in a quiet place like this, but he understood the spark in their eyes. It reminded him of how he used to feel, discovering his favorite musicians, before he became part of the scene himself.

“Yeah.” he smiled, his voice friendly but low, as though he didn’t want to disturb the delicate atmosphere of the café. “In the flesh.”

The girls exchanged glances, their excitement bubbling up as they realized they weren’t imagining it. “We saw you perform last month!” one of them blurted, her voice breathless. “At the Odeon. You were incredible! Could we–could we maybe have your autograph?”

Harry chuckled softly as he reached for the notebook she held out. “Of course.” He insisted, taking the pen she offered with shaking hands. He glanced briefly at YN, who was watching the scene with an amused smile, clearly enjoying the shift in energy.

As he scribbled his name, the girls hovered around him, chattering about the performance, about how they had saved up their money to buy tickets, and how they’d never forget the way he played that one song with such emotion. Harry smiled at their enthusiasm, handing the notebook back and signing a second for one of the others, his pen gliding smoothly across the paper.

“I can’t believe it,” one of the girls whispered to her friend, clutching her signed notebook to her chest as though it were the most valuable thing in the world. “We’ve never seen anyone famous in real life before.”

“Thank you so much!” the first girl exclaimed, beaming as she tucked her notebook into her school bag. “We’ll remember this forever.”

Harry nodded, his smile warm but humble as his cheeks heated to a faint pink.

The girls, still buzzing with excitement, waved one last time before heading to the counter to order their drinks. They glanced back at him occasionally, whispering excitedly to each other, but they gave him space, respecting the fact that he had returned to his conversation with YN.

As the café settled back into its familiar rhythm, Harry leaned back in his seat, exhaling softly as he watched the girls from the corner of his eye. YN, who had been quietly observing, raised an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

“Looks like someone’s popular,” she teased gently, her eyes glinting with amusement.

Harry laughed, shaking his head. “Not sure if I’ll ever get used to that.” he sighed lightly, running a hand through his tousled hair. “They seem to think I’m a bigger deal than I really am.”

YN tilted her head, her smile softening. “Maybe you’re more of a big deal than you think,” she said, her voice light but sincere. “It’s not every day people chase you down for an autograph.”

Harry chuckled again, though there was a faint flush of embarrassment creeping into his cheeks. “I suppose. Still feels strange, though.”

There was a pause, and YN glanced out the window, her fingers tapping gently against her cup. “I guess I’m lucky, then,” she said with a small smile. “I didn’t even know who you were when we met.”

He looked at her, surprised by the statement. “You really didn’t?”

She shook her head, her expression still playful but honest. “Nope. Just a guy who almost left his jacket behind.”

Harry laughed, the sound filling the quiet space between them. “Well, that’s a first.”

The warmth between them returned, unspoken but tangible, as if the moment with the girls had only brought them closer. The light outside had shifted, growing richer, casting long shadows across the street, but inside, everything felt brighter, more alive. There was something about the way YN looked at him—like she saw him, not the person the girls had seen, not the performer on stage, but the version of him that sat here, in this quiet café, sipping coffee and talking about everything and nothing.

Harry leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table, his eyes steady on hers. “I like that,” he said softly. “I like that you didn’t know.”

She smiled, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup again, and in that moment, everything outside—the chatter of the girls, the fading light, the hum of the city—faded away, leaving just the two of them, suspended in the warmth of the day, in the quiet unfolding of something new.

“I think I like it too,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper, but her words carried more weight than anything else that had passed between them.

And in the golden light of a rare, sunny afternoon, it felt like they had found something more than just a shared cup of coffee. Something that stretched beyond the fame, beyond the rain, beyond the quiet streets of London.

Something real.

By mid-JULY, London had shed its usual cloak of mist and drizzle, now bathed in the soft warmth of summer. The air was thick with the scent of blooming flowers, and the city hummed with a new kind of energy—the kind that only came when the long days stretched lazily into balmy evenings. The streets sparkled under the glow of late sunsets, and the Thames shimmered like liquid gold in the fading light.

For the past few months, Harry and YN had settled into a rhythm that felt effortless. Coffee at Scotty’s, long walks through the city, moments of quiet laughter shared in the sunlit corners of bookshops and parks. Their lives had intertwined slowly, naturally, like vines creeping toward one another, until the space between them felt impossibly small.

Now, as she sat in the front row of the packed concert hall Harry dragged her to, YN realized just how little she’d truly known about Harry Styles. He had mentioned his music, his gigs, but this—this was something else entirely.

The crowd buzzed with anticipation, the air electric with excitement. Fans lined the rows behind her, their voices a cacophony of eager murmurs and cheers. She could feel the heat of their collective energy as they waited, ready for the show to begin. The stage lights dimmed, and the crowd erupted into a wave of deafening applause and screams. YN’s heart raced, her hands gripping the edge of her seat as she watched the lights swirl and shift across the stage.

Then, out of the shadows, Harry emerged.

The crowd roared with an intensity that startled her, the air vibrating with their cheers as he walked to the microphone, his leather jacket gleaming under the lights, his presence commanding the room with an effortless ease. There he was—the same man who drank coffee with her in a quiet café, the same man who once nervously scribbled lyrics into a notebook. But here, on this stage, he was something more. Something bigger.

Harry grinned as he strummed the opening chords to Sunflower, the crowd immediately swaying to the familiar tune. His voice, rich and soulful, filled the room, and YN felt herself drawn into it, the lyrics washing over her, weaving through the crowd like a thread connecting him to every single person in the room. The way he performed, with such raw emotion and vulnerability, it was like he was telling the story of his life, not just singing a song.

YN watched, mesmerized, as Harry transitioned seamlessly into other songs. The energy of the crowd grew wild, and the music throbbed through the hall, each note setting the room ablaze. The girls behind her screamed his name, their voices blending into a chorus of adoration, and for the first time, YN fully understood what he had meant when he said he wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to it.

She had seen glimpses of this world—the autograph requests, the fans who recognized him even in a quiet café—but this was different. This was Harry in his element, where his talent became something bigger than himself, something that drew people in, made them feel seen, heard, understood.

By the time he reached Little Black Dress the crowd was on its feet, dancing, singing along at the top of their lungs. Harry owned the stage, moving with a confidence that radiated off him, his eyes occasionally scanning the crowd until, for the briefest moment, they landed on her. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and even with the chaos of the crowd around them, it felt like a private exchange, a secret shared in the middle of the noise.

When the final chords echoed through the hall, the applause was thunderous. YN stood with the rest of the crowd, her hands aching from clapping, her heart pounding in her chest as Harry took his bow, soaking in the cheers, his grin wide and unrestrained. The lights faded, and the crowd began to disperse, but YN stayed rooted in place, her eyes still on the stage, as if trying to capture the last flicker of magic before it disappeared.

Soon after, a staff member approached her, politely guiding her toward the backstage area. She followed, her footsteps light with anticipation, weaving through the narrow corridors of the venue until she reached a door with a small gold plaque that read Dressing Room.

She knocked lightly, and within seconds, the door swung open. There he was, leaning against the frame, still catching his breath from the show, his hair damp from sweat, his eyes shining. His leather jacket had been discarded, leaving him in a simple white shirt that clung to his skin.

“Hey!” Harry greeted, his voice a little hoarse from singing, but his smile bright and warm.

“Hey yourself.” She echoed with a smile, stepping inside. “That was incredible, H. I mean, I knew you were talented, but seeing you like that—on stage, in front of all those people—it’s something else.”

Harry shrugged, a little bashful now that the spotlight was no longer on him. “S’just a show.” He mumbled sheepishly, though the way his eyes flickered told her he was still riding the high of the performance.

“No,” she said softly, her voice firm but kind. “It’s more than that. I’ve never seen anything like it. The way the crowd reacted to you, the way you moved them—it was electric.” She stepped closer, her eyes locking onto his, filled with a quiet admiration. “You have real talent, Harry. The kind that’s rare. I’m so proud of you.”

Harry’s breath caught in his throat at her words. He had heard praise before—countless times, from strangers, fans, even critics—but coming from her, it felt different. It felt real.

For a moment, he didn’t know what to say, and the silence hung between them, charged with the unspoken emotions they had carefully danced around for months. He looked at her, standing there in front of him, the glow from the stage lights still lingering on her face, and something inside him shifted. It was as if every conversation, every shared look, every coffee at Scotty’s had been leading to this moment.

“I need to tell you something.” He murmured with a hesitant nod, his voice suddenly lower, more serious. He stepped closer, closing the small distance between them, his eyes never leaving hers. “These past few months—getting t’know you..I didn’t expect this. I didn’t expect to feel this way.”

Her breath hitched as he reached out, his fingers brushing gently against her hand.

“But I do,” he continued, his voice soft but filled with conviction. “I like you, YN. More than just a friend. More than just someone I grab coffee with. You’ve been the one thing I can count on t’feel real, when everything else is crazy. I didn’t want to admit it to myself for a while, but now—” He paused, his hand slipping into hers. “I can’t keep it t’myself anymore.”

For a moment, YN just stood there, her heart racing, her hand warm in his. She had felt it too—the pull, the connection—but hearing it from him, standing there in the aftermath of his performance, made it all the more real. Slowly, she smiled, her fingers tightening around his.

“I’m glad you said something,” she whispered, stepping closer, her other hand brushing lightly against his chest. “Cause I thought I was crazy for thinking the same.”

Harry’s eyes lit up, and in that instant, the world outside the dressing room faded away. The noise of the crowd, the lingering adrenaline from the show, all disappeared, leaving just the two of them in the soft glow of backstage lights.

He smiled, his thumb gently tracing the back of her hand. “So what now?” he asked, his voice low, a playful hint in his tone.

“Now,” she said, smiling up at him, her voice full of warmth and certainty, “We just be.”

And with that, he leaned in, his lips brushing hers in a kiss that felt like the answer to every question they had left unspoken, every moment they had shared in silence. It was soft, slow, and filled with the promise of something new, something neither of them could ignore any longer.

When they finally pulled back, Harry rested his forehead against hers, his breath still a little uneven, his smile wide and unrestrained.

“Best show I’ve ever played,” he whispered, and YN laughed, her heart light and full as they stood there, together, the future unfolding around them like the soft warmth of a summer night.

After a month of bliss, the late AUGUST sun streamed through the open kitchen window of Harry’s flat, casting a golden light over the space. A soft breeze drifted in, carrying with it the sounds of the bustling streets below, a gentle hum that filled the quiet moments between their words. The fire escape, just outside, rattled slightly in the breeze, its iron bars warm from the afternoon sun. It was a peaceful, lazy kind of day, the kind where the world outside moved in fast forward while everything inside seemed to slow down to a comfortable stillness.

YN sat across from Harry at the small kitchen table, her legs tucked under her on the worn wooden chair, her skin still glowing from the warmth of the afternoon. She was only wearing a pair of dainty white socks, her frame barely visible underneath the oversized pink button-up of Harry’s that hung loosely off her shoulder, the fabric draping over her like a second skin. Her hair was tousled, soft from a morning spent doing nothing but being with him, and she looked effortlessly beautiful. The shirt, far too large for her, hung in a way that felt intimate, as though it had become an extension of him on her.

She cradled a cup of tea between her hands, sharing it with Harry. Every now and then, they’d exchange the cup, their fingers brushing as they passed it back and forth, a quiet exchange of warmth that mirrored the easy comfort between them. The tea was a little cool now, forgotten between soft smiles and absentminded touches.

Harry sat opposite her, his acoustic guitar resting across his lap, his fingers lazily strumming a melody that filled the air like a soft hum. He was dressed in nothing but plaid boxers and socks, his usual nonchalance apparent, his bare chest catching the light as he leaned back in his chair, his eyes focused more on her than on the guitar.

The melody shifted, a fun, intimate tune that YN hadn’t heard before. She looked up at him, her brows raised slightly in curiosity.

“What’s that?��� She giggled, her voice dipped in honey, though, almost hesitant, as if she was interrupting a secret.

Harry’s lips curled into a slow smile, his fingers still moving gently over the strings. “Cinema.” He said gently, his voice quiet, as if the song were something fragile, still forming. “S’about you.”

Her heart skipped a beat at his words, her fingers tightening slightly around the teacup as she watched him, her eyes wide and full of something unspoken. The song was simple, delicate, but each note felt like it was laced with the weight of everything they’d shared, every laugh, every touch, every quiet moment between them.

He began to sing softly, his voice smooth and low, the lyrics winding around her like a slow embrace. The song told of the way he saw her, how helplessly he was beginning to fall for her, each moment between them something worth watching, worth cherishing. He sang about the little things—the way everything about her felt like a never ending climax, way she made the ordinary feel like something more.

YN listened, captivated by the sound of his voice, by the intimacy of the words. She hadn’t known how much of him had been poured into this song, hadn’t realized how deeply he felt until now. As he finished the last note, she set the teacup down, her chest tight with emotion.

“I dig you, too.” She grinned, her voice thick with admiration and something deeper. She reached out, her fingers brushing his wrist gently. “I don’t know what else to say.”

Harry smiled, his eyes soft as he set the guitar aside, leaning forward slightly. “You don’t have t’say anything.”

And then, without thinking, without hesitation, she leaned across the small table and kissed him.

The kiss was soft at first, a gentle press of lips that spoke of the quiet affection they had shared for months. But then, as Harry’s hand moved to the back of her neck, pulling her closer, it deepened, a slow burn that spread through her like the warmth of the sun streaming in through the window. Her fingers tangled in his curls as she pulled him closer, as much as she could with the guitar between them, her body leaning forward, chest pressed into his, their breaths mingling in the stillness of the kitchen.

For a moment, nothing else existed. The sounds from the street outside faded away, the distant hum of the city disappearing as the world shrank down to just the two of them—her lips on his, his hands on her skin, the heat between them palpable.

But after a few heartbeats, they pulled away, their foreheads resting against one another, their breaths coming in soft, uneven pants. YN smiled against his lips, her hand still resting lightly on his chest.

“Play something else,” she whispered, her voice playful, her eyes bright with mischief. “Something I can dance to.”

Harry chuckled, leaning back in his chair, a hint of amusement in his eyes as he reached for the guitar again. “Dance, huh? Alright, let’s see what I can do.”

He adjusted the guitar on his lap, his fingers finding the familiar chords as he began to play Heart Attack, a song that always sent his audience wild but now, in the quiet intimacy of his flat, felt like a private performance just for her. The upbeat rhythm filled the kitchen, light and infectious, and YN grinned as she stood up, the oversized shirt hanging loosely around her, the hem brushing against her bare thighs as she moved.

She danced in the kitchen, her feet barely making a sound as they moved across the floor, her arms raised as she twirled, laughing softly as she spun in circles. There was something carefree about the way she moved, something so full of joy that it made Harry’s heart ache in the best possible way. Her hair flew behind her, catching the light, and the oversized shirt swayed with each movement, slipping further off her shoulder as she lost herself in the moment.

Harry kept playing, his eyes never leaving her as she danced. The song flowed through the room, but all he could focus on was her—the way she moved so freely, so unselfconsciously, the way she smiled at him, the way her laughter filled the space between the notes. There was something about seeing her like this, in his flat, in his shirt, dancing to his music, that made his chest tighten with a feeling he couldn’t quite put into words.

He watched her, his fingers still moving over the cords, but his mind was somewhere else entirely. He was starting to realize just how much she meant to him, how much she had become a part of his life, a part of him. She wasn’t just someone he shared coffee with, or someone who listened to his songs—she was his person, the one who made everything feel more real, more grounded.

As he played, the realization settled over him quietly, like the gentle August breeze drifting through the open window. He was falling for her. Slowly, steadily, in the way you fall for someone without even realizing it’s happening until you’re already halfway in.

But he didn’t say anything. Not yet. He just watched her, the sound of the guitar filling the air as she danced and laughed, the summer sun spilling golden light into the room around them, framing her in a moment he knew he’d carry with him long after the music stopped.

SEPTEMBER had arrived quietly, bringing with it a softness that only early autumn could offer. The leaves were just beginning to turn at the edges, their once-vibrant green now kissed with the faintest hint of gold, and the air had cooled ever so slightly, carrying the last whispers of summer on its breeze. The sun, dipping lower in the sky with each passing day, stretched long shadows across the park, casting everything in a warm, golden light that seemed to linger just for them.

Harry sat on the edge of the picnic blanket, his legs stretched out, his half-buttoned Hawaiian shirt loose against his chest, a playful pattern of palm trees and flamingos catching the light. His thin beige slacks clung to his thighs as he shifted slightly, leaning back on his hands to watch YN beside him. She was cross-legged, her cream-colored Mary Janes neatly tucked under her, the soft cotton of her dainty dress fluttering in the breeze. The dress, pale and delicate, fit her perfectly, the hem swaying just above her knees, while white socks peeked out from beneath her shoes. Harry couldn’t help but stare at her beauty.

The two of them had settled into this quiet evening by the lake, the park around them empty, save for the sound of distant birds and the occasional rustle of leaves in the trees. A spread of meats and cheeses lay scattered across the blanket between them, along with half a bottle of wine and two glasses—one tipped precariously between YN’s fingers as she took a slow sip.

“Could stay like this forever.” She hummed, her voice soft, almost dreamy, as she set her glass down and glanced out at the shimmering water, the fading sun casting a golden path across its surface.

Harry smiled, his gaze fixed on her rather than the view, the way her hair moved softly with the breeze, the glow of the setting sun painting her in amber light. “Yeah,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with something deeper. “I wouldn’t mind that.”

They had spent the last few hours like this—laughing, teasing, sharing kisses between bites of cheese and sips of wine. The conversation had flowed effortlessly, as it always did, weaving between light-hearted banter and quieter, more intimate moments, the kind where words weren’t always necessary. There was something so easy about being with her, something that made him feel like they were the only two people in the world.

She reached for a piece of cheese, popping it into her mouth as she met his eyes, her lips quirking into a playful smile. “You’ve been staring, Styles.” she teased, her voice light as she wiped her fingers on a napkin. “Am I that interesting, or are you just distracted?”

He grinned, shrugging slightly, but his gaze never wavered. “Maybe a bit of both.” He chuckled, his tone casual, though there was an undertone of honesty there. He couldn’t help it—every time he looked at her, he felt that familiar warmth bloom in his chest, the kind that had been growing steadily for months now, slowly but surely.

“Careful,” YN said with a mischievous smile, leaning in closer, her voice dropping into a whisper. “You’ll give me a big head.”

He laughed, the sound low and easy, before reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “Too late for that, I think.”

She swatted his hand playfully but leaned into his touch, her eyes softening as their playful exchange gave way to something quieter. For a moment, they just looked at each other, the laughter fading into a comfortable silence, the weight of the day settling over them like the blanket beneath their feet.

As the sun began to dip lower, casting the sky in hues of pink and lavender, YN shifted closer, resting her head against his shoulder. Harry tilted his head, pressing a soft kiss to her hair, his arm slipping around her waist to pull her in.

“I don’t know how you do it.” She murmured, her voice quiet, almost to herself.

“Do what?” he hummed, turning his head slightly to catch her eye.

She smiled softly, her fingers tracing lazily over the tattoos on his chest where his shirt hung open. “Make everything feel so easy. Like we’ve been doing this forever.”

Harry’s heart swelled at her words, a warmth spreading through him that had nothing to do with the wine or the fading summer heat. He didn’t respond right away, instead pulling her a little closer, his thumb brushing absentmindedly against her side as they sat together, the world quieting around them.

After a few moments, YN pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him, her eyes glowing with the light of the sunset. “What?” she asked, her brow lifting in curiosity as she caught the look on his face.

He hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest, the words suddenly heavy on his tongue. He’d been holding them back for weeks now, unsure of the right moment, unsure if she felt the same way. But sitting here, with her head on his shoulder, her laughter still lingering in the air around them, he realized there would never be a perfect moment. There was just this—the two of them, in a park, at sunset, with nothing but the quiet certainty of how much he cared for her.

He exhaled slowly, his hand slipping from her side to rest against her cheek, his thumb brushing gently over her skin. “I love you.” He admitted, his voice soft but steady, the words tumbling out in a quiet confession. “I’ve been wanting to say it for a while now, but I wasn’t sure when the right time was. But I do, YN. I love you.”

For a moment, YN just blinked, her eyes wide with surprise as the words sank in. But then, her face softened, a smile spreading slowly across her lips as her hand reached up to cover his, her touch warm against his skin.

“You love me?” she asked, her voice quiet, almost incredulous, as if she hadn’t expected it, but now that the words were there, she couldn’t imagine it any other way.

Harry nodded, his lips curving into a soft smile. “Yeah, I do.”

A laugh bubbled up from her throat, light and full of joy as she leaned in, pressing a kiss to his lips, soft and lingering. When she pulled back, her eyes were shining, her smile wide and unrestrained.

“I love you too.” She whispered, her voice full of warmth and certainty. “I think I have for a while.”

Harry’s heart swelled, and before he could say anything else, YN kissed him again, deeper this time, her fingers curling into his shirt as she pulled him closer. The world around them seemed to fade, the sunset casting them in a warm, golden light as they sat together, wrapped up in each other, the rest of the world falling away.

When they finally pulled apart, both of them breathless, YN smiled up at him, her hand still resting against his cheek. “You know,” she said, her voice teasing, “for someone who says things like that, you’re surprisingly cute about it.”

Harry laughed, his forehead resting against hers as his hands slipped around her waist, pulling her close. “I can’t help it,” he murmured, his voice low and playful. “Y’bring out the soft side in me.”

She grinned, her eyes sparkling as she leaned in to kiss him again, her lips brushing against his in a way that felt both familiar and brand new.

The sun had dipped beneath the horizon by the time Harry and YN began their walk back to his flat, the warm glow of twilight lingering in the air. Harry's fingers intertwined with hers as they strolled along the quiet streets, the last traces of their picnic still hanging in the air between them—the taste of wine on their lips, the feel of her laughter vibrating against his chest. He glanced over at her, catching the way the light from the streetlamps played across her face, softening her features into something that looked like a dream.

She smiled when she caught him looking, her thumb brushing lightly over the back of his hand. "Thank you for this evening.” Her voice was barely above a whisper as they walked. "I didn't want it to end."

