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vidavalor · 8 months

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The *Original* Original Sin Theory or... why Aziraphale's "I forgive you"s really mean "forgive me" and just why he wants Crowley's absolution...

Will this break your heart in a good way and make the end of S2 hurt less? more? both? idk let's find out...

I want to talk about what the Before the Beginning scene does to the Eden scene and what all that suggests about Aziraphale and Crowley's relationship... because it might be enough to upend what we think this relationship is quite a bit, at least from Aziraphale's POV, if it goes in the direction that I think they are hinting at in S3, which I'm basing off of where they took it in S2 in these scenes.

This also contains an analysis of That Scene from 2.06 that ties into lots of other scenes and some other meta related to the show and it's a bit long-- like, the mother of all metas-- but there are pretty gifs and I brought snacks? Just letting you know it's a long post but tuck in with some tea if you're in the mood and thanks for reading. :)

Under the big cutty thing...

Before we get started, a couple of quick warnings: I curse a bit in here. It's in the show itself but just letting you know it's here a bit, too. I also mention *very* briefly suicide ideation in the characters and also very briefly (one sentence) Satan's mind-control of Crowley in S1 in a way that might be sensitive for a sexual assault survivor. There is general mention of religious trauma and abusive relationships (not Crowley & Aziraphale's relationship) all over this. If you are okay with the show, you should be more than fine reading this but just wanted to let you know up front. If you're okay with that, read on...

So, the Before the Beginning scene contains a twist, in that we learn that pre-Fall Crowley is naive to Heaven while Aziraphale is the one who is wary of it. This is especially interesting because, best we can tell, no angel has Fallen yet. There aren't *explicit* consequences for asking questions yet, as Crowley doesn't think it could get him into trouble to do so... but *Aziraphale* does. Heaven in S1 and S2 is shown to be basically a fascist state full of bullies jockeying for power where the ones on top dole out all sorts of abuses to maintain a sense of order among the rank and file. We see the emotional and even physical abuse they dole out to Aziraphale and how little they tolerate any sort of dissent, even from an archangel, based on what they ultimately do when Gabriel doesn't want to do arma-bloody-geddon anymore. Heaven is basically The Kremlin. Toe out of line and they'll toss you off a high-rise while telling everyone how sad it is that you recently had a spell of depression and heart troubles as a way of scaring everyone else into submission, right? What's surprising to us is that Aziraphale knows this *absolutely* Before the Beginning and he's terrified on Crowley's behalf, since this place functions as a kind of mafia state.

This implies something really kind of dark which is that Aziraphale knows enough to know how to toe a party line and keep quiet about any doubts he has. He knows how to survive in a way that then-innocent Crowley did not. He tries to tell Crowley that questioning things is going to get him angel-killed but Crowley has a faith in God that's different than Aziraphale's was even before the Earth was fully created. Crowley believed in Her more than Aziraphale does. He doesn't think anything will happen to him. Aziraphale knows what will and this implies knowledge of the abuse of the system and it completely changes our perspective of Aziraphale throughout the rest of the series. We often think of him as either willfully naive or just desperately optimistic regarding Heaven's goodness but, in reality, he's neither of those things. He's something else, entirely. His actions are not expressing naivete or desperate optimism or anything else.

They are expressions of guilt.

And the Eden scene tells us why he has that guilt.

The Eden scene introduces us to Crowley and Aziraphale and the series itself and it has Crowley posit the central question of the show regarding the nature of angels and demons:

Objectively, when you watch this scene, you think this is about the tempting of Eve and the flaming sword. It is... but it's also not *just* about that. Because Crowley and Aziraphale are watching Adam & Eve venture off beyond the Garden of Eden in this scene. They're still within view so the flaming sword situation happened a matter of minutes earlier. Yet, when Crowley posits that central question of which one of them actually did the good thing and which did the bad thing, Aziraphale reveals that it wouldn't be funny at all if what Crowley is saying (that Aziraphale actually did the bad thing) is true. He's distressed about it and so Crowley, somewhat dryly, reassures him that he's an angel so he couldn't have done the wrong thing. (Crowley, of course, being a literal former angel punished for doing the wrong thing lol and that being the joke but also in there is also the layer of Crowley genuinely liking Aziraphale and trying to tell him that it's all okay and meaning it.) Aziraphale is relieved and this is the key bit here-- he says oh good "because it's been bothering me."

The tone of this is that this central question of whether or not he did wrong or right by Crowley and whether or not Crowley was wrong or right in his actions *has been bothering* Aziraphale and he phrases it in a way that implies he's been losing angelic sleep (so to speak) about it for a little while now. If this was *just about Adam and Eve* then Aziraphale's reaction here makes absolutely no sense because the camera also then cuts in their conversation to in front of Crowley and Aziraphale *to show us Adam and Eve still visible in the near-distance* fighting off the lion with the flaming sword. They literally *just left* so how could Aziraphale be all in knots for awhile now over whether or not he made the wrong call? He's not. You can argue that his decision here in Eden to help Adam and Eve by giving them his flaming sword-- by standing up and doing something in the face of God to help out other beings he secretly thinks might have been treated unfairly-- *is a direct response to what he failed to do back in Before the Beginning*...

... which was to stand up for Crowley.