Harry's grip on her hand tightened, his heart swelling at her words. He didn't want it to end either. There was something about this night, something about the way it felt so easy, so right. He hadn't felt this connected to someone in a long time, maybe ever.

"Doesn’t have to.” He murmured, his voice low, leaning in to press a soft kiss to her temple as they approached the front door of his flat.

They climbed the narrow stairs to his building, the warmth of their evening lingering between them.

By the time they reached the door to his flat, Harry's heart was racing-not from the climb, but from the anticipation that seemed to have woven itself into the quiet moments between them.

As soon as they stepped inside, they toed off their shoes—the familiar scent of his home washing over them—the faint musk of old books, wood, and the lingering trace of his cologne.

The kitchen light flickered on as Harry dropped the picnic basket onto the counter, the empty wine glasses clinking softly against each other. But neither of them was thinking about the picnic anymore.

YN turned toward him, her lips parted, her gaze soft but filled with something that simmered just beneath the surface. She stepped closer, her hand brushing against his as she placed the folded blanket down on the table, her fingers lingering over his skin. He met her gaze, the electricity between them sparking back to life, more intense now that they were alone, without the open sky and distant voices of the park around them.

Before either of them could say anything, Harry's hands were on her waist, pulling her close. His lips found hers in a heated kiss, soft at first, but quickly deepening as the warmth between them flared into something more urgent. YN responded immediately, her arms wrapping around his neck, her fingers tangling into his hair as she pulled him closer, her body pressing into his.

They stumbled back toward the living room, their movements clumsy with desire, knocking into furniture as they kissed—his hands gripping her hips, hers tugging at the collar of his shirt, the fabric hanging loosely on his chest, still unbuttoned from earlier, and YN's fingers found their way to his bare skin, her touch sending shivers down his spine.

They collapsed onto the couch, lips still fused together, the heat between them building with every touch, every breath. YN straddled his lap, her dress hitched up around her thighs as she leaned into him, her lips trailing kisses along his jawline, down his neck, making him groan softly against her skin. Harry's hands slid up her back, pulling her closer, lost in the moment, lost in her. His cock hardened underneath his slacks, YN feeling it against the growing heat of her core.

But just as his lips brushed against her collarbone, the sudden, shrill ring of the rotary phone in the hallway shattered the stillness, cutting through the heat of their embrace like a sharp blade.

Harry froze, his breath ragged, his lips still pressed against her skin. The phone rang again, the sound insistent, pulling them both from the haze they'd fallen into. YN let out a breathless laugh, her forehead resting against his as she pulled back slightly, her hands still tangled in his hair. "Are you going to get that?" she asked, her voice teasing but breathless, her eyes dark with the same desire that was coursing through him.

The brunette groaned, his hand reluctantly slipping from her waist as he rested his head back against the couch. "I don't want to.” He muttered, the frustration evident in his voice.

The phone rang again, louder this time, and Harry sighed, pulling away from her with a reluctant smile. "M’sorry, baby.” He sighed, his hands brushing against hers as he slid out from beneath her and stood, running a hand through his hair to steady himself.

YN sat back on the couch, her lips still swollen from their kiss, her breath coming in soft, uneven gasps. She watched him walk into the hallway, his bare chest glistening faintly in the low light, the fabric of his loose slacks swaying with each step.

Harry grabbed the phone from the wall, pressing the receiver to his ear with a hasty "Hello?"

"Harry, mate!" came the familiar voice of Jeff, his manager. "I've been trying to reach you for hours."

He frowned, his eyes flicking toward YN, who was still sitting on the couch, looking at him with a mixture of amusement and anticipation. "What's up, Jeff?" he asked, doing his best to sound casual, though his mind was still very much on YN and the way he wanted to bury himself inside her the way he did this morning.

"You're going to want to sit down for this one.” Jeff said, his tone brimming with excitement. “We've just locked in your first U.S. tour."

Harry's breath caught in his throat, his grip on the phone tightening. "What?"

"Yep, we've got you lined up for a string of shows across the States-New York, Chicago, L.A., the whole works. It's going to be massive, Haz. A real game-changer for your career."

For a moment, he stood there, his heart pounding in his chest, trying to process what Jeff was saying. This was huge-bigger than anything he'd done before. His first U.S. tour. The realization hit him all at once, a rush of excitement flooding through him. "Holy shit.” He laughed, “that's amazing, Jeff.” He shook his head, voice thick with disbelief. "I can't believe it."

"Believe it!”Jeff replied, laughing. "This is it.”

You're about to hit the big time. We'll get into all the details tomorrow, but I had to let you know."

Harry nodded, still in a bit of a daze. "Thanks for telling me."

After a few more words, Harry hung up the phone, his mind racing. He stood in the hallway for a moment, the reality of the tour sinking in. This was what he had always dreamed of—the chance to take his music across the world, to reach new audiences, to grow.

But as he turned back to look at YN, sitting there on the couch, her smile soft and expectant, he felt a different kind of weight settle in his chest. He walked back into the living room, sliding onto the couch beside her, his eyes still wide with disbelief.

"Everything okay?" YN asked, her hand slipping into his, her thumb brushing softly over his knuckles.

He nodded, a slow smile spreading across his face. "M’going on tour.” He said softly, the words still feeling surreal. "In the States. My first one."

YN's eyes widened, her face lighting up with excitement as she squeezed his hand. "H, that's incredible!" she exclaimed, leaning forward to press a kiss to his cheek. "I'm so so proud of you, lovey.”

Harry smiled, the warmth of her words settling into his chest. "It's a big deal," he said quietly, his hand tightening around hers. "But it means I'll be away f’a while."

He watched her face carefully, searching for any flicker of disappointment, but instead, YN smiled, her eyes soft as she leaned in, her forehead resting against his. "I know," she said softly. "But l'm not going anywhere. This is your dream. I want you to go and chase it."

Harry's heart swelled, and for a moment, he could only look at her, overwhelmed by the quiet support in her words. He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her lips, his hand cupping her cheek. "I love you.” He whispered against her mouth, the words tumbling out without hesitation this time, filled with all the certainty he'd ever felt.

She pressed a kiss into his lips, smiling against them. “I love you.”

Harry lingered his lips against hers for a while before he stood, the weight of the news still buzzing between them like electricity. His smile was wide, unable to contain the excitement of it all. With a quick glance toward the window, where the last traces of twilight hung in the sky, he crossed the room to the small transistor radio on the windowsill, his fingers turning the dial until a soft crackle of music filled the air.

A warm, upbeat tune drifted through the living room, the melody slow and sweet, with just the right amount of rhythm to sway to. The soft hum of the radio blended perfectly with the evening breeze sneaking through the open window, carrying the cool, fresh air into the flat.

He turned back to YN, his eyes twinkling under the dim light of the living room lamps. She was still sitting on the couch, her expression a mixture of excitement and affection, her legs tucked underneath her. The warm glow of the lamp caught the soft fabric of her dress, her skin glowing in the fading light.

“Dance with me.” Harry grinned, holding out a hand, his voice full of that playful warmth she had come to love. It wasn’t a question but an invitation—one she couldn’t possibly turn down.

She smiled, rising to her feet with a light laugh, taking his outstretched hand. He pulled her close, his arms wrapping around her waist as hers settled on his shoulders. The music filled the space between them, the gentle swaying of their bodies perfectly in time with the rhythm.

They moved together effortlessly, Harry’s forehead resting against hers as he led them in a slow circle around the room. The soft fabric of her dress brushed against his thin slacks, the warmth of her body pressed to his, making the moment feel intimate and timeless. Neither of them spoke at first, content to just be in the silence, to let the music carry them as they spun in small, lazy circles on the living room floor.

But soon, Harry couldn’t contain his excitement anymore. He leaned back slightly, grinning down at her, his eyes shining. “Can you believe it?” he murmured, his voice filled with disbelief and joy. “My first tour in America. New York, L.A.—all of it. I never thought..”

He trailed off, shaking his head slightly, as if still trying to wrap his mind around the idea.

“I can believe it.” She smiled, her voice soft but filled with pride. “You deserve this, baby. You’ve worked so hard. You’re going to be incredible.”

Her words made his heart swell, and he leaned down to kiss her, slow and sweet, savoring the taste of her lips. When they pulled back, their foreheads resting together again, he whispered, “It won’t feel real until I’m on that stage. But knowing you’ll be here waiting for me..that makes it better.”

YN smiled, her fingers brushing softly through the curls at the nape of his neck. “I’ll always be here.”

They danced for a few more minutes, their movements light and easy, occasionally interrupted by shared giggles when Harry twirled her unexpectedly or when they stumbled slightly in their steps, only to fall back into each other’s arms with soft laughter.

As the song began to fade, they slowed, their feet barely moving now, the intimacy of the moment wrapping around them like a cocoon. Harry’s hands slid up from her waist, cradling her face as he looked down at her, his expression serious but soft.

“Can I say something?”He asked, his voice quiet but steady as he watched her expectantly. She nodded, allowing his lips to part. “When I go to America—on tour—I want you t’stay here. At my flat. You know, while m’gone.”

YN blinked, caught off guard by the sudden seriousness in his tone. “Stay here?” she repeated, her brow furrowing slightly.

Harry nodded, his thumbs gently brushing over her cheeks as he held her face in his hands. “Yeah. I mean, y’already spend so much time here, and I like the idea of you being here when I get back. This place already feels more like home when you’re around. I don’t want it t’feel empty when m’gone.”

YN felt a warmth bloom in her chest at his words, her heart swelling with emotion. The thought of staying here, in his space, while he was away—it felt like more than just a casual offer. It felt like a promise. Like he was offering her a part of his life, a piece of him to hold onto while he was gone.

Besides, she still lived with her mother’s small guesthouse in the backyard. It was more private than the house she grew up in, much cheaper than the flats for rent in the city, but it was still her mother’s nevertheless.

“Are you sure?” she asked softly, her voice filled with uncertainty but also hope. “I don’t want to impose..”

“You’re not imposing,” Harry said firmly, his eyes steady on hers. “I want y’here. I’ll feel better knowing you’re in my flat, with my things, waiting for me to come back.”

YN’s lips curved into a soft smile, her hands resting on his chest as she nodded. “Okay,” she whispered, her voice full of warmth. “I’ll stay.”

Harry’s face lit up, and before she could say anything more, he kissed her again, deep and full of gratitude and love, his hands holding her close as if he never wanted to let her go. When they pulled back, both of them breathless, their eyes met, and in that moment, everything felt right.

They didn’t need to say anything more. The promise had been made, quiet and sure, between kisses and slow dances and soft words spoken in the fading light of the evening.

As the music on the radio continued to play softly in the background, they held each other close, swaying gently in the middle of the living room, knowing that no matter where Harry’s career took him—across oceans, to new stages, to new cities—this was home. Here, in this moment, with her. And it always would be.

*

The morning Harry left for his two-month tour in the United States felt both far away and painfully close, like something they’d been anticipating for weeks but weren’t quite ready to face. The flat was full of quiet anticipation as YN helped him pack, their movements unhurried, though the weight of the impending goodbye hung in the air like the last lingering warmth of summer.

Harry stood in front of his open suitcase, a floral shirt half-folded in his hands, staring down at the items already packed but not quite seeing them. YN sat on the edge of the bed, methodically folding a few more of his clothes, her fingers moving over the soft fabric with care. Neither of them spoke much, but every so often their eyes would meet, a small smile exchanged between them, both pretending it was just another ordinary day.

As Harry zipped up his suitcase, he turned to her, his expression soft but serious. “Y’sure you’ll be alright staying here? I mean, for the whole two months?”

She smiled, standing up to meet him, her arms looping around his waist as she pressed herself close to him. “I’ll be fine,” she whispered, her voice soft but steady. “Besides, it’s your flat. It already feels like home.”

He sighed, his hand slipping up to cup her cheek as he leaned down to kiss her, slow and tender, savoring the taste of her lips. “M’going to miss you.” He murmured against her mouth, his forehead resting against hers.

“I’ll miss you too.” She whispered back, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “But you’re going to be amazing, love. This is your dream.”

He nodded, though there was a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. They stood there for a moment, wrapped up in each other, the stillness of the flat pressing in around them.

When they arrived at the airport later that day, the weight of their goodbye became real. The terminal was buzzing with travelers, suitcases rolling over the tile floors, the constant hum of announcements echoing over the loudspeakers. Harry’s manager and a few of his crew stood off to the side, chatting quietly, but Harry stayed close to YN, his hand never leaving hers.

They found a quiet corner, away from the noise, and just stood there for a moment, looking at each other. The departure gate loomed nearby, a silent reminder of how close the moment had come.

“Call me as soon as you land.” YN nodded, her voice steady though her grip on his hand tightened slightly. “I want to know you’ve arrived safe.”

He smiled, leaning down to kiss her once more, his lips lingering on hers as if he could carry the memory of her with him. “I will.” He promised, his hand brushing her cheek. “And I’ll write. Every chance I get.”

She nodded again, swallowing back the lump in her throat. “I’ll be waiting.”

When the final boarding call echoed through the terminal, they kissed one last time, slow and full of unspoken promises, before Harry reluctantly pulled away. He squeezed her hand as he took a step back, his eyes never leaving hers.

“I love you.” He told her, his voice soft but sure, his eyes full of everything he couldn’t say in that moment.

“I love you, H.” She grinned, her heart aching as she watched him walk toward the gate, his figure disappearing into the crowd.

The next two months unfolded in a strange blur of time. YN settled into Harry’s flat, her things mingling with his, their shared space becoming even more of a home as the days passed. She left little traces of herself everywhere—the way she neatly folded her clothes next to his in the wardrobe, the half-finished book on his bedside table, the scent of her perfume lingering in the air. It was comforting, knowing she was surrounded by him even when he was an ocean away.

They kept in touch constantly. Every night, YN would sit by the rotary phone in the hallway, eagerly waiting for the sound of the ring that meant he was calling. The calls were frequent—sometimes brief, just to say hello, and sometimes long and winding, stretching late into the night as they talked about everything and nothing. She loved hearing his voice, even crackling through the static, as he told her about the tour—the shows, the fans, the whirlwind of new cities and stages. But more than that, she loved how he missed her, how he’d pause sometimes, in the middle of a sentence, just to say, I wish you were here.

Letters came too, scrawled in his messy handwriting, full of little stories about life on the road, about the places he visited, the things he saw, the moments that made him think of her. YN would read them late at night, curled up in his bed, her heart aching with longing and pride in equal measure. She kept every one, tucked away in the drawer of the bedside table, next to the book she hadn’t been able to finish since he left.

It was a month into his tour, past midnight, and YN had already settled into a chair she had dragged from the kitchen, the lamp casting a soft glow over the room as she sat by the phone, waiting for Harry’s nightly call. When the phone finally rang, her heart skipped a beat, and she eagerly lifted the receiver to her ear.

“Hey,” she said softly, her voice warm with affection.

“Hey, bunny,” Harry’s voice came through, a little rough but full of warmth. She could hear the faint noise of people talking in the background, but his focus was entirely on her. “Missed your voice today.”

YN smiled, curling the phone cord around her finger. “Missed you too. How’s everything?”

He sighed, the sound of his breath crackling through the line. “Busy. Exhausting. But good. The shows are going well. The crowds have been incredible.” He paused, his voice dropping slightly, his tone softening. “But I’d rather be there with you.”

Her heart fluttered at his words, her grip tightening on the phone. “I’d rather have you here too,” she whispered, her voice low, almost teasing. “It’s been too quiet without you. Though I’ve heard you on the radio here and there.”

The conversation drifted into more intimate territory, their voices soft and full of longing, each word laced with the quiet need they hadn’t been able to express in the letters or brief phone calls before. Harry told her how much he missed her, how the bed felt too big without her next to him, how he couldn’t stop thinking about the last night they’d spent together.

YN felt a blush rise to her cheeks, her breath catching in her throat as his words grew more heated. “Tell me more,” she whispered, her voice low, a smile playing at her lips.

Harry’s voice dropped even lower, his words slow and deliberate. “I miss the way you taste..like melted sugar on my tongue.”

The sound of his voice, soft and rough all at once, sent shivers down her spine. She closed her eyes, her body responding to his words in ways that made her ache with need.

“Probably soaking from just my voice, hm?” He hummed, feeling the familiar ache of himself hardening beneath denim.

She nodded, though he couldn’t see her. She squeezed her legs shut, her heat pooling between her thighs. Harry chuckled breathily from the other line, palming himself through his jeans. “My poor girl.” He cooed, listening to her faint whimper crackle through the phone. “I’ll be home in a month, baby.”

But just as the tension between them began to build, just as his voice grew more intimate, the sound of a knock echoed faintly in the background.

Harry groaned, the frustration clear in his voice. “Shit. It’s Mitch.”

YN laughed softly, the moment broken, but still charged with the tension that had hung between them. “You better get that,” she said, though she didn’t want the call to end.

“Give me a minute, yeah?” Harry muttered, the disappointment evident in his voice. “We’ll finish this later.”

YN smiled, her heart still racing, the wet spot in her panties only continuing to dampen. “I’ll hold you to that.”

There was a brief pause, the sound of Harry muffling the phone as he spoke to Mitch in the background. When he returned, his voice was quieter, more resigned. “I have to go. We’ve got soundcheck in a bit.”

YN sighed softly, her fingers tracing the edge of the phone. “Alright. Go be brilliant.”

“I’ll call you later,” Harry promised, his voice warm again, though still tinged with regret. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” YN whispered, her heart full as the line clicked and the dial tone hummed in her ear.

As she hung up the phone, the quiet of the flat settled around her again. But even in the stillness, she felt connected to him, the promise of his return always just beneath the surface. She stood up from the wooden chair, leaving it in place as she padded barefoot back to his bedroom. As she lay back in bed, the sound of his voice still echoed in her mind, she knew that no matter how far away he was, he would always feel close.

The late NOVEMBER air was crisp as YN made her way to the airport, her breath fogging in front of her with each step. The city had entered winter, the sky a moody shade of grey, with the kind of cold that bit into your skin if you stayed still too long. A light dusting of frost clung to the streets, and the wind carried with it the promise of snow. But despite the chill, there was a warmth spreading through YN's chest—an excitement she could hardly contain.

Harry was finally coming home.

It had been two long months since she’d kissed him goodbye at the airport, and though they had talked nearly every day, the distance had made the longing more acute, like an ache that refused to fade. The flat had felt too quiet, too empty without him, but tonight, that would change. Tonight, he would be back in London, back with her, and she couldn’t wait to wrap her arms around him again.

She had spent most of the day tidying up the flat—making sure everything was perfect for his return. His favorite records were stacked by the record player, the sheets on the bed freshly changed, and the faint scent of vanilla and cinnamon lingered in the air from the strawberry cake she had baked earlier. It was his favorite, and the smell of it made the place feel warm, cozy. She had also made his favorite pasta dish, the sauce simmering gently on the stove, filling the kitchen with the comforting aroma of home-cooked food.

As she reached the airport terminal, YN’s heart began to race with anticipation. The cold faded from her awareness as she entered the busy terminal, weaving through the crowds of travelers until she reached the arrivals gate. Her eyes scanned the sea of faces, searching for him, her breath catching in her throat every time she thought she spotted his familiar curls.

And then, there he was.

Harry stepped out from the crowd, his figure unmistakable even in the thick winter coat and scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. His hair was longer than she remembered, his cheeks flushed from the cold and travel, and his eyes were bright with excitement. When their eyes met, everything around them seemed to fade—the noise of the airport, the bustling travelers—all of it disappeared as they locked eyes.

“Harry!” YN called, her voice soft but full of joy as she broke into a run toward him.

He grinned, dropping his suitcase to the ground as he opened his arms wide, catching her as she threw herself into his embrace. The moment their bodies collided, YN felt a rush of warmth flood through her. She wrapped her arms tightly around him, burying her face in his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of him—warm, comforting, with the faintest trace of his cologne.

“I’ve missed you so much,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

“I’ve missed you too,” Harry mumbled, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. His hands slid up her back, holding her close, as if he were afraid to let her go. “You have no idea how good it feels to be home.”

They stood there for a few moments, lost in each other, the cold air of the terminal swirling around them but neither of them caring. When they finally pulled back, Harry cupped her face in his hands, his thumb brushing gently over her cheek as he studied her.

“You look even more beautiful than I remembered,” he said, his voice soft but full of sincerity.

YN laughed, her heart swelling as she leaned up to kiss him again, a quick, sweet press of lips that tasted of relief and longing. “Come on.” Her voice was light as she grabbed his hand and squeezing it gently. “Let’s get you home.”

The flat was warm and welcoming when they stepped inside, the heat from the oven and the soft glow of the lamps making the space feel cozy against the winter cold. YN had turned on the record player before she left, so the soft croon of a jazz tune filled the air, blending perfectly with the scent of fresh pasta and strawberries.

Harry dropped his suitcase by the door, his eyes lighting up as he took in the scene. “You’ve outdone yourself.” He sighed, his voice full of affection as he looked around the flat. “It smells incredible in here.”

YN smiled, slipping her coat off and hanging it by the door. “I wanted to surprise you.” Her tone was sheepish, leading him into the kitchen where the pasta dish was waiting on the counter. “I made your favorite. And…”

She reached for the cake on the counter, carefully placing it in front of him with a playful grin. “Strawberry, just for you.”

His eyes widened with delight as he leaned down to inspect the cake, his lips curving into a soft smile. “You spoil me.” He laughed, turning to her and pulling her into his arms again, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I love it. Thank you.”

They sat down at the kitchen table, the small space filled with the warmth of their reunion, their laughter mingling with the clink of cutlery and the soft hum of the record. As they ate, Harry told her all about his time in America—the shows, the fans, the cities he had visited.

“New York was something else,” he said, his eyes lighting up with excitement as he recounted the night he performed at a famous venue in the heart of the city. “The crowd was wild—bigger than anything I’d ever seen before. And Los Angeles.. God, the energy there was electric. But you know what? None of it felt real without you there.”

She smiled, her heart full as she listened to him speak, his voice full of passion and excitement. She loved seeing him like this—so alive, so full of stories and experiences. But more than that, she loved knowing that through it all, he had thought of her.