Meaning: Aziraphale doesn't need to see Heaven's files to find out what happened to Crowley when Crowley fell because he was there. S3 is going to be about preventing the Second Coming and so plot allusions to the crucification (which had its own Crowley & Aziraphale scene in S1) will likely abound. Aziraphale was there when Lucifer and The Gang were tossed out of Heaven. To be fair to Aziraphale, there is basically nothing he could have done to prevent this and the best possible situation is that he didn't even have the chance to. The worst possible situation is that he's literally Judas and sold Crowley out, out of fear of being tossed out of Heaven himself. I tend to think it's more that he just didn't stand up and say anything in support of Crowley to prevent himself from being seen as on the side of the eventual demons. Still, just as Crowley thinks the punishment for Adam and Eve was harsh, Aziraphale thought that asking questions and being curious wasn't enough to send Lucifer and everyone around him to Hell to be damned for all of eternity but it caused an obvious existential crisis in him that he still struggles to totally resolve.

If he disagreed with the decision to cast out the suggestion box-happy angels, he was as "bad" as they were. If he agreed with the decision, he was condemning them and that didn't seem angelic, either. How to be a good angel, which is the only thing he had ever tried to be or knew how to be? He did what he thought must be right-- to follow what the other, more powerful angels said the word of God was-- and if it was Her will, then it must be what was right, even if it was *extremely difficult* to see how this lovebug here was really an evil, demonic creature of Hell...

Not to mention that Aziraphale was in love with WhateverHeWasCalledPre-Crawly!Crowley. (We will just call him "Crowley" for this whole meta, because that is the name he chose for himself.) And maybe Angel!Crowley went after the more glamorous, daring guys. Heaven honestly seems like both a fascist state and high school at once (is there really a difference? lol). Crowley describes how he wound up falling in S1 as that he "hung out with the wrong crowd" and Aziraphale in Before the Beginning honestly seems like he's been flying around watching Crowley make stars for ages, trying to work up the nerve to or find an opportunity to introduce himself to the beautiful hot cool arty science-y guy who barely looks at him when his other option for a view are nebulas... or Benedict Cumberbatch's Lucifer/Satan, whose "stroke of demonic genius, dahling" bit in S1 and dark assault on his fave Crowley while Crowley was driving had a real "Angel!Crowley went for the bad boy who were so bad pre-Fall that they wound up fucking Satan afterwards and friend-zoned angels like Aziraphale" vibes. Alternatively, maybe he didn't totally? Before the Beginning seems to be the first time they met and maybe after that, Crowley and Aziraphale became close. It's just that Crowley canonically also wound up sitting at the cool kids' table because they were the only ones questioning things and he wound up damned for eternity for it and Aziraphale?

Aziraphale blames himself for it.

He has blamed himself for Crowley's Fall for six thousand years.

When they speak in Eden, Aziraphale is being confronted for the first time with what has come of his nebula-joyous, freshly baked blueberry muffin of an angel. He calls himself "Crawly" now-- or that's the name he's been given-- because who he was is dead. His eyes are yellow. He's now a snake. He's maybe a bit sarcastic, a bit dry, and a lot more guarded and aloof but Aziraphale sees flickers of Angel!Crowley in there. He's *kind* to Aziraphale. He's still inquisitive, in spite of it being what damned him to Hell. Aziraphale, God help him, is still wildly into him and, ugh, maybe even *more* so, in spite of everything.

And 'everything', for Aziraphale, includes Crowley being a demon being Aziraphale's fault.

They don't talk about it. Ever.

They don't talk about it because Aziraphale thinks that Crowley doesn't remember. Crowley's memory loss of a lot of his time pre-Fall is canon in S2-- something we, the audience, will need to understand the whole picture when/if we end up getting this revelation in S3 of Crowley's Fall and that Aziraphale feels he's at least partially responsible. What's even harder for Aziraphale is that because Crowley doesn't remember his time as an angel, he doesn't remember their full history together. He doesn't remember how they met and protecting Aziraphale from the first celestial shower and all the times they chatted after that and if they were in love back then, Crowley doesn't remember it. Eden then becomes, to Crowley, the first time they meet... but then look at how while Aziraphale seems to think that Crowley doesn't know him while Aziraphale knows Crowley-- the moment that he pauses so Crowley can introduce himself-- *Crowley* seems a little bemused. Why?

Because what Aziraphale has failed to consider is that the one memory that the demons are allowed to keep, most likely, is their Fall, which means that if Aziraphale was there when Crowley fell, Crowley actually *does* remember him. At minimum, he remembers Aziraphale being there and looking stricken by what was happening so even if he can't remember more than that, he knows he's safe with Aziraphale and that Aziraphale cared about him, which would explain why he risked going to talk to with him on the wall in Eden. He knows they were friends and that Aziraphale is good and he can trust him. It's also theoretically possible that if Crowley remembers his Fall and if Aziraphale was there, it's a trigger to him being able to remember all of his and Aziraphale's time before Crowley fell. Aziraphale might not know this and because these two idiots do not know how to talk-- and especially don't talk about this-- Crowley hasn't told him. In part because Crowley can't go back and he doesn't want them to dwell on Angel!Crowley when Crowley is who he is and if that's a demon, it's a demon, and the whole system can go fuck itself anyway, as far as Crowley's concerned.

Aziraphale, though, is still back on "it's my fault". He thinks he literally took goodness from the world; that he participated in the murder of his friend and the love of his life. He has never. In six. thousand. years. lol. told Crowley that he feels like this because he still thinks that Crowley doesn't remember Aziraphale betraying him and he is terrified that if he told Crowley he did-- if he told him that he was responsible, in part, for his Fall-- that Crowley would hate him and Crowley is Aziraphale's only friend in the universe and Aziraphale is madly in love with him. He couldn't bear the loss of him. He can handle their occasional spats and disagreements, knowing that Crowley always comes back, but this? If Crowley knew that his Fall was Aziraphale's fault? Aziraphale thinks Crowley wouldn't come back from that and he'd never see him again.

In reality? Crowley either already knows this and has the whole time or suspects it or if he found it out, would forgive Aziraphale for it. If he knows, he already has. His counter-argument is, like, what were you supposed to do to save me, exactly, angel? You alone versus all the hierarchy of Heaven and God Herself? I'm *glad* you didn't do something stupid and get yourself tossed into a pit of boiling sulphur. You don't deserve that.

Thing is, though, because they've never had this conversation because they DO NOT TALK lol, Aziraphale thinks he *does* deserve that. But look at what's happened since he made the decision not to save Crowley from falling...

...nothing.

Nothing has happened to Aziraphale. He didn't fall for it himself. He didn't fall for betraying the angel he loved and he wonders every. single. day. why he didn't and the only thing he can come up with is that he must have done the right thing. *It must be* that Crowley did the bad thing and Aziraphale did the good one because Crowley was damned to Hell for all of eternity and Aziraphale is still an angel of Heaven, six thousand years later. It's not for Aziraphale to question God. Her will is ineffable. It's ineffable because he cannot begin to understand how any of this can possibly be just and that just keeps happening over and over and over and over throughout the years to come in every situation he and Crowley find themselves in, from Job to The Flood to Wee Morag and Elspeth to Arma-bloody-geddon, right?

Aziraphale begins to lose count of how many times he's gone up against God at this point. Gives away his flaming sword to Adam and Eve. Saves as many as he could during The Flood-- *with* Crowley. (You know they did.) Lies to Gabriel's face in the eyes of God to save Job and Sitis' children... and learning that Falling was political, really, in the process. Nothing happened to Aziraphale for Job's kids. He suffered no consequence for lying to Heaven and God because Crowley was willing to lie for him-- to protect him from Falling, where Aziraphale couldn't protect Crowley himself ages before-- and nothing happened. Falling, suddenly, didn't seem totally God-ordained it it could be tossed aside by something as simple as having a demon just choose not to toss you to Satan. Crowley didn't take him to Hell because he didn't feel like Aziraphale belonged there. It wound up all entirely within Crowley's control, which then made Aziraphale begin to question if God was even really behind the Fall of Lucifer and the Gang or if it wasn't just the thugs in charge of Heaven who decided to toss them out... thoughts he was terrified to think and didn't dare voice aloud, at least not then.

In another era, Aziraphale and Crowley stood there together to witness the torture and murder of Jesus Christ in the name of God, in a parallel to the Fall. What happened to Jesus? He was betrayed by his closest friend, then tortured and murdered by those in the government who thought he posed a threat to social order. Heaven as Pontius Pilate. Aziraphale as a kind of Judas, in Aziraphale's mind, anyway.

Jesus as Crowley.

Time goes on and he and The Demon Crowley form friendship in their own right, regardless of what Crowley might remember from before his Fall. They form their Arrangement off of that and Aziraphale learns even more that, often, no one is really paying attention to what they do. That no one seems to notice if Crowley performs an angelic miracle or if Aziraphale performs what has become termed a 'demonic miracle'... because, really, *they're the same*, though that's not something Aziraphale can fully admit. He cannot allow himself to believe that demons *are angels* because if there's nothing different between demons and angels than Aziraphale doesn't know anything at all.

Anything at all... He doesn't know what being an angel *is* and it's what he supposedly is so it means he doesn't know who or what he is, really.

He doesn't know what God wants or if he truly believes in Her.

He doesn't know what the purpose of all of this is-- why Crowley had to suffer, why demons in general have to, why the *humans* do. Why it all has to be destroyed eventually. To what end?

Aziraphale has the same questions Crowley does and sometimes, late at night, often a little drunk, he'll dare to ask them with Crowley, and every morning that he still wakes up and sobers up and finds himself still an angel when Crowley Fell for so much less than Aziraphale has ever thought or done, he wonders just *why?*

Why is he still an angel when he, really, is no different from Crowley? Why Crowley is damned? Punished for all of eternity for curiosity and innovation and imagination, while Aziraphale is still an angel, doomed to only have until the clock runs out on Armageddon before losing him for the rest of fucking *eternity* but, until then, stuck suffering watching him suffer while remaining an angel? Is being an angel at this point, really, his punishment for failing the apparently foul fiend he adores?

Does Aziraphale ever have any answers to these questions? Good God, no lol. He's six thousand years into this and he's in the same spot as Amnesiac!ArchangelFuckingGabriel in 2.01:

...would be okay if you could just be one near particular person?

Of course Aziraphale knows what this feels like. Of course. We know he does. And that's why he hasn't been able to make a real move in six thousand years-- because it's his fault, as far as he's concerned.

Crowley's damnation is his fault. Crowley cannot really love him, or couldn't if he knew. Not because he's a demon, though Aziraphale might have thought that at one point but he definitely was cured of it by events in 1941. The more time that goes by, the more Aziraphale knows that Crowley loves him-- that he's *in* love with him-- and the worse it all gets for Aziraphale because every day that he hasn't told Crowley that he didn't prevent him from Falling is another day within the last *six thousand years* of them falling in love and the betrayal seems to get worse and worse to Aziraphale. The time to have this conversation was on the wall in Eden and it still hasn't happened. Still, over time, he starts to realize that Crowley, if ever knew, would forgive him.