As the evening wore on, they moved to the living room, the plates forgotten in the kitchen as they curled up on the couch together, Harry’s arm draped lazily over her shoulders. They shared soft kisses between conversations, quiet declarations of love and how much they had missed each other filling the spaces between the stories.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” Harry confessed quietly, his fingers brushing lightly over her arm. “Every time I stepped off the stage, all I wanted was to call you, to hear your voice.”

She rested her head against his chest, smiling as his words wrapped around her like a blanket. “I felt the same,” she whispered. “I’ve been counting down the days until you came back.”

Harry tilted her chin up, his lips finding hers in a slow, intimate kiss. It was gentle at first, a soft meeting of lips that spoke of their longing, but as the kiss deepened, the intensity between them grew. They shifted on the couch, their bodies pressed close as the room grew warmer, the air between them thick with the weight of two months spent apart.

“I love you.” Harry murmured against her lips, his voice rough with emotion. “I missed you so much.”

“I love you too.” She smiled, her fingers tangling in his hair as she pulled him closer.

They stayed like that for a while, wrapped up in each other, their kisses slow and tender, until the quiet of the flat surrounded them once more. The night was peaceful, the city outside blanketed in winter cold, but inside, everything was warm and full of love.

As the record player continued to hum softly in the background, they lay together on the couch, content in each other’s arms, talking quietly into the night. Harry shared more stories of America—the friends he’d made, the strange food he’d tried, the nights spent traveling between cities. But no matter how far he had gone, no matter how many stages he had stood on, all he could think about was coming home to her.

And now, finally, he was.

JUNE 1958 arrived in a haze of blooming flowers and endless blue skies, the air warm with the promise of summer. The countryside stretched out in front of the beautiful English cottage Harry had purchased just months before—a place that felt far removed from the busy life they’d led on the road. The last six months had been a whirlwind of travel, music, and crowds, with Harry embarking on his biggest tour yet. It had started in the States, but when the tour expanded to Europe, he had begged YN to join him for the last three months. After some hesitation, she had agreed, unable to resist the thought of being by his side again, experiencing the world with him.

Now, they had finally come home.

The cottage was nestled on the edge of a quiet village, its stone walls covered in ivy, the roof gently sloping with aged charm. It had a large garden out front, filled with wildflowers, and a path that wound lazily around to the back, where rolling hills stretched out as far as the eye could see. Inside, the cottage was cozy, full of light streaming through the windows, with exposed wooden beams and a fireplace that had already become their favorite spot to curl up on colder evenings.

Though neither of them had said the words out loud, YN had moved in. It had been gradual, her things slowly trickling in from the flat they had shared in London. A few clothes here, a stack of her favorite books there, until the entire cottage was filled with the subtle signs of her presence. Her shoes next to his by the door, her perfume resting on the vanity in the bedroom, and her laughter echoing through the kitchen as they cooked together in the evenings.

The unspoken decision to live together felt natural, like the culmination of everything they had shared over the past year. They had grown even closer on the road, their bond deepening with each passing day. Those months in Europe, where they had traveled from city to city, felt like a dream—a blur of music, late-night conversations, and stolen moments just for the two of them amidst the chaos.

Now, in the quiet of their new home, they could finally rest.

On this particular afternoon, YN stood by the open window in the kitchen, the warm breeze gently lifting the curtains as she gazed out at the garden. She wore a simple summer dress, her hair loose, as she absentmindedly twirled a glass of lemonade in her hand. The air smelled of fresh-cut grass and the wildflowers that had bloomed in every corner of the garden. The cottage had a peaceful stillness to it, broken only by the faint sound of birds chirping outside.

Harry was in the living room, the soft strumming of his guitar floating through the open door. He was sitting in the armchair by the window, his eyes half-closed as he let his fingers move over the strings, playing a melody that felt like a lazy summer afternoon. The past few weeks had been a blissful sort of quiet—no deadlines, no schedules, just the two of them and the steady rhythm of days spent together.

As YN walked into the living room, Harry looked up from his guitar, his eyes brightening at the sight of her. “There you are, baby.” He smiled, voice soft with affection.

She smiled back, setting the glass of lemonade down on the table before crossing the room to sit beside him on the couch. Harry set the guitar aside and pulled her into his lap, his arms wrapping around her waist as she settled against him, her head resting on his shoulder.

“Hard to believe we’re really home, isn’t it?” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “After all that time on the road, I thought we’d never get here.”

She laughed softly, her fingers tracing absentminded circles on his chest. “I still can’t believe you talked me into joining you for the last three months,” she teased, her voice light but full of warmth. “But I’m glad I did. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

Harry grinned, his hand slipping up to cup her cheek as he looked down at her. “I couldn’t have done it without you,” he said, his voice quiet but full of sincerity. “It was hard enough being away from you at the start of the tour. Having you there–it made everything better.”

They sat like that for a while, the quiet of the cottage wrapping around them like a soft blanket, the distant hum of the countryside a soothing backdrop. It felt surreal, being here together after months of living out of suitcases, staying in hotels, and constantly moving from one city to the next. But now, in the calm of the English countryside, it felt like they had found something solid—something real.

“Y’know..” Harry mumbled after a moment, his voice thoughtful as he gazed out the window, “I’ve been thinking about something.”

YN looked up at him, her eyebrows raised slightly. “About what?”

Harry hesitated, his thumb brushing lightly over her cheek as he smiled softly. “About this–us… this house,” he began, his words slow but deliberate. “We’ve never really talked about it, but I love that y’here. That you’re living here. With me.”

YN’s heart fluttered at his words, her fingers tightening slightly on his shirt as she looked up at him. “I love it too,” she whispered, her voice full of warmth. “Feels like home.”

Harry smiled, a soft, almost relieved laugh escaping him as he leaned down to kiss her. It was a slow, tender kiss, full of all the unspoken promises they had made to each other over the past year. When they pulled back, Harry’s forehead rested against hers, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Let’s make this official then,” he murmured, his lips brushing against hers. “Move in with me properly. Let’s call this place ours.”

Her eyes softened, her heart swelling with emotion as she nodded, her lips curving into a smile. “I already have.” she whispered, kissing him again.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a peaceful blur. They moved through the cottage together, side by side, making dinner in the cozy kitchen. Harry stirred a pot of sauce while YN sliced vegetables, the two of them stealing kisses in between tasks, their laughter filling the space. The evening sunlight poured through the windows, casting the room in a warm glow as they sat down at the small table for dinner.

As they ate, Harry told her stories from the tour—stories she hadn’t heard, little moments that had made him laugh or think of her. He spoke about the cities they’d visited, the people they’d met, and the way the crowds had grown bigger with each show. But through it all, his eyes kept drifting back to her, his words trailing off as he reached for her hand, his thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles.

“You were the best part of it all,” he said softly, his voice full of affection. “You being there with me. Every time I walked off stage and saw you waiting, it made everything worth it.”

After dinner, they moved back to the living room, curling up on the couch together as the last light of the day faded into dusk. The fireplace crackled softly in the corner, and the air was filled with the comforting smell of woodsmoke. They stayed like that for hours, wrapped in each other’s arms, talking quietly about the future—about the cottage, about what they wanted to do next.

As the evening began to settle, they both stood side by side at the sink, washing the dishes in comfortable silence. The window above them was cracked open slightly, letting in the cool evening breeze that carried the scent of freshly cut grass and blooming flowers. Beyond the window, the sun was sinking slowly beneath the hills, casting the sky in shades of pink and orange, the last light of the day stretching long shadows across the garden.

YN handed Harry a plate, her fingers brushing against his as he took it from her, their quiet rhythm so familiar now. He dunked it into the warm, sudsy water, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he scrubbed at the remnants of their dinner. Every so often, he’d glance at her, a small smile playing on his lips as he watched her work.

“You’ve gotten good at this.”YN teased, elbowing him lightly. “I remember when you used to burn toast.”

Harry laughed, the sound light and full of warmth. “That was a long time ago.” He quipped, turning to splash a bit of soapy water in her direction with a playful grin.

YN gasped, dodging the spray with a laugh of her own, but not before flicking some of the suds back at him. Her eyes glinted with mischief as she dipped her hands into the water, gathering a handful of bubbles.

“Oh, are we playing dirty now?” Harry teased, his eyes narrowing as he scooped up his own suds.

Before she could answer, he splashed her again, the warm soapy water catching her on the arm. YN laughed, retaliating by flinging bubbles at him, the kitchen filling with the sound of their playful banter and the splash of water against the counter. The dishes forgotten for the moment, they both moved around the sink, ducking and dodging each other’s playful attacks, the air filled with their laughter.

Harry caught her by the waist, pulling her close as he wiped some of the bubbles from her cheek with a playful grin. “Alright, truce!” He giggled, his voice softening as he looked into her eyes.

She smiled, her laughter dying down as she leaned into him, her hands resting against his chest. “Truce.” She agreed, her eyes still sparkling with amusement.

They both turned back to the sink, their laughter lingering in the air as they finished the last of the dishes. The warmth between them was palpable, and even as the sun began to dip lower, casting the room in a soft, golden glow, there was a sense of peace that wrapped around them like a blanket.

As they dried their hands on a shared towel, YN turned to look out the window. The sun had nearly disappeared behind the hills, the sky now painted in deep hues of purple and orange, the last light of day clinging to the horizon.

“S’pretty here.” She murmured, her voice soft as she watched the sunset.

Harry set the towel aside, stepping up behind her, his arms slipping around her waist as he pulled her close. “It is.” He agreed quietly, though his eyes weren’t on the sunset. They were on her.

For a long moment, they stood like that, the warm evening air drifting through the open window, the world outside quiet and still. There was a calm that had settled over them, a quiet contentment that came from being in the presence of someone who knew you—really knew you—and loved you anyway.

Harry pressed a kiss to her temple, his lips lingering there for a moment before he pulled back slightly, his arms still wrapped around her.

“I want to be with you forever.” He admitted suddenly, his voice soft but steady. It wasn’t a question or even a declaration, just a simple truth spoken into the stillness of the moment. His words carried the weight of something deeper, something unshakeable. “Not just for now. Not just for a few years. Forever.”

YN turned in his arms, her heart skipping a beat as she looked up at him, her eyes searching his face. His expression was serious, but there was a warmth there too, a quiet certainty in his gaze that made her chest tighten.

His hands moved to cradle her face, his thumbs brushing gently over her cheeks as he looked down at her, his voice lowering to a soft murmur. “I love you.”He smiled. “More than I ever thought I could love someone. And I don’t just mean in this life. I mean in every life. Beyond this, even. If I could have forever with you, I would. That’s what I want.”

She felt a rush of emotion swell in her chest, her throat tightening at the depth of his words. She could see it in his eyes—the way he meant every word, the way this wasn’t just about a lifetime, but about something that transcended even that. It wasn’t a proposal, but it felt like a promise. A vow that he would love her no matter what, no matter how long or how far life took them.

“I want that too.”She whispered, her voice catching slightly as she reached up to brush a curl away from his forehead. “Forever sounds just right.”

His smile softened, his forehead resting against hers as he exhaled, his breath warm against her skin. “Then it’s settled.” He murmured, his lips brushing against hers in a tender kiss, soft and slow, full of all the love he couldn’t put into words.

They stood like that for a long moment, the kitchen bathed in the last light of the sunset, the quiet of the evening wrapping around them as they held each other close. The world outside felt far away, and in that moment, nothing else mattered but the two of them, standing together in the cottage they now called home.

When they finally pulled back, Harry’s hand slipped down to take hers, his fingers intertwining with hers as he led her toward the living room. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting a warm glow over the room as they curled up together on the couch, the soft murmur of their voices filling the space between the gentle flicker of flames.

And as the evening stretched on, they spoke of dreams and plans, of all the little things that made life beautiful. But in the quiet, in the spaces between the words, they both knew that they had already found what they were searching for—each other.

Forever.

[isabelckl]

smoke and mirrors

messenger ellie williams x aristocrat fem!reader (victorian au)

set in the late 1800s, when paper was banned and all unsupervised communication was made illegal, memory couriers emerged in secret—risking arrest to carry spoken messages across divided cities and restricted borders. with your fiancé stationed in a province you can no longer reach, you're forced to rely on Ellie, a heavily tattooed courier working underground, to carry your words.

You walked swiftly, head bowed, your boots scraping through the damp filth of the alleyway. The hem of your black muslin gown was already heavy with mud, and your cloak did little to guard against the chill creeping through the narrow streets. You hadn’t looked up once since slipping past the manor gates—just kept moving, heart tight in your chest, breath clouding in the cold.

You’d never done anything like this before.

No guards. No chaperone. No carriage waiting.

Just you, in plain clothes and a faded bonnet pulled low, hoping no one would look closely enough to recognize the face beneath. A lady of your station had no business in this district—especially not alone. But you had done it. You had escaped.

And all for a message. A foolish, reckless message.

But oh, what does one not risk for love?

Now you stood at the edge of a crooked cobblestone, staring up at the building before you. It was one of the few still upright on this side of the quarter—its brickwork scorched with soot, iron balconies sagging with rust, windows clouded by dust and ash. The guards of the Ministry had passed this way not long ago, their boots echoing like gunshots in the empty street—but even with them gone, you kept your head low.

This part of the city was no longer considered livable. Not by decree, but necessity.

Silence hung in the air like smoke, pierced only by the low groan of the wind through broken shutters and the faint hiss of steam pipes beneath the street.

They said the messenger could be found here.

You stepped inside. The front hall was dim and cold, lit only by a waning wall lamp and the pale gray wash of dusk that leaked through cracks in the boarded windows. The scent struck you first—smoke, damp timber, and something ink-sharp and stale, like forgotten parchment sealed too long.

As you moved deeper into the corridor, your gloved hand trailing lightly along the bannister, a woman came rushing down the stairs—her skirts disheveled, bonnet askew, a handkerchief pressed tightly to her mouth. She nearly collided with you. Her shoulders were trembling, breath coming in shallow gasps as if she’d been holding them in for far too long.

You stepped aside, watching her disappear into the shadowed vestibule below. Whatever news she’d come for, it hadn’t been kind. A death. A denial. A letter that never arrived, perhaps.

Your stomach twisted.

On the second floor, you passed others descending in silence—coats drawn close, eyes downcast, hands clutching thin slips of paper too carefully to be legal. No one spoke. No one looked at you.

Outside the final door, a queue had formed, bodies pressed along the faded wall in a kind of reverent hush. You joined it without a word.

A man two places down cast you a glance. You caught it from the corner of your eye and turned your head slightly, pretending interest in the cracks along the floor. You kept your expression blank. The bonnet helped, but not enough.

Minutes passed. Longer.

When the door opened, a signal without words, you stepped forward and slipped inside.

The room smelled of paper and smoke.

Stacks of yellowed pages crowded every corner—some bundled with twine, some spilling from crates, others piled like unstable monuments along the floor. It looked less like an office and more like a reliquary of lost things.

Heavy curtains swallowed what little light the outside world offered. Dust hung thick in the air. And at the center of it all, an old desk, and the oil lamp that flickers weakly stops it, its glow no brighter than a dying ember.

Behind the desk sat a woman.

Tattoos crept up her arms and curled across the backs of her hands, disappearing beneath the rolled sleeves of a worn linen shirt and the fraying edges of a charcoal waistcoat. She looked like someone who had watched the city fall and found it unremarkable—so long as she had ink, ash, and something to write with. A half-burned cigarette smoldered between two fingers as she scribbled something into a thick ledger, her expression blank, unmoved.

On the other hand, she held a dip pen—its brass nib glinting faintly beneath the lamplight as it scratched across the page, tip freshly stained with ink from the bottle by her elbow.

She didn’t look up when you entered.

You lingered in the doorway, bonnet tilted low, doing your best not to grimace at the stale tang of tobacco hanging thick in the air. You hated that smell. Your fiancé didn’t smoke—never had. You’d grown soft on lavender-scented letters and soap-washed hands, not this.

“I’d like to deliver a message,” you said, voice steady though your pulse betrayed you.

Her pen paused mid-stroke.

She didn’t look up. Just sat there for a moment, as if the sound of your voice had struck something deeper than she expected. Like it reached somewhere memory had been buried but not erased.

She merely raised a hand, fingers flicking in a slow, indifferent gesture.

Permission.

“For my fiancé,” you added, softer this time.

She laid the pen aside with care, brass nib tapping against the rim of the ceramic inkwell. Then she took one last drag from the cigarette and pressed it into the ashtray. At last, her eyes lifted.

Green, sharp, deliberate.

They caught on you and held, and the weight of her stare made your breath stall. Not because she was unfamiliar—but because she wasn’t.

It had been years. Not since before the restrictions. Before permits and boundaries. Before your world had been divided into the watched and the waiting.

Back then, your family’s estate still ran like a clock. Breakfast at seven, guests by ten, servants unseen after dark. Her mother had worked in your home as a maid. Her father was a courier, often seen trudging up the rear garden path, boots caked in mud, hands roughened by winter and labor. And Ellie? Ellie had been the quiet child who came with them on rainy afternoons, holding a ledger too large for her arms, waiting by the back steps until the parcels were signed for.

You had watched her from the drawing-room window. Outside and damp. And always beneath you—figuratively and otherwise.

Your parents would never have remembered her face.

But you had.

And now she sat behind a desk no proper young woman ought to approach, ink on her fingers, smoke curling around her shoulders—as if she'd always belonged there.

Her gaze swept over you—once, twice—slow and deliberate, like she was measuring you. From the laces of your boots to the edges of your modest traveling gown. Something flickered at the corner of her mouth, not quite a smile. Not quite a scoff either. Just a shadow of amusement she didn’t bother to name. She looked rougher now. Harder. Like the years had carved themselves into her skin and left no room for softness.

“How old are you?” she asked, voice low and rasped from smoke and disuse.

You frowned, lifting your chin instinctively. “Old enough,” you answered, finding the question oddly misplaced.

She raised a brow—unconvinced, unmoved. She didn’t argue, didn’t speak. Just watched you with a look that felt far too knowing, like she was waiting for something true to fall from your mouth instead.

The silence grated.

“Pardon me,” you said, a measured edge beneath your words, “but I fail to see what bearing that has. I am here to send a message to my fiancé.”

Ellie leaned back slightly, the movement casual but not careless, then set the dip pen down beside the inkwell with the same precision as before. “I’m aware. That’s why you’re here.”

The tone—flat, edged, knowing—made your jaw tense.

She sighed, gathered a stack of crumpled papers from her desk, and swept them neatly to the floor beside her. “I ask questions because I must,” she said curtly. “Every word I carry is a risk. I’d rather know the nature of those I serve.”

Her voice was measured, serious in a way that left little room for courtesy. The calm sharpness of it matched her expression—cool, unreadable, nothing like the girl you used to glimpse from the window of your room. That girl, trailing behind her mother or father in silence, sodden boots and wide eyes—she didn’t live in this room.

You met her gaze. “I’m old enough. Perhaps older than you.”

The words cut a little too hard, sharper than intended, and you felt it the moment they left your tongue. The irritation hadn’t left, but something smaller and more brittle cracked beneath it.

“And I just…” You inhaled. “I just need to deliver something to my fiancé.”

Ellie tilted her head slightly. Pen returned to her hand—but she didn’t write. Instead, she stared at you again. And again, that quiet, brazen stare made your posture straighten instinctively. It unsettled something in you. Not because she was harsh, but because she was utterly unbothered. Steady. Still.

You weren’t used to being looked at like that. Especially not by someone like her.

“You look young to be wed,” she said at last, words unhurried.

You lifted your chin, letting your gaze harden. “I didn’t come here for your opinion.”

Your eyes swept the room again. So many papers—how many of them were love letters? Pleas? Goodbyes? Secrets? How many were from people like you, hoping for an answer?

She nodded once, a slight tilt of her head toward the space between you. “Very well. Speak what you wish me to carry.”

You hesitated.

She didn’t wait. The pen resumed its motion, its nib whispering across the page.

You stepped forward, carefully. “Tell him… I hope he is well. That his family remains safe.” You paused, throat tight. “That I miss him. Terribly. And that I’m still waiting. I will wait—until all of this is over. And…”

The words tangled.

Saying it aloud felt strange. Saying it to her—stranger still.

“…Tell him I love him.”

Ellie’s pen stilled.

She did not look up. Merely reached for her cigarette and lit it with quiet precision, the flare of the match briefly catching the edge of her cheekbone in gold.

“That is all,” you murmured.

She gave a faint nod, finally lifting her gaze. “In a place like this,” she said, voice low, “it is often simpler to forget than to send things meant to be remembered.”

The weight of it landed harder than you expected.

What did she know of such things?

You slipped a small folded note from your coat—along with a worn banknote and the delivery address, scrawled hastily on creased paper—and placed them on the desk without a word.

You turned, before you could leave, you stopped.

Something twisted sharp behind your ribs. The words rose before you could stop them.

You glanced over your shoulder, voice colder than you meant it. “And what would you know of love, in any case?”

Ellie didn’t so much as blink. She exhaled slowly, the smoke unfurling between you—thin, silent, unreadable.

You didn’t wait for her answer.

The door cracked shut behind you with more force than necessary, the sound echoing down the narrow stairwell. Those waiting outside flinched and turned. You ignored them.

You yanked your bonnet lower, boots echoing in clipped defiance as you passed.

Who says something like that?

Was it truly so difficult—to do your job without stripping hope from those who still dared to hold it?

[milkteabinniechan]

♡Uninvited - Jeongin

MINORS DNI 18+ ONLY MEMBERSHIP//M.LIST

pairing: incubus! Jeongin x fem! reader

summary: you've always been shy and a bit of a bookworm, keeping to yourself most of the time. But a night of curious research summons an unexpected situation.

warnings: virgin reader, cunnilingus, tongue in v, clit stimulation, fingering, unprotected sex, size difference, stretching

It was just research. Just a bit of curious reading. You can't even remember how you found the book. It just seemed to appear one day. You sat down on your usual park bench to reach and have your lunch. You remember the sun was shining and the oak tree by the bench was providing the perfect amount of shade. You remember the park was quiet that day, unusually quiet.