Because his Crowley has the kindest of hearts. He really does, and that wasn't taken from him when he Fell and Aziraphale finds every opportunity he can to delight in seeing that and making Crowley reveal it.

It goes against everything Aziraphale is supposed to believe.

Demons are not supposed to be good-- if they were, they wouldn't have Fallen. Yet, Aziraphale knows Crowley is. He never has truly believed that Crowley isn't-- even when he could have, at least at the start. He worried, maybe, that he had helped create a monster out of the most lovely being he'd ever known but Crowley just kept proving him wrong about that, time and time again. *Crowley* doesn't believe it about himself, really, because that's his own trauma from his Fall but Aziraphale believes it about him and that's often good enough for Crowley.

But, really, this is why they still haven't gotten together in six thousand years. This is why Aziraphale seems like he can never get beyond "I'm an angel and you're a demon", no matter what Crowley does or how he proves that there are shades of gray and also, that the entire system is bullshit. It is not that Aziraphale doesn't *know* that it's bullshit-- it's that if he admits that it is, if he stops believing in Heaven (even if he doesn't stop believing in God), then he's left with nothing but the crushing weight of guilt that he has for all the pain that Crowley has been through.

If he tells himself that Crowley Fell *for a reason* and that he (Aziraphale) was *right* to not interfere, to not try to thwart God, even if it would have likely failed, just on principle, to stand up for his friend... then Aziraphale doesn't have to deal with the fact that he made what he really considers to be a colossal mistake and that it has caused the continued pain and torture and eternal damnation of the being he considers his soulmate...

...which is why everytime that pain comes to the surface in something Crowley says or does, Aziraphale *cannot handle it at all whatsoever* and reverts to You'reADemonI'mAnAngel!Mode.

Example: Crowley's religious trauma on display in their bandstand argument:

Crowley owns this, even if he's still traumatized by it. He's saying it sarcastically, making a joke on a song Aziraphale probably barely knows, if he knows at all ("Unforgettable"-- Nat King Cole). Aziraphale *aches* at Crowley saying this-- because it reminds him that it's partially his own fault. And he can't. Do. Anything. About. It.

He's an all-powerful *angel* here but he can't change this for Crowley. He can't stop his suffering some six thousand years after his Fall. He's looking at sexy goth Crowley here and he's thinking about curly-haired, beaming, ball of light! Crowley and that they are *the same person* and Aziraphale *does* know that. He knows it and he loves him passionately and desperately and he is one of the most powerful beings ever in existence and he's standing there looking at the man-shaped-being he adores talking about how he still aches from the betrayal of his fellow angels and his mother God and *there is no way for Aziraphale to fix it* when he can mend broken bones and heal the sick and let their be light! all over the place. He can do proper magic and still, he cannot take away Crowley's pain.

This is Aziraphale's Hell. He didn't Fall but he's been in Hell anyway.

So when Crowley's religious trauma and pain comes out, usually in an argument like in the bandstand scene, Aziraphale does the only thing he thinks he *can* do, right? He's an angel. Still. Somehow. He's an angel and there must be some reason for that and an angel is not a demon-- an angel is a purer being, a healer-- and so he says "I forgive you". He doesn't mean it to be patronizing, even if it is. ("I am a *great deal* holier than thou," as he told Crowley at one point and that was the point, right?) He is trying to say "I am still of Heaven and if it's absolution you need, I can give it to you."

He is trying to say: You are not unforgivable to me.

The real lyric of the song Crowley parodies in the bandstand is what Aziraphale means, whether he knows that song or not...

Unforgettable/That's what you are...

*Crowley*, though, doesn't know about Aziraphale's inner turmoil because *heavy sigh* FFS TALK, YOU IDIOTS *breathes* lol, so *he* hears:

I still think I am better than you and you are Fallen, so you're not worthy of me. I can't love you, not the way you want. I love all beings because I'm an angel and I you know I'm in love with you but I can't *allow* myself to be because it goes against the nature of an angel and I've only done eleven thousand things that should have made me Fall over the years but letting myself be in love with you is the rubicon I won't cross, apparently...

Crowley knows by the time they're having the bandstand argument enough about Aziraphale's general religious trauma (not necessarily about how it pertains to Crowley's Fall but about it in general) to know that he spits out hateful garbage when he feels cornered and how to just call it bullshit and move on. ("I don't even like you."/"You doooo.") But he understandably walks away when Aziraphale pushes him away past a point he can handle-- and Aziraphale knows how to do that. He does it *intentionally.* The "I forgive you" is sadness because it's all he has to offer Crowley but he also knows it'll piss Crowley off enough to end the argument, so he says it intentionally to get Crowley to go away. In this scene (which parallels the end of S2 quite a bit, as many have noticed), Aziraphale is trying to deal with it all on his own, right?

He knows where the antichrist is. He's just not telling Crowley yet. He's trying to deal with it to keep him safe. He's doing it because he thinks he should-- that maybe, when it's something of this level of importance, that his job should be as an angel first, above his side with Crowley. (It's also worth mentioning here that Aziraphale is straight up terrified of Falling, not even just for being damned to Hell but because then, if he's no longer in Heaven, he has exactly zero power to even *try* to protect Crowley.) At the end of S2? With The Metatron?

Aziraphale does the same thing as with the antichrist for a time in S1, really.

The beginning of S2 shows us that Aziraphale has known that Heaven is North Korea since Before the Beginning so now marry that with its last scenes and see the arc that connects them-- Aziraphale does what he does out of guilt over what happened to Crowley to *protect* Crowley. He didn't want to do any of it without Crowley and when The Metatron finally offers that carrot, Aziraphale is suspicious as all hell (pardon the pun) and here we have this moment where part of him *wants* this to all be real, right?