You turned to the side to pull your lunch out of your backpack and then…there it was. A rather peculiar looking book. Sitting next to you on the park bench. The spine was tattered and the pages were yellowed with age. It appeared to be a perfectly normal thing. But when you held it in your hands, something began to surround you. Something dark and thick like plumes of black smoke. But the sun was still shining and the birds were still chirping.

You don't remember walking home. Like an invisible string had tied itself around your waist and pulled you all the way home until you found yourself on the floor of your bedroom. You slowly cracked open the book to the first page. The writing was old and almost illegible. You ran your fingers along the ink on the page, ink that has dried hundreds of years ago. Your mouth moved along to the sounds and syllables of what the words might mean. You could feel an unexplainable heat swirling around your neck and down your chest as you read aloud. But you couldn't stop. You didn't want to stop.

Suddenly the room went dark. It was as if the very air had been sucked out of every corner and crevice. Then candles began to light on their own. First one, then another, and another until the room was bathed in candle light. An impossibly tall creature stood before you. The incubus, a being of smoke and shadow, tilts his head in a polite gesture. “Am I not what you wished for? You sought an incubus, and I am one. What do you desire of me?”

You fell onto your back as you gazed up at the gorgeously terrifying demon. Your mouth went dry as you parted your mouth to speak. “I…I didn't mean to.” You whispered.

The demon's brows furrow slightly, his voice taking on a velvety purr. "You did not mean to summon me?" He waves a hand, and the book you were holding floats out of your grasp and lands gently on the nearby table. "Yet here I am."

Your chest tightened as you watched the book float away. "Why... Why do people usually summon you?"

The incubus's eyes flash with mischief and dark amusement. He takes a step closer to you, his movements fluid and graceful, like a predator stalking its prey. "Ah, the usual reasons, my curious little mortal. Desire, lust, the craving for pleasure beyond human limits."

"Pleasure." You repeat under your breath, your cheeks turning a bright shade of red.

The incubus leans in closer, his breath cool against your skin. "Indeed. And now that I am here, perhaps you would like to experience such pleasures firsthand?" His fingers trace along your jaw, his touch sending shivers down your spine.

"How..." You started. Your mouth becoming dry. Your legs flexing with a new kind of need. You feel an almost unnatural warmth spreading through your body as the demon inches closer to you. "Wait! I'm...I'm a virgin." You whisper softly.

The incubus chuckles, his hand sliding down to your stomach "Ah, a virgin. All the better. Your innocence is like nectar to me. But fear not, my dear, I shall be gentle for now. But know this, after tonight, you will no longer be one."

You hold your breath as you feel the demon's hands moving down to your thighs, pushing your legs up to your chest and spreading them wide. You can feel his claws scrape along your skin.

"Breathe, my dear. You must breathe." The incubus's voice is a soothing caress against your ear as he positions himself between your exposed thighs. He leans down, his tongue flicking out to trace along your inner thigh, his breath hot against your most intimate place.

The incubus's tongue flicks out again, this time parting your folds and delving deep within you. He begins to explore you thoroughly, his tongue caressing every inch of your most intimate place. His hands hold your legs firmly in place, his claws gently scraping against your skin. Your hands grip the bed sheets as you buck your hips, pushing them harder into the demon's face.

The incubus chuckles against you, the vibrations of his laughter adding to the pleasure he inflicts. He suckles gently on the little nub at the apex of your womanhood, drawing a moan from your lips. His fingers join his mouth, slipping easily into your moist heat. You cry out as his long fingers slide in and out of you. You can feel tears prick the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming sensation. Your hands reach out blindly and grasp onto a sturdy and sharp pair of horns. You grip the horns tightly as the incubus's hot tongue coaxes you through your orgasm. As you climax, the incubus continues to lap at your essence, drinking in your sweet nectar. He pumps his fingers in and out of you, stretching and filling you in ways a human never could. When your orgasm subsides, he pulls away, his face glistening with your juices.

The incubus rises to his feet, his eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction. He reaches down and grabs your ankles, hoisting your legs up and over his shoulders. "Now, it's time for the main course. Prepare yourself, mortal, for the true essence of an incubus's touch.”

Your mind was still dizzy with aftershocks of your orgasm. The incubus lines himself up with your entrance, his thick, demonic cock throbbing with desire. He pushes forward, slowly at first, allowing your tight, virgin hole to stretch around his girth. As he sinks deeper, he groans in pleasure, his claws digging into your thighs. “And, mortal, you will call me Jeongin.”

You moan pitifully as you whisper the demon’s again and again. “It's so much.”

The incubus grins wickedly, his hips rocking back and forth as he works more of his thick length inside you. "You can take it, my dear. Your body was made to pleasure creatures like me. He leans down, his breath hot against your ear You're almost stretched enough…”

The incubus's hips snap forward, burying the final few inches of his hard flesh inside you. He pauses, allowing you to adjust to the intense pressure and stretch. His tail wraps around your wrists, pinning your arms above your head.

Your back arches, allowing Jeongin’s length to deepen inside of you. The tip of his cock kisses your womb delicately. Your legs wrap around his waist while your hands return to his thick, sharp horns. Jeongin’s voice is a low growl, his hips withdrawing slightly before slamming back into you. His pace quickens, each thrust driving deeper and harder than the last. His tail tightens around your wrists, pinning you down as he claims you thoroughly.

Minutes turned into hours turned into days. You weren't sure how long he stayed. Or if you summoned him again and again and again. But the feeling of his claws scraping along your skin would never leave your mind.

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[kazuhahalol]

— creep | jeff the killer x f! reader

you’re a straightforward girl living a straightforward and quiet life. So why does this smiling maniac insist on kidnapping you?

warnings: kidnapping, threatening

Disclaimer: Everyone is welcome on my page and I will not turn you away. However, it is your fault if you’re uncomfortable or peeved with my writing because I give multiple warnings prior to my content. thanks!

masterlist

You were a good girl. You got pretty good grades, never skipped class, never snuck out, and most importantly never did drugs. You were focused on your gpa, the college you’re applying to having an acceptance rate of 20% with the desired gpa being 4.0. What else could be more important than that?

Surely not your best friend’s Halloween party. Your friend, Lindsey, was hosting a Halloween party the night of Halloween because she insisted trick or treating was for kids. You hadn’t planned on going, or going out at all for that matter. Staying inside and eating the night away was more than you could ask for.

But when she started shedding the crocodile tears is what got you. Lindsey has many friends yet for some reason continuously begs you to attend her party. Of course, being the good friend you are, you say yes. Big mistake. The bitch ditched you once more people started filling her house.

You sighed, leaning against the wall in Lindsey’s overcrowded living room, the music vibrating through your bones. The strobe lights flashed like a warning, illuminating strangers dressed as skeletons, devils, and things much worse. You didn’t belong here. You never had.

You glanced at your phone again. No messages from Lindsey. Of course. She’d dragged you here, begged you to come, and now she was too busy entertaining half the school to care that you were alone. Typical.

Sliding out the front door, you welcomed the cold, quiet night. The sharp air hit your skin, waking you from the haze of too much noise and too many people. You wrapped your jacket tighter around yourself and started walking home, the sound of your boots on the pavement the only thing keeping you company.

It was late. The streets were empty, the only light coming from a few flickering streetlamps. You moved quickly, trying to shake off the uneasy feeling crawling up your spine.

Then you heard it.

Footsteps.

You froze, straining your ears. They were faint, but steady, echoing in sync with your own. Turning your head slightly, you glanced over your shoulder. The street behind you was empty, shadows stretching long and deep into an abyss.

“Hello?” you called out, hating how your voice trembled.

No answer. Just the sound of your heart pounding in your chest. You quickened your pace, your breath coming in short bursts.

The footsteps grew louder. Closer.

“Stop following me!” you shouted, spinning around.

That’s when you saw him.

A man emerged from the shadows, his gait slow, deliberate. He wore a white hoodie covered in disgusting stains that hung off his lean frame. His face was a nightmare. Waxy, scarred skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones, as if it had melted and hardened in the wrong places. His lips were thin and cracked, pulled into a twisted mockery of a smile that exposed yellowed teeth. His eyes gleamed under the hood—wild, bloodshot, and empty all at once.

Most disturbing was his hair—or what was left of it. Patches of uneven, brittle strands clung to his scalp, the rest of his head marred by burn marks and deep scars.

“You should’ve stayed at the party,” he rasped, his voice low and guttural, like gravel scraping against metal.

You stumbled back, panic clawing at your chest. “I—I don’t have anything! Just take whatever you want!”

His smile didn’t falter, but something dark flickered in his eyes. “Oh, it’s not about what I want. It’s about what I need.”

He lunged.

You turned to run, but he was fast—faster than anyone his size should’ve been. His hand clamped onto your wrist like a vice, yanking you backward with so much force that you hit the ground hard, the breath knocked from your lungs.

“Let me go!” you screamed, kicking and thrashing.

His grip tightened, his nails digging into your skin as he loomed over you. Up close, the smell of burnt flesh and something metallic hit you, making your stomach churn.

“Stop struggling,” he growled, his voice sharp and cold. “It won’t help.”

You clawed at his face, desperate to break free, but he caught your other arm and pinned it down with terrifying ease. His strength was inhuman, like he was made of steel beneath his scarred skin.

“You’re ruining my night,” he hissed, his smile dropping as he hauled you to your feet. “But don’t worry. You’ll make it up to me.”

Before you could scream again, he shoved something over your head—a rough, foul-smelling sack. Darkness swallowed you whole.

You kicked wildly, your muffled screams bouncing back at you. He didn’t say anything, didn’t try to silence you. He just carried you like you weighed nothing, his footsteps steady and deliberate.

You didn’t know how long he walked. Time lost all meaning as your world narrowed to the suffocating darkness and the steady ache in your arms and legs from struggling.

When he finally stopped, the sack was ripped from your head. You blinked against the harsh, flickering light of a bare bulb overhead, your vision swimming.

The room was cold and barren, the walls lined with deep gouges that looked like claw marks. The air smelled of damp wood and decay, heavy enough to make your throat burn. From what you could see, you can tell you’re in a run down manor of some sort.

Jeff stood in front of you, his crooked smile returning as he loomed closer. “Welcome to your new home,” he said, his voice dripping with mockery. “The Wisconsin Sanctum for Wayward Boys. You’re the guest of honor.”

“What do you want from me?” you demanded, your voice shaking as you backed into the corner.

His laugh was low and humorless. “Want? Sweetheart, you don’t get it, do you? You don’t have a choice. You’re mine now.”

He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your face with a hand rough and calloused. You flinched, your skin crawling under his touch.

“You’ll be good,” he said, more to himself than to you. “Or you won’t. Either way… you’re staying.”

Before you could scream, he turned on his heel and slammed the door behind him. The sound of heavy locks clicking into place echoed in your ears.

You collapsed onto the cold, metal cot in the corner, your breath coming in ragged gasps. The silence was deafening, broken only by your own pounding heart.

Whatever this place was, whoever—or whatever—he was, you had to get out. But as you stared at the jagged scratches carved into the walls, the weight of his words settled over you.

You were his now.

[satinritual]

TETHERED.

CHAPTER TWO: Ghosts in the Walls

Summary: Even the smallest trip down memory lane brings up things you’d rather forget.

Wc: 2.7k

Previous Chapter | Series’ Masterlist.

The sun, at its zenith, poured pale light through the half-drawn curtains of your childhood home, threading long, wavering beams of soft gold across the living room’s worn hardwood floor. Dust motes danced in the glow, suspended in the stillness, as you stood at the threshold, one hand gripping the doorframe, the wood cool and familiar under your fingertips. You felt like an intruder in your own past, unsure of your place in this house that smelled of old pine and faded memories.

Yesterday, you’d unpacked your clothes with mechanical precision—folding shirts and sweaters with the same detached efficiency you’d once used to bury pain, to silence the echoes of a life you’d fled. Each crease smoothed, each hanger aligned, had been a small act of control, a way to anchor yourself in the chaos of returning home. But now was different. Now, you faced the rest—the remnants of a life you’d tried to leave behind, now waiting in worn cardboard boxes stacked precariously by the front door, like relics from a time you weren’t sure you could reclaim.

You approached the boxes slowly, deliberately, your sneakers scuffing softly against the floor, the sound swallowed by the quiet of the house. The cardboard was rough under your hands, edges frayed and softened from years of being shuffled between apartments, storage units, and now here, back in Jackson. Each box bore a different weight—not just physical but emotional, a different shade of nostalgia, regret, or ache. You dragged them one by one to the center of the room, the scrape of cardboard against wood a grating reminder of the task ahead. Arranging them in a loose semicircle, you felt like an archaeologist unearthing fragments of a self you’d forgotten—or tried to.

Kneeling before the first box, you pried open the flaps, the tape brittle and peeling, releasing a faint puff of dust that tickled your nose. The scent of aged paper and old ink hit you first, sharp and bittersweet, like opening a book long untouched. Inside lay a jumble of novels, their spines cracked and faded, pages yellowed from time’s relentless march. These were your childhood treasures, once lovingly stacked in the corner of your bookshelf, unread for years but never discarded. You lifted one—a dog-eared copy of The Secret Garden—its cover soft under your fingers, the title embossed in flaking gold. The smell of dust clung to it, but beneath that, a ghost of pine, as if the trees from your backyard had seeped into the pages, tethering them to this house, this town. You traced the spine, your thumb catching on a tear, and felt a pang, a quiet longing for the girl who’d read these stories under the covers, flashlight in hand, believing the world was kind.

Setting the book aside, you dug deeper, your fingers brushing something small and smooth at the bottom. You pulled it out, heart stuttering as you recognized it—a ceramic bird, no bigger than your palm, painted in vibrant reds and yellows, its wings outstretched in eternal flight. Cracks marred its surface, deep fissures where it had shattered years ago, glued back together with clumsy care, the seams visible like scars. You turned it over in your hands, the glaze cool against your skin, and a small, wistful smile tugged at your lips. You remembered the day it broke—your clumsy teenage hands knocking it from the shelf, your father’s patient voice as he helped you piece it together, promising it was still beautiful, flaws and all. You set it carefully on the mantel, its bright colors stark against the room’s muted tones, half-hoping its presence would mend something in you.

Your movements slowed, meditative, as you opened the next box, revealing a stack of family photos, their glossy surfaces dulled by time, edges curling like leaves brittle with autumn. You hadn’t planned to linger, but the weight of the images drew you in, each one a chapter of a life you hadn’t revisited in years. You sat cross-legged on the floor, the hardwood cold through your jeans, and began to sort them, placing each beside the growing pile of books.

The first photo stole your breath—a snapshot of you at five or six, perched on your father’s shoulders, your small hand reaching for the sky, as if you could pluck a star from the heavens. Your smile was wide, unguarded, eyes sparkling with a joy so pure it felt foreign now. The sight of your father’s younger face, his grin broad and proud, twisted something deep in your chest. You hadn’t realized how much you’d leaned on him then, how his love had been your anchor, unshakable, before the world taught you it could break.

The next photo was from a camping trip in high school, the summer after your mother left. You stood beside your father, arms wrapped tightly around his neck, your embrace raw, needy, a silent plea for stability. His flannel shirt was rumpled, his eyes tired but warm, and you could almost feel the crackle of the campfire, the chill of the night air pressing against your skin, the ache of loss that had settled in your bones. Her absence had hollowed the house, left echoes in every room, and you’d clung to him, your protector, your world, as if he could shield you from the void she’d left behind. You lingered on the image, your fingers tracing the edges, the memory a weight you hadn’t carried in years.

Then, buried beneath these fragments of joy, you found a photo you hadn’t expected, tucked away like a secret the universe meant to hide. Your breath caught, a sharp, painful hitch, as you pulled it free. It was you and him—your ex—at your last Christmas together, a time when you’d clung to desperate hope, convincing yourself things would change. In the photo, you smiled, arms around his waist, his lips brushing your cheek, a gesture you’d mistaken for love. The image was a lie, a frozen moment of denial, and staring at it now, the memories flooded back, unbidden, a tide too strong to hold.

His voice echoed in your mind, sharp and cutting, each word a blade you hadn’t dodged. “You’re too fucking sensitive, you know that? Just be normal for once.” “Why do you always make everything about you? You’re exhausting.” “It’s not my fault you can’t take a fucking joke.” The insults replayed, relentless, each one a reminder of how he’d chipped away at you, shrinking you into someone you didn’t recognize. 

Your hands trembled, fingers clutching the photo too tightly, the edges crumpling under the pressure. How had you let him do that? How had you let someone convince you your heart, your softness, your self was a flaw? The shame burned, hot and bitter, mingling with the grief of losing who you’d been before him.

“Fuck you,” you whispered to the photo, your voice barely audible, a shaky defiance that felt too late. You shoved it back into the box, burying it beneath the others, your breath coming in short, jagged bursts. The room felt smaller, the air thicker, the weight of the memories suffocating. How long had you been broken without seeing it? How long had you carried this shame, this hollowed-out version of yourself, without questioning it? The boxes loomed around you, their contents spilled across the floor like a map of your fractures, and for a moment, you wanted to burn them, to erase every trace of the past that clung to you like damp rot. But you forced yourself to at least place all the books back in your bookshelf, it was a minimum effort, but at least you were trying.

But beneath the pain, a flicker stirred—a quiet, stubborn spark of something new. It was faint, fragile, but undeniable, a whisper of possibility, of healing, of reclaiming the pieces you’d lost. You clung to it, letting it anchor you as you rose, brushing dust from your jeans, your hands still trembling but steadier now. You shoved the heaviest box into the corner, its contents a chaotic spill of books and trinkets, and stepped back, wiping sweat from your brow. The task wasn’t finished, but it was enough for now. Enough to breathe.

Downstairs, the low hum of the baseball game crackled from the radio, mingling with the muffled voices of your father and Joel, their laughter a distant, grounding sound that tugged you from the spiral of your thoughts. You paused at the top of the stairs, one hand on the banister, the wood smooth and worn from years of touch. You hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but their words drifted up, clear and unguarded, pulling you closer, as if they held the key to understanding the strange, liminal space you occupied.

“…never seen her like this,” your father said, his voice low, heavy with a vulnerability you rarely heard. The words carried a raw edge, a crack in the steady facade he’d always worn, even after your mother left. “She’s always been so good at holding it together, better than me when her mom… you know. And now, I don’t know what’s going on. She quit her job, Joel, packed up her whole life and came back. She’s never done anything like that. I’m worried she’s… I don’t know, breaking down, or maybe she really needs this, and I just don’t know how to help.”

Your stomach twisted, a knot of guilt and unease tightening with every syllable. Hearing your father voice his concern made it real, undeniable, a mirror held up to the choices you’d made. You hadn’t realized how your sudden return, your abrupt unraveling, looked to him—the man who’d been your rock, who’d pieced you back together after every fall. His worry was palpable, a weight you hadn’t meant to place on his shoulders, and it stung to know you’d shaken his unshakeable calm.

Joel’s response was softer, measured, the kind of tone that soothes without promising too much. “She’s just goin’ through somethin’, man. Happens to everyone. People process in their own way, at their own pace. Give her time.” His voice carried a quiet conviction, rough around the edges but steady, like he’d seen enough of life’s storms to know they passed.

Your father sighed, the sound heavy, resigned. “I know, I know. I’m glad she’s home, don’t get me wrong. But she’s actin’ like she’s cut herself off from everything she had out there. Her job, her friends, her whole life. I don’t want her to regret this, Joel. I don’t want her to wake up one day and realize she threw it all away.”

A thick silence followed, charged with unspoken fears, and you held your breath, your fingers tightening on the banister. Your actions, your retreat to Jackson, weren’t just yours anymore—they were ripples, touching the people who loved you, exposing their own vulnerabilities. The realization was a quiet ache, a reminder that you weren’t alone in this, even if it felt that way.

When Joel spoke again, his voice was calm, but there was a depth to it, a hint of something personal, almost protective. “She’s stronger than you think. She’ll figure it out. Just… be there. That’s all you can do.” The words were simple, but they landed like a lifeline, soothing the raw edges of your heart. You weren’t sure if he meant them for your father or himself, but they reached you, stirring that fragile spark of hope. Maybe he was right. Maybe you could rebuild, piece by piece, even if you didn’t know how yet.

Your throat tightened, a lump forming where words should have been. How could you explain this storm inside you—the confusion, the shame, the exhaustion of carrying a past that felt like a bruise? You hadn’t expected them to see you so clearly, to talk about you with such raw concern, and it left you exposed, vulnerable in a way you hadn’t prepared for. You lingered a moment longer, letting their voices fade as the radio’s static took over, the announcer’s drone a welcome distraction.

Stepping outside, you pushed open the front door, the cool evening air hitting you like a balm, sharp and clean, scented with pine and damp grass, the smell of Jackson, of home. The porch stretched before you, its wooden planks weathered and creaking under your weight as you hesitated, unsure whether to join them or retreat back to the safety of your room. The sky was a bruise of purples and golds, the sun dipping below the horizon, casting long shadows across the lawn. Your father and Joel sat on the porch swing, beers in hand, the radio perched on the railing, its tinny voice narrating the game.

Your father looked up first, his smile warm but tinged with that same silent plea you’d seen in his eyes before—a hope that you were okay, that you’d find your way. “Hey, kiddo,” he said, his voice easy, inviting, patting the space beside him on the swing. “Join us. Game’s tied, bottom of the eighth. Could use your luck.”

You managed a small nod, but your feet stayed rooted, your body too restless to settle. The weight of the day—of the boxes, the photos, their conversation—still pressed against you, making the idea of sitting, of pretending everything was normal, feel impossible. “Maybe in a bit,” you murmured, your voice softer than you intended, barely audible over the radio.

Joel’s gaze found you then, his eyes darker in the fading light, more intense than your father’s, searching for something you weren’t sure you could give. He didn’t smile, but his expression softened, his brows knitting slightly, as if he saw the storm behind your eyes and recognized it. He held out a beer, the bottle sweating in the evening chill, his fingers brushing yours for a fleeting second as you reached for it—a touch that lingered, warm and grounding, sparking a quiet awareness you weren’t ready to name. “Want one?” he asked, his voice rough but not unkind, the low timbre carrying a weight that made your pulse skip.

You shook your head, the gesture automatic, your fingers curling back into your palm, still tingling from his touch. “No, thanks,” you said, your voice steadier now, though your heart wasn’t. You stepped back, leaning against the porch railing, the wood digging into your hip, a small discomfort to anchor you.

Joel studied you a moment longer, his gaze lingering, not pressing but curious, like he was trying to read a language he didn’t fully understand. “You holdin’ up okay?” he asked, the question soft, almost an afterthought, but the sincerity in it caught you off guard. His eyes held yours, steady, searching, and for a moment, you felt seen—too seen, like he could glimpse the cracks you’d tried to hide.

“Yeah,” you lied, the word slipping out before you could stop it, your voice tight. “Just… settling in.” You forced a small smile, hoping it would deflect, but Joel’s lips pressed into a thin line, as if he didn’t quite believe you, though he didn’t push.

Your father adjusted the radio dial, the static clearing to the announcer’s excited call, and the moment passed, the tension easing like a held breath released. “Damn game’s gonna kill me,” your dad muttered, leaning back in the swing, his grin returning, though his eyes still flicked to you with that quiet worry.

You stayed on the porch a while longer, the cool air soothing the heat in your chest, the sounds of the game and their banter a backdrop to your swirling thoughts. The world felt smaller now, the house’s walls closing in, but out here, under the vast, bruised sky, you could breathe. You didn’t know what lay ahead, didn’t know how to untangle the mess of your past or rebuild the life you’d fled. But as you glanced at Joel, his profile sharp against the fading light, and your father, his laughter a familiar anchor, you felt that spark again—small, fragile, but alive.

Maybe, just maybe, you could find your way back to yourself, one cracked, beautiful piece at a time.

Next Chapter | Series Masterlist.

[loulou-land]

Prompt: “I Don’t See a Future With You”

Pairing: rockon | deacon kay/donovan rocker | 979 words | angst and mentions of infidelity

Prompt list used: here

The sound of heavy panting filled the dimly lit motel room, the scent of sweat and sex suspended in the air. The weight of things unspoken pressing down on its two inhabitants. They laid side by side on the stiff mattress, bodies still charged with the electrifying aftermath of another reckless rendezvous.

Rocker's chest rose and fell in sync with Deacon's, but the consonance ended there. In that moment, he came to the startling realization that they'd never been on the same page—hell, he didn't think they were on the same damn book at all.

Rocker would blame what happened next on the post-nut clarity—or maybe just the overwhelming exhaustion of constantly trying to break through a brick wall with no result. He couldn't really pinpoint it. All he knew was that the question had been haunting him, hanging over him during every interaction they had, every stolen moment they shared.

It had been there between their stolen kisses in the quiet locker room after the others had left. In the hurried, heated moments in the showers, swallowed gasps and moans, the warm spray doing little to extinguish the fire always burning between them. In the back alleys where his shoulder blades scraped against brick, feeling the ache of wounds that lingered long after they healed, and in sketchy motel rooms like this one, where they paid in cash and pretended not to look over their shoulders.

The question slipped free, sharp and accusing despite his best attempt to soften the blow.

"Deac...what are we doing here?"

Deacon stiffened immediately. The change was subtle, but Rocker felt it—in the way Deacon's arm twitched against him, like he was doing his best to keep his reaction under wraps.

"Don't," Deacon said, his voice a quiet warning. "Don't ask me that, Rocker. Just leave it."

Rocker turned his head, studying Deacon's profile in the flickering yellow light of the bedside lamp. He looked calm, composed. But Rocker had known him long enough to see through the mask.

"No," Rocker said firmly, pushing himself up on one elbow. "We need to talk about this. It's been months, Deacon. You can't just—"

Deacon cut him off, sitting up abruptly. "I said drop it." he said, brown eyes looking intently at him, almost begging.

But Rocker didn't. Couldn't anymore. The words kept tumbling out, heavy and raw. "This...whatever this is—it's not enough anymore. I can't keep doing this, Deacon" his voice broke. "I'm tired of feeling like I'm some dirty little secret you'll never admit to."

Deacon swung his legs over the side of the bed, his back to Rocker. He was already reaching for his jeans, pulling them on with jerky, deliberate movements.

"It's not that simple," Deacon said sharply, his voice tight.

"It's never that simple," Rocker shot back, sitting up fully now, the sheets pooling around his waist. "But I know you feel the same way I do. I feel it when we're together. I know this isn’t just fucking—‘getting our rocks off’."

Deacon froze mid-motion, his hands hovering over the zipper of his jeans. His shoulders tensed, the weight of Rocker’s words pressing down on him.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Deacon said finally, his voice low, dangerous.

Rocker’s laugh came out hollow. “Don’t I? Then tell me I’m wrong” he goaded bitterly. “Look me in the eyes and tell me this is just sex to you. That's all it’s ever been. That I’m imagining all of it—the way you take care of me, like I'm something precious…”

Rocker suddenly felt the tears running down his face, but couldn't stop the words from spilling out, still pleading with Deacon’s back. “The way you hold me after, like you’re afraid to let go. The way you look at me, like you—”

“Stop,” Deacon snapped, finally turning to face him. His eyes burned with a mix of anger and something deeper, something Rocker couldn't quite name. He saw the flicker of guilt there too and watched as Deacon flinched at whatever his own face was doing.

“No, Deacon. You don’t get to shut me down this time. You don’t get to walk away from this conversation.”

Deacon’s jaw clenched, his fists curling at his sides. “I have a wife, Rocker. I have kids. A family. A life I've built, fought for—”

“And none of that is real anymore!” Rocker interrupted, his voice rising. “Not if you're here with me, in these shitty motel rooms, pretending they don't exist. Pretending this means nothing to you. You can't have it both ways, Deacon. Not anymore.”

Deacon’s face twisted, something fragile cracking across his expression. But then his defences slammed back into place, his usual calm settling in, and his voice came out cold.

“I don’t see a future with you.”

The words hit him like a gut punch, stealing the air from Rocker’s lungs. For a moment, he felt the world come crashing around him, and he couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.

“Say that again,” Rocker whispered, barely recognizing his own voice.

Deacon didn't. He couldn’t. Instead, he grabbed his jacket and walked to the door, his steps heavy. He paused with his hand on the doorknob, his shoulders rigid.

For a moment, Rocker hoped—hoped he would turn around, that he might say something, anything. But then the door opened, and Deacon walked out, leaving Rocker alone in the silence.

The sound of the door clicking shut felt like a bullet to the chest, the finality of it shattering through the fog that had settled in him.

Rocker sank back onto the bed, the silence somehow feeling deafening. The room felt colder now, emptier. The words echoed in his mind, over and over, like a broken record.

I don't see a future with you.

And for the first time, he believed it.

[dadsbongos]

kanin under maanen

word count - 4.6 k

warnings - p in v sex, reader is described with words like "soft" and "round" and is also fem, rag's status as a widower is an afterthought, i kept losing track of where i put his furs

also - i think oldegaard is funger's norway?? or something... :P oops

“Please- I’ll be quick, I swear! I’ll carry things! I know how to mix herbs, I can heal you! And I’ll be quiet, too. Just, oh, just please... please let me stay with you…!”

Your hands rattle against your chest, which heaves like you’re fresh from a churning dash through the entirety of the dungeons -- just to ask this man, a stranger, a simple question.

“Can I stay with you, please?”

Ragnvaldr stares down at you over the bridge of his nose, seafoam eyes lapping over the weaker stain of your frame in his vision. Such bold, shameless desperation plagues him. He starts to wonder how you’d made it to the courtyard. How many cramped corners you’d jammed yourself into, barely scraping out of the dungeon beasts’ sights. How you’ve held your mind together to form words and continue your slow crawl to freedom.

The reddened, raw stretch of skin over his right ribs stings suddenly to emphasize your point. Ragnvaldr was raised well enough to know which shrubbery to scrub into which wounds and which ones to avoid at all costs, but his knowledge was poultry compared to what these cells demanded.

At the downwards twitch of your knees, Ragnvaldr can feel an uncomfortableness to rival the ache of his seared flesh twinge through his beating chest. He takes you by the shoulder, grip loosening when you flinch under his hold. Ragnvaldr shakes his head, silky cardinal tresses dancing over his skin. His lips, cracked and fading in color, pin themselves back faintly to ease your shivering uncertainty.

“No need to beg on your knees,” Ragnvaldr unlatches from you completely in favor of cradling the slowly leaking slashes in his side, “You said you can heal?”

“Yes!” you eagerly respond, nodding, “Yes, let’s sit you down!”

Ragnvaldr flows under the bristle of your fingertips, fur armor quickly coming off. His uncovered back was against the chilled stone highwall; lower body stretched out against the grass bed. Your hands move in smoother, more assured strides as you single out the most useful of your colored leaves.

“Can I…?”

“Ja, anything you need.”

Ragnvaldr’s eyes, you notice, have softened in how they watch over your work. The flutter of his lashes now matches the tenderness of their color. A near-missed swipe from a serrated weapon -- none like you’ve seen -- decorates the majority of his right side under his arm. Angry red lines string over the pink flesh. You press a careful hand into the surrounding area, testing the firmness of his body for soft spots. For broken bones. He allows it, despite the stark difference in strength and the fact he could probably crush your skull with one palm -- he allows your hands to roam.

The bag you pull from is ratty and he thinks the deep brown hue may be more from staining than original dyes, but he says nothing. You first pull out a thick book with yellowed pages between faded, peeling covers. Then, four blue herb sprigs and two glass vials -- the stretch and twist of your bones and ligaments beneath soft, unbruised skin is hypnotizing to Ragnvaldr. You crush the sprigs with a single vial before hurriedly separating the remains between the two vials and combining two blue vials into one.

“I don’t think it’s infected,” you murmur, clogging the vial with a cork. A lighter shade of blue now shimmers beneath the glass, darker shreds of herb cling inside the abandoned second vial.

Ragnvaldr shakes his head, “Nej. I’d have mentioned it.”

“Ah, right,” you cup a hand over your mouth, eyes wide as if you’re offstruck by your own words, “I didn’t mean- of course, you- I mean… I’m sorry,” you bashfully reopen the cerulean bottle and hold it up towards the man’s face, “I didn’t mean to suggest anything…”

A vicious anxiety continues to course through your chest, no matter how pliant Ragnvaldr has made himself to show his trust for your care. You’re visibly hyper-aware of how simply he could end your life. Something about the nature of this makes him nauseous.

“I’m sure you didn’t,” Ragnvaldr speaks softer than before, his voice a deep, gentle purr through the broad expanse of his chest. Tenderly, he swipes the open vial from your palm, the warmth from his skin washing over the cold nips of your own, “Thank you.”

Silently, you nod, wasting seconds to watch his adam’s apple bob thickly with each swallow before you pull loose the cloth you’ve collected through ransacked rooms. The strips coil around themselves by your kneeling legs.

“Can I start wrapping it?”

“Ja.”

“This might be…” you flounder under his eyes, instead stringing up the cloth in your hands and leaning over Ragnvaldr’s bigger frame. Invasive.

Ragnvaldr contemplates, for the second time, how you’d skipped past guards and tentacled flesh beasts and dogs. Even the impish, frail, winged creatures seem capable of knocking your terrorized self off your steady. Then, he asks himself why he’s taken you in. Oldegaard groomed strong warriors, and he had always taken pride in that. He was raised with scorching blood and willing hands, you were not.

But you remind him of the blacksmith’s girl. A sweet thing -- also unfamiliar with the fighter’s path. He prays she was killed quickly rather than being made to suffer.

Perhaps he can apologize to her and the rest of his gutted homeland by escorting you back out once he’s taken revenge.

“How did you get this?” your voice lulls Ragnvaldr from his own head, he looks up from your binding hands to your soft face, “Can I ask that? How were you injured?”

“A man with the head of a crow,” Ragnvaldr admits this to you with the ease he would his name, “A mace for an arm,” he gestures down the length of his side, “He’s much faster than I am.”

“I’m glad you got out,” you finish tucking the tattered end of your cloth spiral into the rest of the sprawl. You are suddenly afraid of being misconstrued, “I’m glad this dungeon couldn’t claim another soul.”

Ragnvaldr thinks you are as kind as the blacksmith’s girl, but you must have resilience to survive this far. More guts and nerve, and even teeth. They may be loose and accustomed to chewy, lavish fat, but you most certainly have teeth.

He wants to see them.

“I feel the same.”

You smile, bigger than he had earlier. The thin shadows and dimples highlighted in your face remind him of when he was younger, with the liberty to stare up at full moons. Absorbing and beautiful with radiance to shine over shadowed forests and into black night seas. He wants to return to there. Even in the cruel winters when he was faced with the opened chests and severed limbs of his deceased comrades. Even then, when he had to eat or be eaten, things were simpler compared to now.

“I think you should rest,” you frown immediately after speaking, “To avoid agitating the wound with the cloth… it isn’t very clean and I don’t have enough green herbs to keep infections at bay for long.”

Ragnvaldr tenses, but it’s not as nerve-wracking as it would’ve been mere moments ago. He clenches his fists and gently skims his knuckles down the pseudo-bandages, when it stuns him momentarily, he nods.

“We can’t stay out here, then.”

“There are rooms in the dungeon’s first level.”

“For torture?”

Dread fills you, that he may consider your suggestion foolish and ultimately dump you off to a guard, but then you see the lopsidedness of his grin. He’s messing with you.

“Well, yes,” you huff, coming to a stand and holding out both hands to assist him up, “but our options are limited.”

Ragnvaldr stubbornly stands on his own, pushing off the tower wall behind him and stumbling ahead of you towards the entry hall.

And with just as much defiance, you jam yourself under one of his arms before you can properly think out the action. Your desire to be helpful and needed by the strongman outweighs your politeness; not wanting to be abandoned with your back turned. Ragnvaldr jolts over you, but relents and leans the more unstable part of his weight against you. The trek is difficult, but you both manage. You feel less afraid traversing back through the dank, dark halls than you did leaving them, and you are not ignorant to the fact it's because of Ragnvaldr hanging over you. Injured as he is, he’s still far more competitively capable than you.

Once you’ve properly settled into a room and jammed the door shut, Ragnvaldr slips onto the sole creaky bed. His eyes close, exhaling noisily through his nose.

The bed’s frame is caked in dried, blackening blood and sits opposite a bucket full of murky sludge; a crinkly film drying over the surface. Pressed far into the side of the room is a table with glinting blades scattered across the stained wood. You can’t define what most of the tools are, but you can identify the skinning knife teetering by the closest edge of the table.

Aside from that are the typical smears of carmine blood over cobblestone: people before you and someday people after you. You can only pray now to the old Gods that it won’t be your own blood to join the pool.

For that, for your safe passage through the dungeons, you need to ensure your new party doesn’t fall to infection or blood loss.

“I’ll check you over tomorrow morning,” you tangle your fingers together, switching the weight between your feet, “Maybe tonight if it’s noticeably hurting.”

Ragnvaldr stares over at you again before patting the bed.

You heed the silent command, dragging along the worn bag you pulled from a barrel in the basement.

“What brought you here?” you wonder quietly, looking over at the man. He monopolizes the bedspace, spread wide over the mattress without even intending to.

His eyes drift up to the ceiling before finding your dutiful hands again, he follows the movements as they dig through your items. Taking stock of what you have, mourning the losses, and fretting over what you need. The blacksmith’s girl didn’t have hands as mystifying as you.

“I am here to find a relic that a certain person took from my people. This man is imprisoned somewhere deep down below,” Ragnvaldr is not so foolish as to believe his home’s pillaging is either undeserved or unbefitting for his soul to bear. He’s done the same, and the parasite from Vinland still burns a hole in his pocket. Even so, his human heart persists, “When I found them- I was one of only a few survivors.”

“Oh,” you pause your inventory search to very delicately press a hand to his shoulder and pat sympathetically, “I’m sorry. That’s terrible.”

“I’m going to kill him.”

He wonders what someone with as soft hands and face as you would think of such a declaration. If the teeth you have can chew through the toughness of his words. You pull back, but much slower than he was expecting, and return to sorting through your bag.

Much to Ragnvaldr’s surprise, you smile, “Then I’ll make sure you get there in one piece.”

You swallow his ominous message without pause.

“What are you doing here?”

“Ah, a friend of mine…” you worry your bottom lip between your teeth, fingers caught at the bottom of your bag with a thin slip of paper, “She’s pregnant and the man promising to wed her came for a job to set them up for life. He’s been gone for a while.”

“A friend would send you here? Into this evil?”

“She never said she wanted me to come here,” you shrivel into yourself, settling your bag against the bedpost leg, “I don’t know what compelled me… I really- “ your hands fist the torn, blood-stained sheets, “I was an idiot to think I could’ve done any good here.”

Ragnvaldr sits up, laying his calloused palm over yours, “The man you’re looking for. What’s his name?”

“Cahara. Cahara of the South.”

The man nods, auburn strands hanging with the motion, “And I’ll make sure you find him for your friend.”

“Thank you,” you notice the way he moves further to the side, a new gap on the mattress for your body to slot beside him, “Thank you, Ragnvaldr.”

He doesn’t think he’s heard someone outside the North say his name with such care.

You lay beside Ragnvaldr and revel in how close the two of you are. Safety and comfort buzzing in the lack of space.

He’s big. And warm. Like the sun.

You missed the sun.

…

Upon rising from slumber, you see that Ragnvaldr is still in unguarded rest. His bare chest rises and falls in soothed repetitive swoops, and his soft hair rains over the flat pillow beneath him. Prepared to slide off the mattress, you don’t register the arm fastening you to Ragnvaldr before you’re brushing against it. The arm tightens and you’re rendered useless.

You contemplate waking Ragnvaldr. Of squeezing yourself through the narrow hold. Even forcefully unwinding his muscle from your midsection.

You fall back asleep.

…

By the next time you’re awake, Ragnvaldr is too. You’ve sat him up against the scratched, chipped headboard and are undressing his wound. Green herb sprigs sit at the ready by your right knee in case pus is clinging to the cloth and oozing from open shreds. Thankfully, nothing of the sort awaits.

“Good!” you chirp, and Ragnvaldr remembers a full moon hanging over the spindly, leafless trees in the harsh falls of his youth, “There’s still some scratching, probably scarring later… but no infection! And it’s not inflamed or red.”

“We should continue our way, then.”

“Oh.”

Ragnvaldr laughs suddenly, from the hull of his chest, and only stops when the skin over his ribs pulls uncomfortably, “You want to stay here?”

“It’s been nicer than out there… We could stay in here. Away from the darkness.”

It has been nicer. The dungeons of Fear and Hunger are no place for domesticity, but anything is fair in a locked room. In a strange way, you wish you could stay with the beautiful man from Oldegaard.

His hair brushes past his shoulders and even though he is so much larger than you (you fear that he may even be able to kill a guard on his own), he is nicer than most men you’ve met in your life. Especially where you live in the seedier underbelly of Rondon -- men with spines are not uncommon, but men with spines and hearts are. Cahara was a welcomed gem in the coal mines of home.

And Ragnvaldr, you fear, might be your prettiest diamond.

He gazes upon you fondly. Seafoam you want to drink up. Or drown in. You haven’t decided yet. He cups your round cheeks and smooths back the stray hairs slicked to your face.

“Maanejente,” he coos beneath his breath, the harsh pads of his thumbs glide over the plain of your face and down your neck, working into the knotted meat of your shoulders, “Maanejente… nothing will hurt you. Not with me here,” he wants to see your teeth in that pretty smile from last night, “You have sugar in your heart, has anyone told you that?” you bare your teeth in a grin and he feels more successful than after any battle, “We’ll press on later.”

You nod under his calm massaging, eyes drifting to the fiery lines over his right side, “I don’t have anything to make the wounds close.”

“I don’t expect anything more,” he soothes, studying you kindly. Oldegaard had such a wide, unhindered view of the skies, when he was a boy he would stare into the moon’s craters. He’d compare them from night to night and dream about a day when he would defeat a beast so great, he’d be rewarded. The thick trees of Vinushka Himself would lift Ragnvaldr high into the sky and he’d be able to study the deep caverns up close, “You’ve healed me plenty to keep fighting.”

He became a man and forgot those dreams in favor of providing for himself and his wife and their child.

But he remembers himself in his purest form and finds that he doesn’t want to part with you after taking revenge against the foolhardy Le’Garde. If you asked, he would stop fighting after that, or he could become the God of Ultra-Violence. Whichever way you please, he’ll bend.

“Maanejente, we should go.”

You move swiftly, exhaling sharply with a curt nod, “Right!” you stow away the unused green herbs, “Right, we’ll go.”

“The job your friend had taken, what was his work here?” Ragnvaldr watches you move. Your sureness and determination sway him further.

“He had to find a man,” you bury yourself into the shadow of Ragnvaldr as he unsticks the room lock, “I’m not sure of the name.”

“An important man, though,” Ragnvaldr is embarrassed how his first thought is what you’ll do if he kills the man your friend is meant to rescue, “Must be.”

You realize what he means, eyes widening, “No! It… Well… It could be…”

Ragnvaldr’s warm gaze melts into the floor tiles as he guides you through the dim hallways. Prison guards moan and gurgle in the distance and the sound used to freeze you in your spot -- it now feels like the squeaks of mice with the Northern man in front of you.

“I’m sure if he knew,” you brace, “he wouldn’t get in your way.”

Ragnvaldr pushes through to the courtyard, unveiling rows of hanged men naked and baking in the open air. Despite the fact this is, in fact, open air, the scent of death continues to cling along each blade of grass. A mist clogs your vision.

Bared skin wafting more warmth than the exposed sun, Ragnvaldr looks down at you as you clutch your measly bag. Your expression is pinched like you’ve somehow stabbed him in the back. His red hair burns like gold embers in the bathing light.

“You would let me kill the man, then?”

“He hurt you,” you answer simply. A way so unbridled by dark and evil, Ragnvaldr once again cannot comprehend your survival past the entrance guard dogs.

You discuss a stranger’s death with the comfort you would which color you prefer for robes. You have teeth unsharpened by true terror. Ragnvaldr should get you free of these walls soon.

“Sugar for a heart,” he muses.