Times change and sometimes, your parents who traumatized the living fuck out of you and didn't approve of your boyfriend, grow the hell up a bit and try to repent and mend fences. Maybe the trust is broken but maybe it can be healed and *as an angel*, Aziraphale is a being of goodness and hope and optimism. He's pure of heart, as Crowley put it to Nina. He *wants* that to be the case... but he also knows it likely is not.

Still... they can't run. There's nowhere that Heaven won't find them. It's no life for them-- no life for Crowley, in Aziraphale's mind, no matter how many times Crowley tries to get him to run away with him. "We can go off together!" begs Crowley, over and over, and Aziraphale's only really ever found that Crowley will only slither off if he's ticked off enough and only "I forgive you" ever really does that enough to work lol. He *means* I love you endlessly but you know this is impossible, you bloody maddening, gorgeous serpent! Will you stop reminding me of what we could have when it can never happen?! but that's not exactly how Crowley's taking it.

In the end, to Aziraphale, Aziraphale is an angel and Crowley is a demon and they are doomed to spend eternity apart and Aziraphale thinks he has no one to blame, really, but himself. If he had somehow saved Crowley six thousand years ago-- or had somehow been brave enough to stand up for him and Fallen alongside him-- they could have been together forever.

But he wasn't then and now The Metatron is here and it's time for Aziraphale to go back to Heaven and he knows, as he sits there drinking coffee with the being whose posse sent Crowley in a free fall into a pit of boiling sulphur, that Crowley will never, ever, ever, EVER go back to Heaven.

But he also knows that Heaven is here to collect Aziraphale and they are making it clear that there is no escape. There's nowhere to run. Everyday, it's been getting closer for six thousand years and going faster than a roller coaster for the last handful but a love like Beez and Gabe's will surely never come his and Crowley's way now.

It was always going to end like this. Nothing lasts forever. He told Crowley that, Before the Beginning. Six thousand years. That was all the time they had before the end of Earth, the place they'd come to call home. They found a way to borrow a few more years at the end of it since S1 and he got to dance with Crowley, their fingers brushing, and that is going to have to be enough because they're out of time.

The Metatron never needed say it directly but it was evident: they wanted Aziraphale to go to Heaven and they would say or do anything to get him up there and Aziraphale may have bought it for a moment but he's definitely figured out by the end of S2 that they need him up there not to become the Supreme Archangel but because his time as an angel is now over. The threat to Crowley is unspoken but omnipresent.

The Metatron makes it sound like he doesn't care if Crowley comes back up to Heaven with Aziraphale or not and he really doesn't and why would that be? Why would he be eager to have the two most troublesome beings in all of Heaven and Hell teaming up and getting in the way of his Second Coming plans, which he absolutely *knows* they won't support? Because they won't have jobs waiting for them up there. Crowley will not be restored to full angelic status.

They're going to kill them. Aziraphale knows it. He's known what Heaven is since Before the Beginning, even if he's been in denial about it for almost as long to try to assuage his own guilt over participating in it.

And it's a lot easier a goal for Heaven to accomplish if they separate them and just Aziraphale goes up to Heaven. If Aziraphale goes alone-- if he keeps Crowley from following-- then Crowley is not a threat to them if Aziraphale is gone.

They aren't as powerful apart.

Aziraphale knows that if Crowley comes to Heaven with him that they will kill him and Aziraphale thinks okay, this is it... this is my moment of redemption.

Six thousand years since Crowley Fell and I can finally make up for not saving him by saving him now.

I can go with The Metatron and let Heaven kill me and know that they will not threaten Crowley if they do because what they are threatened by is both of us together. One of us, alone, is less of a threat and the only problem here is that if I go... Crowley will follow me.

If I just go without telling him what The Metatron said and I don't come back right away, he'll go to Heaven, worried that something happened to me, and they'll kill him when he comes looking for me. He'll find out they've Book of Life'd me and do something stupid and my sacrifice to keep him safe will all be for nothing.

So what's our tortured angel to do?

Bandstand 2.0, right?

He's got to piss Crowley off enough that Crowley won't follow him.

He's got to piss Crowley off so much that Crowley *will never come back* and the worst part is that Aziraphale knows *exactly* how to do it.

He makes his own plans and if things get drastic enough, he'll blow up that damn halo, metaphorically-speaking this time. To save Crowley, he will break Crowley.

It's darkly romantic, really. He'll sacrifice himself for Crowley but to be sure that Crowley will be safe and not follow, he'll have to break his heart a bit first-- to further their misunderstandings in a season based on "I don't think your exactly is my exactly exactly"-level miscommunications.

So Aziraphale accepts The Metatron's offer and lets The Metatron think he completely believes that the offer is legit and maybe a part of him is still hoping that it is but he knows it's really not and that this is a suicide run. This is Aziraphale's Holy Water arc...