The two of you duck under an archway and find a womanly figure in the mist. Two oblong points jut out from her skull, and the closer you get the more defined her shapes become. Firstly, is that she’s naked (Ragnvaldr chuckles when you gasp and clench your eyes shut); second is that her horned points are ears on a mask. Her voice drips like honey from behind the bunny mask,

"Welcome to the meadows, o' travelers,” she shifts closer to the wood post behind her, your eyes slicing sharply away from the sway of her breasts, “Let us ease your suffering…” your stare dawdles up over the contemplative face of Ragnvaldr, then to his injured side, “The first one is free."

“Mending of flesh,” you mutter, creeping further into Ragnvaldr’s coziness, “Sylvian will heal you, if you…”

Ragnvaldr is struck by the opportunity, wringing his hand through yours and stringing you into the scene. The expressions you can make out from under the eggshell masks are highly varied -- from twisted agony to buttery bliss to far-off stares and brainless drooling. Some bodies are limp, unmistakable from corpses aside from occasional jolts and twitches of their hips. Other bodies are more lively, rocking and humping in veracity. A man with dark hair stands in the middle, he waves the both of you over.

"Are you looking for partners?” you clutch Ragnvaldr’s hand tightly and pointedly ignore his exposed groin, and he squeezes back. The man giggles quietly beneath his mask before holding out two more, “Just take off your clothes and put on these masks."

“Come, mannejente,” Ragnvaldr pulls you away from the man, a previously unfamiliar thrumming working hot blood through his entire body. He works off his furs quickly and lifts your bag from your shoulders to lay it down, “Would you be my partner?” he smiles softly, “I’m not sure of these other people.”

His utterance curls inside you like a full meal. The thought alone makes your mouth water. He’s got meat on his bones and you want to sink your teeth into him. If he were to sleep with anyone else in this garden, you can already tell the sight would make you physically sick. You hope that he’d feel the same.

“Right,” but the dungeons are not a place for his affection for you, and even though you know you’re not made for this world -- you don’t want to make him lose sight of his mission, “Everyone else is just strange.”

“Not you,” Ragnvaldr’s hands find your shoulders again -- working slightly under the hem of your lackluster cloth shirt, “Not you.”

Ragnvaldr is big and warm like the sun. More like the sun than what hangs in the sky above. The sun you used to run under as a small girl before the crushing weight of responsibility ran you tired and nerve-sprung. You miss those days. Somehow, even though he’s directly sifting off your clothes, you even miss Ragnvaldr.

Somehow, you need him closer.

And closer you pull Ragnvaldr, right by the furs draped over his shoulder; unsurely brushing your hands under the thick material. Ragnvaldr flows under your call, shrugging off the weight of his furs as he frees you of your own clothing. Little mind is paid to either you or Ragnvaldr by the other erratic bodies, but still, their presence is off-putting. In a terrible nightmare, you could see these people being broken from their overstimulation as soon as Ragnvaldr is tucked inside you. Then their eyes would wander -- would they judge you? A newcomer unwelcomed, perhaps?

Ragnvaldr gently kisses your cheek, sweeping you up between his arms and smoothly lying you on the plush grass. He kneels between your spread legs, angling the surrounding bodies out of your vision the most he could.

“Focus on me,” he simpers, all to your ears, “Sweet girl… snill maanejente...”

You never studied the tongue of the North, figuring that it would never come into play in the West, but you could listen to Ragnvaldr ramble to himself in his mother tongue all day. His hands slide over your sides, molding into the bend of your waist before snatching you up by the hips and perching you over his bent knees.

“I- “ wind catches in your throat, hands balling on the ground, “I’ve never laid with a man before…”

Ragnvaldr nods, leaning over you with his broader form to kiss you again. On the lips this time. He leaves with a soft, chaste peck before pursing his lips and letting spit pool in his mouth and laving your cunt with the saliva. He promises to be patient while slicking a single finger inside you.

The stretch is not entirely unpleasant, a faint pinch.

“Relax for me, sweet girl,” Ragnvaldr stares down at his hand slowly pressing into the apex of your thighs, “Take a deep breath and relax. Let me take care of you, yes?”

Ragnvaldr hikes one of your thighs to his waist, continuing to fingerfuck you until you’re gasping his name. His spit is joined by your natural wetness mixing along his thick middle finger, slippery and messy: he coils a second finger into you, carefully stretching your hole. Your other thigh joins at his waist of your own volition, jerking your leg into him in the throes of bubbling pleasure.

The warmth of Ragnvaldr’s body swaddles you, the meat of his palm grinding against your clit and sending a spiral of heat down your spine. Heating your chilled blood and raging all the way into your face.

Your bottom lip catches between your teeth, both hands squeezing around Ragnvaldr’s wrist as you cant your hips into his hand.

Noticing your earnest efforts to meet his fingering halfway, Ragnvaldr’s spare hand cups the flesh of your ass and pulls you higher over his lap, “Eager, maanejente?”

“Oh, please, Ragnvaldr!” you whimper, jerking onto his fingers. This begging he could get used to, “Please, please, I need you to- !” unfortunately for him, you stop that plea short, “I need you!”

“Beautiful voice for such greed,” he shadows over you, kissing and sucking the column of your throat as he replaces his fingers with the head of his cock. The enveloping heat of your cunt sucks him in as though you’re starved, tightly he grasps your hips and restrains the urge to give in and press your pelvis flush to his. He may leave violet imprints, but he knows he will soothe them later so the concern is quickly pushed aside, “My sweet girl is greedy,” he whines at the squeeze around his dick, “And so lovely when I’m inside her. So pretty, aren’t you?”

Your arms loop around his neck, nails puncturing into the skin of his bare back. Heat waves through your palms and through your arms -- all down your chest and into your churning gut. Most of all, however, the heat is buzzing where the both of you are connected. His hips slotted against yours.

“Pretty when you’re working,” he lifts you from his cock before thrusting in again, building in speed until his hips are pistoning into you in smooth, fluid strokes, “Pretty when you’re fucked,” his thumb finds your soaked clit and circles it, just to pinch out as many of your whines as he can, “Pretty - hah! - pretty maanejente.”

Ragnvaldr is big and broiling hot and you don’t know if you can stand to be apart from him after this. Dungeons be damned, damned as your souls.

His cock spears each sweet spot nestled inside you: thick and full. And messy. So wet you can feel your juices webbing between where his hips meet your thighs on every pull-back.

The arm not stimulating your button of nerves rolls under you and up to the back of your neck. He secures you in his hold, pressure on the sides of your throat though not suffocating, so he can push even further inside you. Ragnvaldr kisses up from your collarbones to your jaw and finally the corner of your mouth before he huffs into your mewling lips. Your thighs tighten around him as the steady warmth of ecstasy comes to a boil.

Ragnvaldr’s tongue dips into your mouth, desperate to taste your own tongue. Try as he may to keep quiet in favor of your moans, the throaty, raw groans and grunts from his chest never cease. The sounds make you wail louder into his gaping maw as your cunt cinches around Ragnvaldr.

When he was a boy, he used to dream of being lifted by swirly branches until he could scrape the moon with his fingertips. He imagines the feeling of you cumming with him is the same, inseparable euphorias digging up from his gut and swallowing the rest of his body whole. Your teeth latched into his neck, and he is unwilling to be released.

In darkness, he finds the moon. And for now, he doesn’t need to consider how foolish it is to trap a celestial body beneath him when he’s here for Le’Garde’s bastard head. In darkness, he’s illuminated by the powdery shine he senselessly clings to.

In the same way, you bathe in a sun that feels otherwise unattainable. Large and unburdened, Ragnvaldr warms your chills with ease under a sun less desirable than his company. A muggy, clouded sun -- wholly unappealing compared to the man above you.

This affection will eat you alive down here.

You might let it.

[starryhutcherson]

clapton davis fic where hes just like, super flirty and its really cute and the reader is oblivious to this but eventually clapton is like "damn it why cant you get the hint" so he opens up to the reader?&;&:& tysmm

━━ UNSUBTLE SUBTILITY

'୧ ‧₊ pairing: clapton davis x reader warnings: swearing, brief depictions of blood word count: 2500+ ⋆ ✩‧₊

The presence of Spring in Grizzly Lake brought a lot of things; including sporadic bursts of heaven-yellow sunlight, greenery spiraled across branches of previously barren tree skeletons, and, most importantly for students of Grizzly Lake High School, the promise of the Spring Fling Formal that was set to occur in the midst of May. 

For Clapton, this prom meant one thing; achieving his goal that’s been looming over him since freshman year — ask you out. Theoretically it’s a simple process, but if it was truly as easy as it sounds it would have occurred the very moment his eyes landed on your figure that first day in beginner spanish. 

You were the embodiment of perfection, punctuated through your gleaming smile that enraptured anyone in a ten mile radius, and the way the sun seemed to spread across the expanse of your cheeks, soaking you in the rays of heaven itself. Clapton was about ready to propose that day, and he didn’t even know your name. 

Now, roughly two years later, he was still amidst the same dilemma, the one in which he actually had to do the asking-out part. He was sure by now you would have picked up on his inherently obvious attempts to entice you, but you remained oblivious, so he decided he’d have to fully commit if he wanted to capture your attention. The art of unsubtle subtility, if you will. 

And so, forty three minutes into the depths of an agonizingly dull pre-calculus lesson, he confidently taps your shoulder with a fractionally tense hand, and indulges the tug on his heartstrings when you turn around, framed by the delicate glow of mid-morning spring that he adores so much. 

“Something wrong, Clapton?” Your voice cleaves through the classroom ambience of idle chatter and textbook pages being flipped. He flashes a boyish smile in hopes to flutter your heart in the same way you flutter his. 

“Do you get any of these questions?” 

“Yeah, they’re not too bad,” you reply, offering an ephemeral that renders his throat tight. 

He glanced down momentarily at his worksheet, adorned in scrawls and scribbles, yet lacking a single legible answer. His vision trains up back to you though, as it always does. He thought you’d easily detect the unspoken question for your help, but you remained stationary in your seat, as if waiting for him to say it. He couldn’t tell if you were genuinely that heedless, or if you were toying with him. Cat and mouse. 

“Seriously? When did they even teach us all this?”

You shrug mindlessly, and a lock of hair shifts from its position on your shoulder. He’d give anything to rope his fingers through it. “A while back. Why, you need some help?” 

Yes. He’d like your help, your compassion, your hand in marriage…

“Wanna walk me through it?” He tosses you a hopeful expression, and you answer back with a simple nod, sliding your chair along the cheap linoleum floor with a scrape, until the pair of you are sharing his desk, impossibly close. 

Your velvet voice is stringing sentences right down the expanse of his spine, though your attempts to help him understand logarithmic differentiation were ultimately futile— how was he supposed to concentrate on anything when he could feel your words blooming on his skin? See every freckle and divot etched into your face? He could taste his own heartbeat as it melded against his throat.

“So, this helps to avoid complications like the product rule and the quotient rule when— Clapton?”

He cocks his head up, trying to ignore the swell in his stomach when he hears the way his name sounds braided between your sentences, it suits your voice so well.

“Yeah? What’s up?” 

“Are you even listening?”  

Shit, no he absolutely wasn’t. How could he? Your proximity allowed him to see you. Like, properly see you. 

“Yeah. Totally. Logaramic thingyation,” he murmurs with overt certainty, and a puppylike grin. 

You snicker. “Couldn’t even get the name right?” 

He’s internally collapsing, though he manages to force some words out of his struggling brain. 

“Hard to think when you’re here.” He doesn’t dare sever the eye contact between you, hoping to hone the tension as long as possible, until he shatters you. His lopsided grin shrinks in a moment of brevity; you’re so close and he can smell you and your very essence. He’s sure that his ulterior motive is conveyed, through the way his eyes explore the breadth of your figure, never leaving, never faltering— yet to his pure irritation, all he gets is a blank expression and a confused chuckle. 

“Why is that?” You ask, and he wants to grab you by your shoulders and shake you. Are you really that dense? Your face is about as expressive as a rock, and you seem not even partially affected by the flirty wink he sent your way moments prior. 

“You’re kidding, right? Come on.” He fires back, raising a brow with a daring smirk. He wants you to inquire. You don’t. He realizes that trying to get you to take a fucking hint was about as impossible as teaching him calculus. 

You force out an awkward laugh that makes his skin crawl with defeat, but he doesn’t back down. “Come on what?” 

He refrains from the urge to say “me”, and instead huffs a sharp exhale through his nose. He’s moments away from spouting some lame compliment when the shrill cry of the bell interrupts his train of thought, and a tide of students eject eagerly from their seats and spill out into the corridor for lunch. 

Your friend approaches the desk with a quirked brow, reaching for your arm and mumbling something into your ear that’s intelligible to Clapton, tugging on you to try and steer you away from the classroom. And from him. You nod in response to her comment, before momentarily glancing back over to Clapton.

“I gotta go, Clapton. See you soon though, see you in History!” You send him a parting wave with a gentle flick of your wrist, before turning off and disappearing down the long stretch of corridor beside the classroom. His eyes follow you for as long as possible before your figure is consumed by the wandering horde of students, and he lets a grumbly sigh escape his parted lips before he packs up his belongings. This was going to be harder than he anticipated. 

*:･.・゜゜・

Clapton’s second attempt at alluring you resulted in more or less the same outcome. He’d entered the cafeteria, instantly bathed in the overwhelming odor of lysol and lard. His prior plan was to grab a doctor pepper, maybe a sandwich, and head over to his typical table to talk a painfully uninterested Sander’s ear off about you, but he scrapped it upon spotting you waiting in the cafeteria line, immediately changing course and veering over in hopes of a successful conversation.

He cuts in front of an unsuspecting freshman, ignores the irritated “What’s your deal man?”, and ‘accidentally’ brushes up to you until your bodies knock, and you spin around in confusion. 

Your face mildly relaxes in recognition, and he takes this as progress.

 “Hey. Getting lunch?”

“What else would I be doing?” You ask. Swing and a miss. 

He clears his throat a fraction, not allowing this to throw him off his game. 

“I dunno, maybe you just really like standing in lines,” he teases, and you laugh back. 

“Especially if the line is for overpriced cafeteria food,” you add with a grin.

The pair of you share a laugh, and Clapton marvels at the fact that you can look so irresistible even in the harsh fluorescence of the cafeteria’s artificial lighting. The pair of you fall into a partially awkward silence, and he follows your line of vision, watching as you observe some students hanging a hand painted banner advertising prom for the entirety of the cafeteria to see. ‘Spring Fling Formal, get your tickets now!’ glistens in white gold lettering. He prays he can take the banner up on that offer. 

“Are you doing anything for it?” A bit of a jump from the casual conversation, but he was itching to entice you and couldn’t risk missing his chance. 

“Hm? For what?” His lips twitch into a gradually familiar downwards smile. “Prom,” he says, gesturing at the banner, obnoxiously pink in hue and decorated with scatterings of hastily painted daisies. 

“Oh. Maybe— I’m not sure, it’s kinda ages away.” Yup. An impossibly distant period of two weeks. Clapton’s jaw ticks uncomfortably at the prospect of the narrowing window of time. He can’t afford to screw this up.

“Right. Sure. Are you… interested in anyone in particular though?” He probes, hoping that you notice the searing spark of desperation that lingers in the loop of his irises.

“Eh. Not really. Are you?”

His ego suffers a blow at your total ignorance to his pining. He’s on the brink of combustion; unable to endure the cosmic irony of having you so close yet so far. He pictures you for the umpteenth time, glittering in a dress that matched your eyes and his tie. A slow dance to a Sting song, his eager hands situated either side of your waist. You’d stare up at him with a dazzled guise, illuminated by the scintillation of indigo disco lights, and his tongue would delve into yours as he soaked up the saccharine flavor of the fruit punch lingering on your lips. 

“Yeah.” He states bluntly, staring at you as if you hung each and every star. “Yeah, I’m interested in someone.” 

You raise a brow. “Oh yeah? Who?”

He clears his throat. “Someone special. Someone super special.”

“You should ask them!” “Easier said than done,” he chuckles humorlessly. 

Your lips part as you go to investigate further, but are interrupted by the scowl of the lunch lady barking at you for your order. He notes it, mac and cheese plus a diet sprite— you’re handed it moments later, and your vision is torn from him and towards your small circle of friends seated across the cafeteria, who are waving you down. You’re gonna leave again? 

“I better go sit down, but, uh, you should definitely ask that person to prom. Be upfront and everything. Y’know, you only live once, and all that, right?” 

He swears he’s going to implode at the unbridled irony of this entire situation. Be upfront. He’s been upfront! 

“You know it,” he quips weakly as you slink away. 

He’s been showering you in signals for months, and you’d always abandon them, his attempts for your acknowledgement left festering as sour memories in his head, things that made him roll over with shame in bed at night, and all for what?

He brainlessly orders his doctor pepper with a monotone grumble, feeling the frigid prick of the can’s condensation gather in his palm as he wonders what the hell it’s gonna take for you to take a damn hint. 

*:･.・゜゜・

After yet another failed interaction, Clapton had spent the span of the rest of the week stripping his words to the marrow. Every conversation he indulged in with you involved his inner thoughts spouted in their rawest form— cocky compliments, lingering touches, looks of intense pining and yet somehow you continued to miss them. Every. Last. One. 

He was nearing his wits end, teetering on the cliff of insanity and seconds away from taking the plunge. Maybe he was the one who needed to take a hint. Maybe you were trying to tell him that you weren’t interested and he wasn’t giving it up. It was a sickening notion, one that thrashes wildly in his stomach. He didn’t know much, but he did know that he’d never be satisfied until he knew your stance on him for certain.  

He was just gonna say it. 

In hindsight, it wasn’t Clapton’s smartest move to deliver the question in the midst of a dodgeball game, but his thoughts were warped and he decided now was as good as ever. His voice was barely even audible beside you over the screech of tennis sneakers scraping the gym floor and the continuous sound of rubber balls coming into contact with student flesh. 

“Hey!” He exclaims. 

“Hey?” You say back, turning to him momentarily. Yet again, he wonders how you do it. Hair blown back effortlessly, skin glistening with a fragile sheen of moisture that is hardly off-putting, if doing something it aids to soften your otherworldly glow. Meanwhile, he was panting like an old dog, hair matted to his forehead in sodden chunks beneath his obnoxious sweatband. 

“I needa ask you something!” It’s sink or swim. His teeth graze the inside of his cheek for a moment, his gaze varying between you and the opposing court, to prevent a dodgeball to the head. 

“Yeah?” Sink or swim sink or swim sink or swim. “What’s up?” He melts at the sight of your semi-breathless smile.

“Are you still dateless? Like, to prom?”

Your forehead creases, and you return the sideways glance. “Um, yeah. Why?”

With a delayed exhale that rings heavy in the pits of his lungs, he turns his entire body to face you, which in turn makes you face him as well. 

“Look, I’ve been trying to say this for months. Well, not months. Maybe weeks. Whatever– point is, it’s been a while. Like seriously, a long fucking time. And I swear I’ve been so obvious, but clearly not obvious enough because you’re still, like, totally unaware or whatever. But, like, basically, I was wondering— I’ve been wondering if—” “Clapton!” You exclaim hurriedly, splintering his stammered sentence in an instant. He barely has time to cast his visage front on, before a dodgeball with an extremely strayed trajectory soars gracefully through the current of the air and hits Clapton square in the face. Guess he wasn’t paying enough attention after all. 

An expletive leaves his lips, muffled by the wail of your gym teacher’s whistle. His head is temporarily a warped whirlwind resembling TV static, though the feeling fades fairly quickly.

You turn to him in a mild panic, noting the faint trickle of glossy crimson that has started to spill from his nose. “Holy shit! You’re bleeding! Lemme take you to the nurse.” 

He can’t help but twist his lips up to form a slight smirk as you place a worried hand on his bicep. The touch scars on his nerves, your fingers like an angel’s caress. 

In all honesty, he feels fine, but you offered to take him to the nurse— was he going to give up that delightful invitation? No. He was not. 

The pair of you are excused from the gym, trekking down the hallway in an atmosphere of silence so thick it’s practically tangible. Upon arrival at the nurse, Clapton’s seated in a shitty plastic chair, holding a paper towel held to his nose and tipping his head slightly backward. He couldn’t believe that his one chance of actually spitting his desperate question out was interrupted by a stray dodgeball. A goddamn stray dodgeball. 

You linger in the doorframe, taut as a coiled spring. The nurse, underpaid and painfully unsympathetic, leaves the pair of you once she deems Clapton to be ‘good enough’, in her exact words. 

You approach him, taking the scarlet-spotted tissue and holding it to his face for him, a gesture which turns his insides in on themselves. 

“Hey Clapton? What were you saying before?”

Shit. 

“What?” He croaks gutturally, trying and failing to play dumb. He knew damn well what he was saying. Prom with him. 

“You were asking me something. Before you got, y’know, obliterated by a flying dodgeball.”

He snickers feebly, even if for a moment. “Oh, yeah.”

You open your eyes wider as if to say, “Well?”

The climate in the room seems to sink heavier, cradling the scent of antiseptic and drying blood. Clapton’s words fizzle out on his tongue no matter which way he arranges them in his head, but he knows he just has to get it out—- rip off the band-aid, break the ice, all of that. 

His eyes, big and wide and drinking in your face so dangerously close to his, melt into an unmistakable question. He counts himself down in his head. Now or never. 

“Prom. I was asking if you wanna go to prom.” He takes a staggered breath. “With me, I mean.”

Oh. 

Oh. 

The genuine beam you erupt in subsequent to his words is enough to ease his nerves. It’s enough to make him soar, actually. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” That wasn’t a no. That wasn’t a no. His heart hurts with hope. 

“I tried to. You’re just… you kinda suck at taking hints.” He chuckles. 

You roll your eyes, picturing every moment leading up to this one that you spent with him. Upon further reflection—- yeah. Yeah, you clearly did. People don’t look at friends the way he looked at you.

“Shit, I kinda definitely do,” you murmur. 

He doesn’t let the quiet last long.

“So…?”

“Oh. Right, yeah. Clapton, I’d love to go to prom with you.”

The smile he wears is irresistibly contagious. Finally. Finally. Two long years of craving you; two years of memorizing every quirk and curve and contour. He knows it’s sort of ridiculous to get so elated about some forgettable high school dance, but the image he can see so vividly in his head; the lights and the dress and the swarm of butterflies that comes with your killer smile… it’s worth every awkward exchange, every word that’s fallen on deaf ears.

“Seriously?” He asks, reaching for your hand and wallowing in the way you so brainlessly accept the touch.

“Seriously.”

“Good. You won’t regret it.” 

And something inside you tells you that he’s absolutely right. 

reminder, my requests are always open

masterlist

✩‧₊˚

[gogobootz1]

The Mentor Pt. 6

Finnick Odair x Reader

Summary: Five more years of victordom have passed, but the Capitol is still throwing surprises at you.

Part Five | Part Seven

A/N: SURPRISE! This is coming back because I felt like it and some lovely folks left comments recently ♥️ we can blame my absence on this semester, but thank putting off a 14 page final paper for this bout of productivity! (Also I was going for a ranch vibe with this pic? I'll start putting his face back on these soon lol)

Warnings: description of blood

Tears welled in your eyes as you finished dicing yellow onions, and you wiped your face with the back of your arm as you turned to scrape them into the pot. Caesar Flickerman’s voice floated in from your living room, the TV playing in the background so you could keep an eye on the quarter quell special. Count on Caesar to draw the whole thing out, emphasizing the significance of the anniversary and whatnot. You couldn’t help but be curious, though. The last quarter quell had fifty tributes, and you weren’t even alive to see it. You had, however, seen its effects on your occasional drinking buddy, so you were certain this year would be a doozy. 

It seemed Caesar was finally getting to the point as you began chopping a red pepper. He introduced the President, and your hand tightened around the knife as Snow began his address. That voice haunted your dreams, and hearing it at home was far more unpleasant than anywhere else. You did your best to tune him out. That was, until he announced it. 

“As a reminder that even the strongest cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, on this, the third quarter quell games, the male and female tribute are to be reaped from the existing pool of victors in each district.” 

Your ears began to ring, and suddenly, you couldn’t hear the rest. Existing pool of victors. Existing pool of victors. Sharp pain brought your vision back into focus, and you blinked to find blood from the backs of your knuckles spilling over your pepper. Though your brain stopped moving, your hands hadn’t. 

You took a silent step back from the counter, staring at the ruined cutting board. Tearing your gaze away, you started rifling through cupboards trying to find a towel. The ironclad grip your dominant hand kept on the knife wasn’t helping, but it certainly hadn’t occurred to you to let it go. Out of options, you shoved your hand under the faucet and watched water carry excess blood away.

Vaguely, you registered the pain in your hand as your water heater got to work, but your eyes stayed locked on the drain. A loud ring of the phone startled you out of your reverie, to the point where you’d launched your still-dirty kitchen knife into the wall next to it. But it pointed you in the direction of some towels, at least, and you snatched a clean one from the laundry basket on the stairs. 

Sat on the second to last stair, you hunched over to wrap your hand. The world felt surreal as you stared at your shoddily covered wound, only looking up when your door burst open. You weren’t surprised to see Darla. Her scraped knees, bloody nose, and breathlessness didn’t shock you either. She probably fell when running over, but you were sure you looked just as frazzled. Grabbing her a towel from the basket, you nudged her with it before she could sit. 

“Answer Finnick.” 

She picked the phone up from the receiver, doing a double take when she registered the kitchen knife. 

“Howdy,” she huffed, licking her top lip and clearing some blood. 

You could barely hear Finnick’s resigned tone from the other end. “Hey, D,” he breathed. “How’s…” he trailed off. 

“Well, there’s blood on the cabinets,” your head popped up when she said it. You hadn’t even noticed the trail you’d left in your wake, “Water on the floor, and a knife in the wall.”

The faucet was still on, too, and you definitely hadn’t turned off the stove. It was a relatively generous assessment from her. 

“Will you put her on?” 

Darla stuck the phone straight in your face. When you grabbed it she reached for another towel, and pushed it along the floor with her foot. 

“Finnick,” your tone was almost too even for the circumstance. 

“Don’t do it,” Finnick warned, knowing you far too well. 

“Save it,” you shot right back, “I know you’re thinking it too.” 

“I don’t have a choice,” he said firmly. "They all have kids. Who would I be if I didn’t?” 

Though Darla was busy cleaning up after your spell, you weren't stupid enough to think she wasn't listening. “You know I feel similarly,” you chose your words carefully. 

Finnick did know, he’d seen what you’d given up for Darla. How you’d put yourself through the wringer for years just to spare her. He had no doubt you’d act just the same now. Only he didn’t want you to. He would’ve hated seeing Darla in there, but he’d be a dead man if you were in the arena with him. Your stubbornness didn’t stop him from making a final plea. 

His soft call of your name cut your heart worse than you’d cut your hand. Suddenly, you could no longer bear speaking to the man who’d been your constant for the past five years. “I’ll talk to you soon. I’ll see you soon, Fin. Take care of yourself.” You stood and shoved the phone back on the receiver before he could say another word. Talking to him, thinking about him, neither would help you hold yourself together. 

You stepped away from the phone, but stopped in your tracks to look at the knife. Some of your blood still lingered. 

“Leave it,” Darla called from the kitchen, “it’s a bold new piece of decor.” She’d taken up interior design in the wake of her victory. You shook your head with a tiny smile tugging at the corner of your lip. 

Coming to her side, you both looked down into the pot she’d taken off the stove. Burnt onion wouldn’t make much of a base. “There’s leftover pasta in the fridge,” you offered, sadly. 

“Yes please,” she nodded quietly. You passed behind her to heat some up, and she settled onto one of the stools at your counter. It took you a minute one-handed, but Darla seemed too absorbed in quiet reflection to care. 

She dug in as soon as you slid her a bowl, but you stopped short before sitting down with your own. She raised a brow. 

“I’ll be back,” you shook your head, taking your dish and slipping on shoes. The wind whisked straight through your clothes as you crossed the street. 

Darby had never been close with you, nor Darla. He was there when she won, and you could tell he was somewhat relieved to only bring home one casket. But you weren’t close enough for him to tell you that, because he wasn’t your trainer.

He wasn’t even there when you’d won. The story was that Darby was too ill. It was true, only the illness was drug induced. District Ten had only one trainer that year. 

The woman who had trained Darby had trained you, and you were the last District Ten victor she’d lived to see. Sam was kind but incredibly sharp. Gentle, yet challenging. Observant and astute, she’d assessed you for all you were and marketed a more palatable version to the good citizens of the Capitol. Beyond helping you survive the games, she helped you navigate the aftermath. Without Sam and without your Nana, you wouldn’t have lasted a month outside the arena. She picked you up and dusted you off again and again like your mother had when you were a girl who thought she was invincible. No time had hurt as badly as losing your first tributes, though, but Sam saw you through that too. 

Before your second try at mentoring, however, she’d died. A horseback riding accident was the official story, but Sam had left the leather watch she loved at your house just before. She insisted on doing the dishes after you’d made dinner, and you later found it by the sink. Sometimes you swore you caught glimpses of her long silver braid. Each time it happened, you opened the drawer of your nightstand to stare at her watch.

Her death hit Darby hard, they’d been the only two Ten victors for a while. He hardly held it together during Darla’s games. Afterwards, he fell apart.

You’d been mentoring with Darla ever since, comforting her with each loss as Sam had with you. But you knew Darby had seen this announcement, and everyone in the district knew what it meant. 

You stood at his door a few minutes after knocking. You didn’t know what you were expecting, but you felt compelled to come over anyway.  

A blue eye peaked from where the door had finally opened a crack. You held up the still-steaming bowl as an offering. Darby pulled the door fully open and stalked off into his house. Trailing after him, and closing the door behind you, you noticed how skinny he’d gotten since you’d last seen him. 

“Thanks,” he said, raspy, when he took the bowl from you finally. You could only nod. 

“I’m sorry,” you offered, knowing full-well how little it meant. Darby only sighed and shook his head. 

He shrugged, stabbing a fork firmly into the bowl. “I always had that feeling,” he shook his head. Your brows furrowed in confusion, and he went on, “that it wasn’t over. Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about it. They own us, of course they’d want us back.” 

His passe tone rattled you. You nervously wiped your non-covered palm on your pants, “Right.” You looked around his dusty home awkwardly, “Well, see you soon.” Trying to leave him in peace and for your own, you made for the exit. 

“I’ll say hi to Sam for you,” he said from behind you, mouth full. It stopped you in your tracks. You couldn’t even look back at him. 

“Thanks.” 

————————

The months leading up to the reaping were hellish, with you and Darla trying to shed your rustiness. You insisted you both throw your all into prepping for this, but that was mostly a ruse. Volunteering for her had been your plan since the announcement. At the very least, you enjoyed your time at home with her. You hadn’t gotten any calls about trips to the Capitol, and Finnick told you he hadn’t either. At least they were letting you enjoy your last few months alive. 

As Winter went, and Spring too, the day had finally come. Off to die for the second time. 

You zipped the fly on a pair of jeans you hadn’t ever worn. Your stylists had shoved them in your closet a long time ago- since they looked exactly like the ones you’d won in. The head gamemaker your year had a background in fashion, and gave tributes plenty of chances to change dirty or worn clothes in for unique ones.  People loved the look so much that denim had been a brief Capitol fashion trend. You figured it’d send a message to anyone who knew. After all, you’d cheated death in these once, you could do it again. 

You were up early, and since you and Darla had agreed to arrive separately, you took a long walk around your home district. Your long lap, with sights you’d grown up loving and smells you’d always scrunched your nose at, was met with a few pitying glances. Eventually, it lead you to the Justice Building, and you took an extremely early seat. People took their places as the hours passed. 

"Remember, it’s just for show," Sam’s voice rang in your head. It was the last thing she said to you before you entered the arena. 

“Hey,” your head snapped to your right where Darla took her seat. She looked tense. You took her hand and squeezed it, a silent reassurance. It’s not you. You’ll be ok. I’ll miss you. 

The district filed in for the ceremony, unusually unorganized. The only people the Peacemakers were concerned about policing, however, were already on stage. 

Your annoyingly vibrant district escort began the ceremony, and you ignored her for as long as you could bear it. “Ladies first,” you blinked to attention, head held high. This was it. Dug your nails into your palm to stop your hands from shaking. You swallowed. I volunteer as tribute. You willed the words to the front of your brain, hopefully convincing your mouth to form them when the time came. 

But you didn’t have to. She had called your name. You willed your face to remain impassive as you squared your shoulders. You forced yourself to take a proud step forward. Perception was everything here. You couldn’t look weak, not to the capitol, and not to your fellow tributes. 

“I volunteer as tribute!” 

Your well-crafted mask fell with the words. Shoulders sank as you turned to her in shock. Not once did you think she’d volunteer for you. But you could almost hear Finnick’s voice reminding you how similar you were. It was why you got along like a house on fire. Only, this time you had been so recklessly loyal to her you’d miscalculated. And it would almost certainly cost your tribute her life. 

“Darla,” you breathed, quiet enough for only her to heard, and sharp enough for it to come across as scolding. 

She didn’t even turn your way. 

You were escorted straight to the train before Darby could even be picked by default. The new (old) District Ten tributes were escorted straight to the train as well. Only then could you confront your mentee. 

“What the fuck was that?!” You stood in a rage. She walked right past you toward the couches, but you caught her wrist.  

“You don’t get to scold me for saving your life,” she shook her head, and tugged her wrist free.

“Sure I do, when you’ve acted like a fool! It was random, D! We agreed to let it be random!” 

“Oh, that’s rich!” She scoffed. 

“Excuse me?!” 

“You’re still lying! You really think I didn’t know you were going to volunteer for me?” Darla asked, throwing her hands up in frustration. She fell back onto the couch. 

You stepped back, anger fully dissipated. “What?” 

“You hung up on Finnick nearly every time I’d walk in,” she shrugged, “you’re brave not subtle.”

Your shoulders sagged, and you lowered yourself onto the luxurious Capitol sofa next to her. For a second, you let your head fall into your hands. 

“Still,” you persisted, looking straight ahead, “it was going to be me. You didn’t have to-“ 

“I know what all you’ve done for me,” she said simply. You sat straight up, finding her face with wide eyes. No.

“Finnick?” He wouldn’t. 

“Johanna,” she shook her head. Your shoulders sagged. It made sense that Johanna knew, she was almost in the same situation. And you wouldn’t have expected them to keep things from each other, not before they broke up at least. 

“Darla,” you started. Why hadn’t she confronted you when she found out? How long had she been holding on to this knowledge? Did she think differently of you? 

“You’ve been falling on your sword for me for five years,” Darla said solemnly, “it’s high time I took it away from you.” 

Your stomach ached, and tears blurred your vision, “D.” 

She pulled you in for a hug when your voice broke. “You gave me my life back,” she whispered, “I’m only doing the same.” 

You pulled away from her, wiping vigorously at your face. “I won’t watch you lose.” 

She sniffled a wry laugh, “then make me win. Maybe this time it'll stick.” 

————————————————————

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Sorry if you no longer want to be tagged and sorry for this formatting (Tumblr is confusing and it's the only way the tags would work?) ! Let me know and I'll remove you from (or add anyone who wants to be on) the list

[slashingdisneypasta]

Freddy Krueger x Reader || Drabble

Plot: It's been a long week so when you fall asleep, 'waking up' in that old Elm Street house like you always do, you just go rifle through the place for something to read. // Freddy reads you The Silence Of The Lambs because you said you like his voice.

Warnings: Mention of The Silence of The Lambs content.

You're curled up on the couch reading a battered copy of The Silence of The Lambs that you found tucked away on a shelf under the TV, Freddy's name written in pencil and all caps on the inside cover, when someone wanders into the living room. You don't look up, too tired after the longest week ever to interact. You know who it is, anyway. There's only one person it could be.

This is His World, after all.

He leans over your shoulder, his arms folded on tje arm of the couch behind you and the brim of his hat scraping gently the side of your face. "Hmmm,.. very interesting choice."

Curious, despite yourself, you turn a page and turn your head to the side, to see him. "You've actually read this? Or did you just Place it here?"

"What? You think I don't read?" He smirks, getting up and rounding the couch- nudging you in the arm so you shift and make room for him. With a pout, you relent; though you were so comfy there.

Freddy sprawls back, chucking his feet up on the coffee table so muddy boots leaving crumbs of dirt on the wood, and stretches one of his arms over the back of the couch behind you. You get comfy again beside him, drawing your knees up to your chest and handing him the book when he makes a grabby motion. "Well you are a geek." You give a small grin. "Maybe you do read. Do you?"

"More then you think, kid. Oh- " With eyes filled with more fondness then you should have for the Bastard, you watch him quickly skim the back cover like you do when you're handed a book you've loved, then lose your page and skip ahead to chapter 33. It's one of the doggy eared paged. The book just seems to open up naturally to it, in fact- though that could simply be magic. "Here's where you wanna read." He smirks, a gruesome look on his burnt-up face. The book falls in his grip, lowering so the top of the spine points your way, so you can more easily take it from him. "Best chapter."

"You worry me." You tease, squinting your eyes and screwing your nose at him with a reproachful grin. Then flick the spine back upwards so the pages face him. "Read it for me."

"Oh?"

Giving a nod, you cross your arms and lean into his side. "Mhm, I like your voice. And I'm too tired to do any work."

"Lazy." A teasing smirk spreads across his face then, but you just waive a dismissive hand at him. Whatever. There's a smile on your face, though.

You like it when he acts like this, like just Freddy. Like a person, not a nightmare or a monster. He is both of those things, theres no argument, but when he's not trying to get anything from you, hurt you, or scare you, he's also clever. And funny. And makes good company.

It's rare but that's why you enjoy it when you have it.

"You like my voice, huh?~ " You cant see his face anymore but, lord, you can hear the perverted grin. The smugness and the pride. "Oh, good to know."

"You knew that, doofus. Now read to me."

~

It's a very disturbing chapter, all about moths and skin suits made of girls, and it's only made worse by the fact that an actual psychopath with nasty depraved thoughts of his very own is reading it to you-- but your attention is rapt. And he doesnt stop reading at the end of the chapter, he keeps going, and you gently close your eyes.

Your eyes were closed for a while, when you crack them open and see the lighting in the room changed. Grew darker, pinker, over time and when you turn your head you see out the window that the 'sun' is falling out of sight. The hand at the end of the arm behind your head flicks upwards, gently, almost just like a muscle spasm, and with it all the candles in the room lit up the space in warm yellow light.

You smirk, and give a snort thats almost silent. Oh, he may be a nasty, cruel serial killer but he sure knows how to set a scene.

"Smooth." You whisper, voice horse from not speaking for a while. And also not wanting to interrupt him reading. 

When you glance up at him, he doesn't unglue his eyes off the pages in front of him, but he does smirk.

[edupunkn00b]

Pencils Down

You know those schools where you're stuck with the same kids year after year after year? Where everybody knows everybody's business because you've been in classes with the same exact people since you were five? Virgil finally discovers he doesn't know everything about the very perfect Logan Stone.

Written for @sanders-sides-uncorrect-quotes for @tss-camp-and-coffee's Camp Cartoon writing event. Prompt: Analogical academic rivals to lovers. I hope you enjoy! - WC: 3075 - Rated: T - CW: there's a lot of hidden angst here with a happy ending. - For more of my Camp stories

Twenty-one yellow #2 pencils scratching against paper couldn't compete with tick-tick-tick of Mrs. Rosenblum’s big wall clock. With a half-hour to go, Virgil was already on the second-to-last page of their exam, the hours—and hours and hours—of drills and practice tests with his dads finally leaving him feeling like might, just might have a handle on this thing.

The scrape of a chair drew his—and Mrs. Rosenblum’s—attention. “Mr. Stone, please remain seated until you are finished with your exam,” she said in that overly chipper voice she used during tests.

Virgil didn’t need to look up from his own exam to imagine Logan Stone’s nervous little twitches, the patented eye-glass nudge or the way he’d fiddle with his tie. Who the hell wore a tie to high school, anyway?

“Yes, ma’am”—suck up—“I am finished.”

What the—

“Oh, well then, yes, please,” she waved him forward and he shuffled down the aisle, the tips of his ears burning bright red from the glares of his fellow classmates.

This exam, all of their exams this year, really, put them in the running for one of two full-ride scholarships for the school of their choice. With the first spot practically allotted to the principal’s own kid, it was a race to the top.

And fucking Logan Stone was in his way.

“Kiddo, if you don’t get the spot, it’s okay, we’ll make it work,” Pops had said over dinner last night. “When the universe closes one door, another opens. And you can look at other schools, too.”

Dad had ruffled his hair, smirking when he failed to dip away fast enough. “We want you happy, Virge,” he’d said, no trace of his typical joking sarcasm. “Whatever that looks like.”

“I really want to go to GenTech.”

Dad had tiled his head then, that spark in his eye. “Then maybe you just need to… nudge this guy down a flight of stairs before the next test. Steal his spot.”

“Jay!” Pops had scolded, playfully tapping his shoulder.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding!” Dad had protested, then winked at him. “Unless…”

Dragging his concentration back to his work, Virgil turned the page and dove into the final problem set.

He didn’t notice the way Logan lingered in the doorway before turning and disappearing into the hall.

~

Three days later, Virgil sat bouncing his knee at the kitchen table. He refreshed the StandardScore dashboard for the tenth time in half as many minutes, waiting for the little pending box to be replaced with his updated rank.

With less than fifty kids in the entire grade, class rankings were an open secret at school. It wasn’t hard to do the math, to work out exactly where the top five or six students slotted in. And for the past three and a half years, Logan Stone had stood proud at the top of the list quarter after quarter after quarter.

There was the singular exception of that one blessed quarter last spring. Aside from that, Virgil had always been right behind him, running to keep up in a race it seemed he’d never win.

But last April, Logan had missed three days of class in a row, unexcused and unexplained. It was the first time Virgil could remember Logan missing school. Like, ever.

On the fourth day, he’d strolled into the classroom, new tie perfect and hair slicked back like nothing had ever happened. If it wasn’t for the blip in Virgil’s own ranking that month, touching the number one spot just to ricochet back down by the end of May, he might have believed he’d simply misremembered the whole thing.

Logan never talked about it and, frankly, Virgil never asked.

He hit refresh again and the screen took a little longer to load this time. He waited, jiggling knee sending ripples through his half-drunk orange juice. Finally the screen resolved.

Class rank: 2nd

“Unnggggh!” Virgil slammed his laptop shut and fell forward, stopping himself before he banged into it with too much force.

“Aw, Kiddo,” Pops murmured, his big broad hand gentle on Virgil’s shoulder. “Not what you wanted to see?”

“He’s still ahead of me,” he muttered, sitting up and drawing his hood down over his eyes. If he couldn't go to GenTech, he’d end up at State.

With his brothers.

“I know I aced that test, too,” he said, slumping against Pop’s shoulder.

Pops hummed low in his chest, his breathing a steady, reassuring beat. Virgil let out a low sigh. “He’s gotta be only a little ahead. If I could just—“ He groaned and tugged his hoodie lower.

“Do you ever think maybe he feels a little like you do?”

Virgil stilled. He had not.

Smooth, styled, stoic Logan Stone just as anxious as he was? It was absurd. Virgil stared down at his hands. Cuticles jagged, nails bitten to the quick, polish chipped. “There’s no way that guy’s agonizing over all this. He’s way too—“ Virgil cut himself off before he said something that would make Pops pinch his cheek and coo. “Polished.”

“Hm.” Pops said instead. It was almost worse than his cooing. “Have you ever asked him?”

~

“I dunno even know if his family still lives there,” Virgil muttered, feet up on the dash.

One eye on the navigation, the other on the road, Dad nodded as he drove. “So you’ve said,” he murmured, slowing to a stop at the sign. “At least four times now. Worst case, the address in last year’s directory is wrong.” He winked before easing through the intersection. “Best case, you do a little shovie-shove and your problem’s solved.”

“Ugh, Dad,” Virgil muttered. He looked out the window to hide the stupid grin his Dad’s dark humor never failed to yank out of him. "You sound like Remus."