...and speaking of Holy Water... that arc from the perspective of this being Aziraphale's mentality... Crowley, tortured by Hell for what he did while with Aziraphale in 1827, then refusing to talk about it, showing up with a cane, sullen and depressed, asking Aziraphale for the one thing that would kill him and Aziraphale's unwillingness to understand that it wasn't completely suicide ideation on Crowley's part but as a way to *protect Aziraphale* and keep him safe. Crowley wanted what could kill a demon not to kill himself but to kill one that might come after Aziraphale. All Aziraphale could see, though, was Crowley's physical and emotional pain, that he could barely keep hidden in that era, and how Aziraphale couldn't make it better. All he could see was how he failed him and led him to this suffering. All he could see in a note begging for "holy water" was Crowley wanting a suicide pill, wanting to destroy himself, unable to take any more, in so much pain that he'd leave Aziraphale forever to make it stop. Aziraphale is blinded entirely by guilt and fails to see what Crowley is really saying, which was, ironically, the last time Crowley began to try to tell Aziraphale how he felt, which was:

I've been thinking-- what if it all goes wrong? (What if I lose you? I'm terrified of losing you. I love you. I wake up from nightmares of you being destroyed by the demons who just spent a couple of decades after 1827 not that long ago torturing me. I didn't know for sure if you were still alive during any of it.) We have a lot in common, you and me. (We're a team. A... group of the two of us.) What if it all goes pear-shaped? I need you to get me the magical demon-killing stuff so I have a weapon against *my own fellow fallen angels* that I can use in case they come after us. I would kill another demon and send every legion of Hell after me to protect you.

Aziraphale: I like pears.

(My God, they are so stupid. Please. I can't take any more lol.)

So, yeah... it's Aziraphale's turn for the holy water suicide run here only with an actual suicide run...

It takes the books in The Blitz for Aziraphale to really understand what Crowley was asking for and what he meant by asking for holy water and by 1967, he gives Crowley the holy water, in the one moment when *they actually talk*, as much as they can, about how much they love one another, that exists prior to the end of its parallel-- the end of S2.

So, yeah, Aziraphale "goes to tell his friend the good news" with a look on his face like he's marching to his death *because he is* and he knows it. His last moments with Crowley, in some of his last moments in existence, he already knows will be spent upsetting the man-shaped being he loves. He's got it all planned out. Not exactly the picnic of his dreams but it'll redeem him and save Crowley and that's all that matters to Aziraphale in this moment.

He will sound naive to the threat of Heaven and because Crowley doesn't remember pre-Fall, he won't remember how Aziraphale warned him against taking on the brass in Heaven so Crowley won't be suspicious, he'll be *frustrated*, like he was in the bandstand. He'll get angry. Aziraphale's goal is to get him to storm out-- but it has to be a really, really, bad relationship-ending storming out.

He can't come back after he drives The Bentley around the block like he did back in 2.01 and say "okay, fine, I'll help you" and Aziraphale knows that if he plays this right, he can make it so Crowley won't because helping Gabriel was one thing but asking Crowley to become an angel with him and pretending like they can go fix the broken system of Heaven is going to be Crowley's bridge too far. It's *the only thing* that Aziraphale believes is Crowley's bridge too far where Aziraphale is concerned and isn't that heartbreaking as hell? That Crowley loves him this much? And they never got to be together the way they wanted? That they were just beginning to get close to trying to figure that out?

That, hours ago, Aziraphale was asking him to dance and trying to ignore the signs of trouble around the corner, desperately wanting more time with him? That they are semi-immortal beings that always somehow seem to be out of time?

Truer words have never been spoken, Crowley. Little did you know, poor demon...

So Aziraphale goes into the bookshop and Crowley looks all worked up and wants to say something and some part of Aziraphale begins to hear warning alarms going off in his head because Crowley *never* looks like this-- is never this flustered, never this uncomfortable, never this nervous, never in a rush to say something-- and Aziraphale thinks no, can't be, we don't talk about this... even if, ironically, all of S2 shows that Aziraphale has been trying *for just that*. It was just a few hours ago that he was trying to Jane Austen a ball for them to use as a pretense to discuss their feelings because, in the height of ironies here, right?

Aziraphale was ready.

They'd had some time without Heaven and Hell breathing so much down their necks, even if the threat still loomed, and spent every day together and it was perfect and it was lovely and he knew Crowley would forgive him and Aziraphale was almost there, right, he was *almost* ready to tell him. He was almost ready to tell him he loved him and that it was him, all those millennia ago, who could have done something and didn't and he's so, so, so sorry and can Crowley ever forgive him? Is there any way that Crowley could ever forgive him after what he didn't say and didn't do when he should have? For all the times since that he's said things in anger when, really, he was madly in love and just full of his own issues to sort out? (Damn, Aziraphale, we're beginning to see your affinity for Austen heroes here...)

But he's out of time so there will be none of that now. Now is his karmic payback. Six thousand beautiful years with the being he loves and feels he doesn't deserve have led to Aziraphale's redemption being that he can sacrifice himself to save him. He can leave the world they love with Crowley and Crowley's *goodness* in it, as it should be. So when Crowley says he needs to say something, Aziraphale cannot-- CANNOT-- let him speak because he cannot bear it.

He suddenly fears that of course-- OF COURSE-- the one moment in all of these trillions of moments they've lived through where Crowley is about to directly say he loves him for the first time is the also the same fucking moment when Aziraphale has to destroy their relationship to save Crowley's life and Aziraphale will be dead after this and he cannot bear hearing what his life could have been. He can't hear Crowley say this right now or else he worries he might lose his nerve. He *wants* to hear it but if Crowley speaks first, Aziraphale might cave, he might be weak again like he was when Crowley Fell, he might fail him again, and he can't. Not after all this time. Not when he loves Crowley so much.

"What's that lovely human expression?! 'Hold that thought!'" he blurts out, in a callback to, of course, the moment Crowley saved him in 1941-- to that night where Aziraphale really realized for the first time that Crowley wasn't just capable of good or capable of being friendly towards him but that Crowley *loved* him and that he loved the Demon Crowley, whether or not he should. ("But somewhere in my wicked, miserable past," sings Frances McDormand as the Voice of God, from her apparent favorite film lol, "I must have done something good.")