“Just sayin.’” He hummed as he pulled over in front of the two-story brick house on the corner. “Brought the big car. He’s about your size?” Dad made a show of inspecting the back seat and the cargo area behind it. “Plenty of room for a body back there.”

“I’m telling Pops you said that.”

Chuckling, Dad put the car in Park.

Virgil made no move to leave. “Maybe nobody’s home,” he said after a while. The driveway sat empty. “The light’s aren’t on.”

“It’s two o’clock on a bright, sunny day,” Dad remarked, adjusting his sun visor. “I should hope they don’t have their porch light on.”

The house, just like everything else about the inimitable Logan Stone, was immaculate. Lawn perfectly sculpted, the paint job looked fresh, gutters clean, not a scrap of moss or weed in sight.

Even their mailbox sparkled in the sunlight, the letters The Stone Family painted in precise block letters on a fresh white background. The mailbox answered the question of whether they still lived there, at least.

“An HOA’s dream,” Dad murmured, peering past him. “And their neighbors' worst nightmares.”

And Dad was likely right. Compared to the Stone house, the rest of the homes on the block looked downright dumpy. Every dandelion on their next-door-neighbor’s lawn sparkled in neon yellow. The cracked curb across the street and the just slightly askew water spout on the corner shouted their presence when compared to the Stone's perfect house.

A floral sign hung from the Stone’s front door, the big, bright letters legible from the street.

Welcome, Friends!

The other houses on the street bustled with neighborly activity. A lemonade stand sat halfway up the next block and a busy garage sale spread out three houses down. Dads chatted over fences across the street and a little gang of middle schoolers laughed as they raced their bikes down the side street. No-one lingered near the Stone's house. “I bet they have no idea, too,” Dad finally said.

Virgil caught movement in the upstairs window, a flash of Logan’s raven-black hair. “Just like at school,” he sighed. He crossed his arms and glared at his dad, even if he couldn’t put any heat behind it. “Why do you two hafta always be right?”

Dad threw his head back and laughed before reaching across to open his door. “Blame the twins,” he said, giving him a little nudge. “We got it wrong most of the time with them. We've learned.”

Dad waited for him to step of the car, then waved. “Call when you’re done.”

He watched Dad drive away before turning to face the perfectly paved path up to Logan’s front door. The general cheeriness of the neighborhood propelled him forward, certain the ‘gothy emo’ staring at their block’s model home was going to draw more attention than he wanted.

Virgil had barely run the bell when the door cracked open. Shit. Logan had probably been watching from the window.

“Virgil Sanders?” he asked as though he didn’t quite believe his eyes. Voice cracking and eyes wide, Logan bore none of his usual classroom arrogance.

“Um, yeah,” he said. “Hi.” Virgil shoved his hands in his pockets before taking them out again. “Hi,” he said again. “Sorry I didn’t call first, I, uh—“

“My phone number changed,” he said. “My old one from sixth grade?”

Confusion twisted Virgil’s brow before he remembered. “Science fair,” he whispered.

Logan smiled, well, almost smiled. He’d been giddy that night, though, going over their presentation again and again for every parent, student, and teacher who got within three feet of their table.

Their exhibit had won first place.

“We came here to celebrate,” Virgil finished quietly, looking around at the porch. How had he forgotten?

The house had looked different then with Logan’s baby brother’s tricycle and toys littering the yard, the steps, the whole house really. Wild flowers had grown in the front yard and the porch steps had still been singed from their first attempt at their hydrogen peroxide rocket.

Logan had been thrilled that night, brandishing their first place ribbons and posing with him again and again and again for both their parents’ cameras.

His house had been loud, chaotic—happy and active. Now it was just… quiet.

Like Logan was.

He adjusted his glasses, gaze following Virgil’s. “Ah, did you come by to… Well, rather—“ His voice cracked again and he squared his shoulders. A string tugged his spine straight. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” He looked more like a teacher than a high schooler. A hot teacher, but—

Shaking himself from his spiraling thoughts, Virgil looked out at the street, imagining his dad might drive up and rescue him from his own cringe-worthy fumbling. No such luck. “I, uh…” He started to nibble his thumbnail, then shoved his hands in his pockets. “I got the class ranking update this morning.”

“Indeed,” Logan murmured without a trace of joy or celebration. Hell, Virgil'd take gloating over that weird, flat mask.

“Yeah, well, um,” he shrugged, jolting at a screech from the lemonade stand down the street. Two of the middle schoolers were there, chasing each other with cups of ice. “Can I come in?”

‘Ah…” Owl eyes blinked back at him, mouth working without forming any words. Virgil was about to take it back, to abort this whole mission, to make up some reason, any reason to just bolt.

He could jog down to the garage sale and get lost in the sea of people. He could call his dad and make a run for it. He could homeschool the rest of the year and just pretend none of this happened. He could—

“Please,” Logan finally said, stepping back and opening the door all the way.

Sunlight streamed inside the dark house, gleaming on the polished wood floor. Virgil pivoted as Logan closed and locked the door behind him, then he looked down at Logan’s stockinged feet and his own ratty Converse. “Should I…” he trailed off, wiggling one foot.

Logan nodded. “If… if you do not mind.”

Virgil kicked off his shoes then bent to align them neatly next to the pair of sneakers and loafers already at the door. He straightened and faced the family portraits covering the hall. The glass sparkled, not a speck of dust to be seen, even on the fancy little swirly bits of the frames.

The house was spotless, and so, so quiet. “It’s like a museum,” he whispered with a little laugh. “Or a—“

He stopped in front of the fireplace. The mantle was crowded with more framed pictures. Some of Logan and his baby brother, some of his parents from when they much, much younger. A few with all of them together. One of the pictures was of him and Logan, at that damn science fair.

Virgil didn’t remember this one being taken, but Logan’s mom had been a speed demon behind the camera that day, snapping candid shots so quick he eventually gave up and stopped paying attention.

In the picture, Virgil was pointing to the rocket boosters, explaining to somebody off-camera some detail of their work. Honestly, didn’t remember much of it anymore. Logan was off to one side, still in-frame, but instead of looking at the camera or the display… he was watching him, a little smile on his face, almost like…

Virgil’s face got hot and he looked away. He was reading way too much into a six year old picture.

“So, um…” Toes scrunching the floor, he peered down the hall and into the empty kitchen. “Everybody out?” he asked. Duh, of course they were out.

Logan shrugged and cleared his throat. “I am here.”

“Right, yeah, I just meant—“ His eye caught on a little desk off in the corner of the big den. A row of their textbooks were laid out neatly in alphabetical order, a stack of notebooks sat in the corner. A pencil cup with pens, highlighters. Scissors and a ruler. It reminded Virgil of the study room desks back in middle school.

Beside the desk was a little table with even more pictures on it. Three pictures, one of Logan’s baby brother—not so baby now Virgil guessed. He looked about eight or nine. There was one of his parents, too, a wedding photo. Those big corny ones where they pose with the rings. The third was all four of them together, dressed up in the dorkiest Christmas sweaters Virgil could imagine.

He chuckled. “Don’t let my dads see that,” he said, shaking his head. “They’ll make us dress up like that, too.”

Logan’s face twitched and he looked away. “They might,” he whispered.

Something else caught his eye on the table he moved closer to inspect it. “So, ah…” Logan’s voice called after him, louder. “You were about to say why you’d stopped by?”

Virgil stood in front of the table. At the center, framed by the family photographs, sat a flat polished grey stone, like the kind you could get for a pet that had died or…

In loving memory, Greg, Olive, and Marcus

“Shit, Logan.” His hand hovered over the stone, wanting to touch it, to know it was real. Knowing he shouldn’t. “Is this…” Logan stood frozen a few feet away, staring at the stone. “Is this what it looks like it is?”

Hands folded, Logan didn’t speak, just nodded.

“What?” Virgil shook his head. “Wh—when? When—what happened?”

Logan slowly joined him in front of the table—the shrine—and picked up the stone. His fingers closed over it and he held it close to his stomach. “They were driving,” he said. His voice was thin and flat and he wouldn’t look at him, just at the family photos on the table. “They were coming to pick—“ His voice cracked and he returned the stone to its spot. “They picked up Marcus first.”

Words failing, Virgil said the only thing he could think of. “When?” As soon as the question formed, though, he was pretty sure he knew.

“Last April.”

“Your parents—“ he couldn’t say the word. “They—last year?” Virgil turned to him but Logan’s eyes were glued to the Christmas photo. That whole month, that whole rest of the year, Logan just acted like nothing was wrong, like nothing had happened. But… Virgil followed his gaze to the picture. “Why… why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“Who was I going to tell?”

Virgil looked up. Logan’s eyes were wet behind his glasses and his voice wasn’t much more than a whisper. “I turn eighteen in the fall. The house is under a trust and—“ His voice broke and Virgil moved closer. He wasn’t really sure what to do with his hands so he kept one in his pocket and let the other one rest on Logan’s shoulder.

“A social worker visits twice a month, unannounced, to be sure I’m—” Shaking, his words stopped, tears spilling down his cheeks. “If I am not doing well, she is authorized to place me in foster care until I’m eighteen. So I… I demonstrate I can take care of myself.”

The desk for homework, the immaculate house. Virgil looked at his clothes, shirt pressed, a tie on a fucking Saturday. Hair styled, even his nails looked manicured. Logan looked absolutely perfect.

Absolutely perfect so some social worker would have no reason to think he couldn’t care for himself.

“Jeez, Logan… Yeah, but…” Logan looked up at him, mouth a thin line. A tremor started in his jaw, spreading to his chin, his lips. “But you’re alone.”

And Logan crumpled, falling forward with a sob. Virgil caught him and wrapped his arms around him. Face pressed to his shoulder, Logan’s sobs were muffled by his hoodie. But he clung to him, hands twisting in the fleece as he cried.

Virgil didn’t know how long they stood there like but when he looked up the shadows in the room had changed. Logan’s sobs had quieted but he wouldn’t let go. “I… I must apologize for—“

“Shut up,” he said and Logan stiffened in his arms. “You don’t have to apologize. I should—I never—“ Looking over the top of Logan's head, Virgil's eyes snagged on the photo from the science fair. That had been the last group project they’d done together, their teachers always splitting them up.

And Virgil’s just let them.

“I’m the one who should be sorry, man,” he whispered and Logan melted against him, quiet tears starting again. Virgil held him tighter. He rubbed his back, his hair, and whispered, “You’re not alone anymore.”

[whorrorbellee]

CHERRYWAVES:TWO

Ghostface! Danny Johnson x f!reader

Danny just had to save you. He just had to save your poor sad life. Knocking your sad frail body against fake plastic tiles. Shoving his fingers down your throat like a kid fishing for pennies. What was it you wrote in your diary? Your shiny white masked knight in a black shroud? Well how cute. Maybe it was time he kept a pet around.Just to play or course.18+ : eventual smut, themes of suicide (reader attempts), selfharm, sexual content, murder, themes of violence

ao3 one masterlist

‘Want to see something gross?’ is spelled out across in blue biro on a post-it note, the bright yellow clings to your computer screen. You look up at Jed whose eyebrow is raised at you. Eyebrows furrowing in return. You watch him spin giddily in his chair, black converse tapping against the floor. You fight the urge to smirk, lips pursing at his actions. Pretending to think about it. 

You shrug and nod. “Come on then”, Jed rises, stepping over to your desk and grabbing your hand. He pulls you over to the dark room and now you're seriously confused. 

You step inside, cloaked in red, he pulls the light switch, squinting as your eyes adjust to the harsh light, you wait in anticipation. Jed smiles down at you and points to the photos hanging over on the wall. You look over. The photos are in black and white so it’s hard to make out what's actually going on. Black spills over the floor. Police are standing over something. It's blackened on the paper and you look up at him. ‘What is it?” 

“Look closer” He pushes your back until your nose nearly hits the page, the smell of chemicals still on the page. You strain your head back. Eyes focusing on the photo’s.

 And then you gasp. Your body tenses. It's a dead body. Blood spilling out like ink spilled over the paper, it's hard to see in the alley way, but the way Jed has shot the photos you can make up the paleing eyes of the victim “Jesus, Jed! Why were you there?” your eyes search the pictures in front of you.

He folds his arms over his chest,“Adam was all uneasy with reporting the murders so Mike asked if I wanted to stop writing fluff pieces and start on real crime” he pauses ,“They think it's him, the killer” 

“Why?”,you shake your head, and then look at another photo, a detective stands at a wall, gloved hand pressing into the bricks, he looks pained, as if he knew the guy.

“Well, the same weapon was used” he mutters, leaning against the wall,“the coroners say the weapon was a knife about inch wide and seven inches long, matches the same stab wounds as the Small brothers”

You sigh, looking at Jed he fiddles with the buttons of his shirt a bit, you take in his outfit. Black Dickies, white shirt, you wonder what he wears when he's home. “Do you think he did this? In an investigative journalist way?”

“No” 

“Huh, why?” your eyebrows raise.

“I'm not sure, I mean first he attacked two guys right outside their house, that seems planned out. But this? well”.You watch as Jed thinks, his hand stroking his chin as his head turns. Your back brushes the cold wall. “I think the killer plans his shit out, he's smart. Why risk getting caught killing some kid in an alleyway? And it is florida, it's probably some gang crime” 

You nod, scraping your shoes against the floor. “So the cafe piece is your last normal, happy article huh?” you smile. 

He grins in return, “oh yeah, time to write about some horrid decrepit loner killer that probably jerks it to porn in his mom's basement”

“Oh! I don't know, maybe he has his own basement”

ANOTHER FOUND DEAD

Jed olson

Junior journalist 

Photo by Jed olson 

See page four for more details 

On the late hours of Friday the 11th. The body of twenty-two year old Jack Stevens was found by a passer by. Jack had been out on run that night, his girlfriend Stella had reported his running route would take him past the same alleyway he was found in. Stella voiced concern about him not coming back that night with a friend over the phone, and was later confirmed to be correct when the police had arrived at her house, “He was always so quiet, he kept to himself, it was just him, the dog and I most nights, unless we played a board game round my mums, it wasn't like him to just run out and not say anything, so when he didn't come back after an hour i knew something was wrong” 

Police have reported the same weapon was used on this victim as the Small brothers, is the work of a serial killer at large? Or are crime rates really increasing in this little town ? 

If you have any information please contact Detective Moore at the RPD +(000) 000 000

Jack’s funeral will be held at Jameson and Jones funeral home at 11am on sunday, any friends and family will be welcome to join. 

“Do you wanna come for drinks on wednesday?” Jed’s leaning over your computer. You're trying to get the brightness right on a photo of girl scouts that raised money for a memorial bench for the Small brothers. The deaths had really affected the small town and the boy scouts had shut down after only a couple of weeks when no one wanted to take over. Now the group had formed into a disjointed version where baking and making crossbows happened in the same hall, inches apart from each other.

“Who's going?” you look around the office.

“Well, Me and a couple of my friends, then Mike said he'd stop by for a beer, and Linda said she has book club at 8 so she’ll stop by for a glass of wine, and then maybe you?” he grins. 

“Yeah okay! Straight after work?” 

He nods. “Great!”

You get home early that night after taking some photos of a new monument set up in the local park for some random pioneer. Your apartment is a mess, you quickly boil some pasta and shove all your clothes into a basket to take down to the laundry room. You change your sheets while you're at it. Then pour some tomato and cheese sauce over the pasta that's been drained off all water. 

You eat quickly, grabbing your keys and a book then cradle the laundry basket to your hip and walk down to the basement floor. The stairs are a pain in the ass when you’re on the fifth floor, but you know it's the reason your rent is so cheap, every other place with an elevator is expensive due to costs. 

The washing machine beats into the wall, you've got about 30 minutes left on the wash cycle and then you can put it in the dryer for twenty. Usually you'd come back up to your apartment, but it had felt like someone was watching you recently, even with your blinds shut, it had felt like someone was so close to you. You could almost feel their breath against your neck. It had only started a couple of weeks ago, the feeling of being watched, and now the murders had started it felt like there was danger so close by. Especially after your little visiter. You wonder if he was stopping by to keep an eye on you or if he was too busy with the murders.

Danny Johnson sits in his black truck, hands beating against the steering wheel as the music thumps through the speakers. Sally Hughes takes a great big bite of a burger and then wipes off the ketchup that has spilled over her son's arm. Danny watches as her perfect blonde hair bounces as she laughs. He takes a big swig of his milkshake and shovels fries into his mouth, he chews quickly. It’s like watching something out of a sitcom, the window in the diner is his own personal TV screen.

“And then this alien comes out of nowhere with this claw ! And rips this girl into bloody bits! And yeah it's stolen from Alien or whatever, but the blood Jed! The Blood wasn't clear or milky and sweet like most B movies, it looked so real. Like it was a deep red and clung to the actors.” Piper chews her burger before carrying on, shes perched against the door and the seat, forcing  her self into the nook of the car so she can get a better look at Jed  “I know you hate that shit and prefer like grotty serial killer, giallo’s or whatever but you have to see it, its like a fucking snuff film, you know? Filmed on a camcorder and CCTV footage.” 

Piper was sort of a plain looking girl, the only discernible quality she had was the long blonde hair that fell to her waist, she was twenty three years old and worked at the arthouse cinema about thirty minutes away. They had met at a showing of the red shoes , it wasn't exactly Danny's kind of movie, but he had wanted to check out the area anyway. The discussion of movies had ended in him walking her home, then they would meet every week for a coffee and a mid-day movie where she worked. He had thought, what's a friend in all this? Might as well get an alibi right? But then she had pulled him in for a kiss outside a book store on main and Danny wasn't looking for anything relationship wise, he much rather save his energy for murder and stalking, not sex. Danny had felt nothing. It was like paper against paper. But a girlfriend was normal. A girlfriend meant the guys at the Gazette would stop asking if he wanted to take their daughters out. 

Danny had soon realised his mistake when he saw you, glossy eyes, someone who wasn't going to chat his ear off about shitty horror movies. Someone interesting. Someone who could love Danny for himself. He hadn't exactly thought about murdering Piper, unless he wanted to get caught, but sometimes after laying beside her soft snoring body he had thought about faking her suicide, something that wouldn't hurt her. As much as he didn't care, breaking up would be far easier.

“Jed? Are you listening?” Piper slurps up her cherry coke, fiddling with her rings “you keep looking over at that kid, are you okay?” Piper mutters, voice hinting at concern, her hand reaches out to his arm. 

“I just thought he was bleeding, but he spilt ketchup down his arm” Jed shrugs, he smiles back at her and then looks at the time.Ten pm, it's not like she had a curfew or anything but Jed had special plans, he had to pop by his little pets home for a quick check up, and then, if Sally was an all clear. He would rip her to shreds on his knife. “I gotta write some stuff up at the office, is it okay if I drop you back?” 

“Yeah, of course” Piper smiles, she collects the garbage from the truck and shovels it into a paper bag. “I'll just pop this in the bin.” 

Jed watches Piper shuffle out the truck, her red hair swaying in the light breeze as she approaches the fry shaped bin, his head turns. Dark eye’s settle on Sally Hughes as she zips up her pink crushed velvet tracksuit, she takes little Joe's hands on her own and wipes them with a wet wipe. She swings her camel purse over her shoulder as she holds Joe’s tiny hand. Pulling him out of the fast food joint and into her white car. 

He watches you through the window, sliding the plastic washing basket on the floor and slumping into the couch. Your hair falls down the side as your leg lifts onto the back, then your other leg. He can tell you're bored. Your phone rings and your head shrugs to the side to the noise, you never really got phone calls. Unless it was important. 

You lift yourself off the sofa and trudge over to the phone. Taking the receiver off the wall, your finger loops round the thick coils. “Hello?” you mutter. Danny can just make out your expression on your face. He doesn't speak as he holds the phone to his ear. 

You look confused. You roll your eyes at the obvious silence. And slam the phone back onto the wall, pulling a cupboard door open and slinking out a bottle of whiskey. It's the same one he saw laying on the floor that night. You pour some in a glass and knock it back. He calls again, watching your angry stomps to the phone, you pull it up to your ear. “Hello?” you sigh and cradle your face. “Jesus christ, just fucking say something” your voice spills out over the phone in a hard hush. 

“Watch yourself” Danny mutters, He hangs up and watches you cradle the receiver against your ear. You look down and then towards the bathroom. The phone falls as you shuffle your feet towards the door, it swings angrily into the wall. You come back into the lounge, knife in hand. A hunting knife, your dads old one. Buck 110, 3.75 stainless steel blade, with a wooden handle, lockback locking mechanism. He had already felt the weight of the knife in his hand, smaller than the one he used himself. Lighter too, he had stood in your bathroom, mask off in front of your mirror and traced his neck with the blade, wondering if you'd ever have the guts to slice his own throat when he would inevitably break in for a quick catch up. 

You pull the blade out and look down at the sharp edge. Walking over to the phone to hang it back up. You pull your jeans down, sliding them over your thighs in a quick recession. Standing over close to the window and then tracing over your thighs with the knife. Danny wishes he had brought his camera. You look out the window. Eyebrows furrowing. Your eyes are searching for something. Him. But Danny slinks into the shadows. His white mask encased in darkness. He pulls out his notepad and writes down something quickly. 

Lips pursing as you shrug your shirt off over your head. You raise an eyebrow and then trace the knife up your arms. Then down your chest. You sigh. Rolling your eyes until you hold the knife against your throat. Gripping tightly. He watches your hands pale around the knife's handle and you push into your throat he sees a dribble of blood fall onto your collarbone. He waits. Your eyes tear up and the knife clatters to the ground. 

You look towards the phone on your wall. Shaking your head and grabbing your clothes from the floor. You walk into your bedroom. Danny stand’s slowly. Clawing at the outside of your window to lift it up. He slides in carefully. Moving with ease against the creaky wooden floor. He picks the knife up from the ground, and pierces the blade through the note, watching blood seep into the picture, He hears your shuffles through your hallway. Taking a quick exit, he watches you from the window standing just in plain sight. You lift the note from the floor. He watches your chest move up and down quickly. Your mouth twitching at the sides as he watches you unfold the letter and close the buck with one hand. Blue ink is smudged across the letter. 

‘Thanks for the show’ 

You don't look up.