Ah, yes. Played for suckers. Here is where it's important to note that in 1941, Aziraphale had no idea that Rose was really Greta and that he, in fact, was the one being played for a sucker. By the end of S2, though, it could be argued that he very much knows that The Metatron is Fraulein Greta Klauschmidt-- someone who presented herself as Captain Rose Montgomery, an agent of anti-fascist good, who approached Aziraphale in his bookshop and told him that he could be an agent of change, too. He could help save the world and stop the global rising tide of fascism represented by the Third Reich. He could even do so using his books. They plotted a sting together, in which he'd bring his books to a church and seem to give them to Nazis to give to the Fuhrer, only for agents to surround them and arrest the Nazis. Aziraphale, desperate to *do* good and to *be* good, falls for this-- he fails to see that Rose is really Greta, a Nazi agent who fools him into working for the enemy and getting him to help destroy the world in the process. Pretty obvious to see here that Greta is The Metatron in S2... but it's likely that Aziraphale knows it and is playing along because it's his turn to save Crowley, unlike what happened in 1941, when Crowley saves him and his books.

Crowley, in the bookshop back at the end of S2 in our present time, stops speaking at the "hold that thought", looking like he's about to be ill, and has to also be thinking of 1941 and the church now that Aziraphale has referenced it. Maybe, in some way, it's an unconscious effort on Aziraphale's part to convey to Crowley that this is a charade-- that he doesn't mean this, that it's an act-- but he really doesn't want Crowley to figure that out. It would defeat his goal. But he also doesn't want to hurt him because he loves him but this is the only way that Aziraphale can see to save him. So he starts gushing about his coffee with The Metatron, right? We all remember this pain lol.

Maybe I've misjudged him. (Aziraphale, we suspect you know that he tossed Crowley into hellfire and stole Gabriel's memories so honestly, the worst part of all of this is that you're so traumatized that Crowley is *buying* what you're saying here...) And guess what?! He wants me to be the new Supreme Archangel! And he said you can come! And you can be an angel again! It will be so fun! We can have a slumber party, Crowley, after days of doing good, and braid each other's hair!

Crowley is like jfc fml are you even serious right now? Which, of course, is what Aziraphale *was going for.* It's the "I don't even like you" and the "we're hereditary enemies" and the "I'm an angel, you're a demon" way of trying to intentionally push Crowley away but the new version of it because none of that flies with S2 Crowley-- most of it barely flew with him in S1-- because Crowley *knows.*

He knows that Aziraphale loves him. And he knows that Aziraphale knows him, which is to say he knows how to hurt him, and that's what this is but also Crowley just sees it as how much Heaven has hurt them both. How much they've hurt Aziraphale. Because just as Aziraphale looks at Crowley in the throes of his religious trauma-- "Unforgivable. It's what I am", etc.-- and wants to help and save and protect him, Crowley feels the same way in return when Aziraphale is like this. Frustrated, sure, but in just as much pain at how much pain Aziraphale is in and feels powerless to stop it but will do whatever he can to try to, yeah?

For Aziraphale, this is all going fairly well (it's miserable but in terms of goal, it's working) through "tell me you said no" but the problem is that Crowley is still pleading. He's still trying to work through it because they're an *us* now and also ironically of course this is when Crowley's been trying to do better with storming out lol so he's trying to couple-solve this. He's not just *leaving* like how Aziraphale had hoped. He had been trying to sell to Crowley that he could pick Heaven over Crowley and Crowley is just kinda... not believing it so much at first and, instead, is trying to approach it like a problem for the two of them to solve together, instead of as a decision that Aziraphale has made for his life that he's stating that Crowley can take or leave.

Which calls back to this scene in 2.01 at the start of this arc, when Crowley calls their life *his* life and Aziraphale counters with that he thought *they* had carved out a life for themselves *together* and Crowley answers: "so did I!" Because they haven't had a discussion about what they are, exactly, at that point, Crowley still cautiously calls *their* life *his* life, retaining a sense of autonomy, as if he's only making decisions for himself when, in reality, they are a couple who are trying to make a life together and have been doing so consciously since S1. Crowley calls that life "precious" and "peaceful" to Aziraphale-- beautiful, lovely things that they both treasure and want and find with one another-- but also "fragile". The threats to them still loom large in the background and they are still so afraid to go much further in their relationship because, in part, of those threats and how terrified they are of losing one another... which just makes the end of S2 even more brutal, really.

(*mantras* cottage in the south downs cottage in the south downs...)

So back in That Scene later in S2, Aziraphale is then just kind of stuck trying to figure out how to get Crowley to be so angry with him that he storms out and never comes back in the face of Crowley trying to very much not do that and then Crowley starts saying that he needs to say what he was going to say or he never will and Aziraphale *knows*, ok? He knows what Crowley needs to say. He just literally cannot believe this is going to happen right now. He honestly can't believe it's happening at all but right now?!

He knows before Crowley begins speaking. He probably knew when he told him to "hold that thought" a few moments before but he *really* knows now. Crowley has no idea that Aziraphale has planned for this to be the last time they ever see one another and to go sacrifice himself to Heaven for whatever they want to do with him to keep them away from Crowley. Crowley looks like he's about to pass out from nerves and can barely speak and just...

...six. thousand. years...

...I know we have all looked at the heartbreak of this scene from Crowley's POV here every which way to Sunday, okay, but just imagine you are Aziraphale, who has loved this being since before the literal beginning of time, and you blame yourself for his pain and suffering, and he's standing here, braver than you've ever been with him, looking into your eyes and telling you that he knows that you love him and that he loves you and he knows you both have known this for basically the entirety of your existence together and he can't pretend anymore. He doesn't want to pretend anymore. He knows things have changed over the last few years between you and he wants more of that. He wants to be with you.

The two of you are not even human, just human-adjacent beings who have gone native from the stars and clouds here, who live and love like humans, who know that maybe the angels and demons have it backwards and God's great creatures are the humans-- that it should be the good in them that you should be trying to emulate-- and Crowley had never been more beautifully, impossibly human than while he's standing there looking ready to pass out while asking you if, after six millennia, it might be alright for him to not hide how much he loves you.

How many times has Aziraphale imagined this by this point? A million? How many different ways? There's at least half of them when he imagines that he's the one who gets up the courage first but there are so. many. Crowley. fantasies. Ones in every time period. But always *a fantasy*, at least up until maybe very recently. Why?

Not even just Heaven and Hell and the threat of being caught but the fact that Aziraphale believes that Crowley doesn't know Aziraphale didn't save him during The Fall and how could he ever really love him if he knew? How could Aziraphale ever go to him like this and give Crowley everything he knows Crowley has desired for so long without telling him the truth about Aziraphale's role in Crowley's Fall-- but then, Aziraphale assumes, he'd lose Crowley forever? So this has always been a pipe dream for Aziraphale-- fantasies from a world where they ever stood a chance of being together-- never really something that could be reality and here it is, starting, happening *now*...

...after six. thousand. years. of living with this guilt and in the last moments in which he will ever see Crowley before he heads to his likely death, with no time to tell him the truth and beg for his forgiveness, no time to ever know what their lives might be like if they could be together.

As Crowley, unbeknownst to Aziraphale, mused dramatically, if not inaccurately, earlier in the season... it's always too late.

It's punishment, in Aziraphale's mind. That's what Crowley's proposal, his confession, is now. It's his Fall, whether he falls or not when he leaves the bookshop for Heaven. It's karmic retribution-- it's God, finally saying something, and what she's saying is:

Look at what you've done, Aziraphale...

Look at how he loves you.

He was never unforgivable.

You are.

Aziraphale might be erased from existence once he gets to Heaven and he knows that's a possibility but he basically is dying here. Crowley is killing him. Crowley has pointed that silver bullet gun straight at his head and fired but he's missed and the bullet isn't in Aziraphale's teeth, it's gone through him.

Crowley, here, tears in his eyes, asking for whatever time they have. An eternity? Impossible, unlikely. Angel and demon. One day, the war will begin again-- another war to end all wars, like all the ones they've fell more and more in love during throughout history-- but it might be the one where Heaven or Hell wins and they're doomed to spend eternity apart. Crowley has said before he thinks the real war is humanity versus Heaven and Hell and that sounds like he thinks there's a chance they could survive it but who knows? They don't know. They're immortal beings who live like humans and that's, of late, included a sense of mortality. They don't know how much time they have left and Crowley is asking for all of it. He is asking for whatever time they have left to be spent together, openly loving one another, and what he doesn't know is what Aziraphale knows:

That they're already out of time.

Crowley is proposing marriage unaware that Aziraphale is dying. It's always too late, Crowley had stated earlier but had hope that maybe it wasn't but it is. And Aziraphale?

Gah. Aziraphale...

He's never loved him more. He's never wanted him more. He wants to tell him that he wants that, too, that they can have it, that Crowley can have anything he wants, but it's not true. It's not true because they could run out the back door of the bookshop now and hop in the Bentley and end-of-Grease it up to Alpha Centauri and Heaven will still find them. Heaven and Hell will still be after them. Running away solves nothing and Crowley always, ultimately, anyway, comes back and this time-- this time-- for Crowley's own good, to save his life, Aziraphale needs him to leave the bookshop and never come back.

And the moment that Crowley confesses that he loves him and that he knows Aziraphale loves him in return and that they've both known this, forever, and asks him if he can be allowed to just love him, Aziraphale loves him so much in return that he'll break his heart to save him from dying.

Dying is... not on, as High!Crowley put it in 1827 lol, but suicide-ish attempts are, if it's Aziraphale's turn this time.

So he twists the knife. He hides the goats as pigeons and he looks at Crowley and does a bit of this:

...only with the exact opposite intent. In the Job minisode, Crowley cannot speak aloud his true intentions. (Something he can finally do in the S2 finale, when he declares his love for Aziraphale.) He cannot tell Aziraphale outrightly that he had zero desire whatosever to kill Job's kids and animals and doesn't plan on actually doing it and, in fact, is actively engaged in a bit of bait-and-switch to make it look like he's doing what he's supposed to be doing as mandated by Heaven! this time as well as Hell (a nice little extra bit of paralleling to the end of S2 and Aziraphale, there.) He wants Aziraphale to believe him enough to allow him to pull it off because saving the kids and the pets (and protecting Aziraphale from any harm that might come to him if he gets in the way of what Crowley's been asked to do) matters more to Crowley than Aziraphale believing him...

...and believing him here means believing *in* him. Believing that they are on the same side and it's their own side and they're in it together. Crowley has to lie to him here *and it works for a moment*. It's really important to note that *it works*. Aziraphale believes that Crowley can do this and that he wants to-- that he not only can but he *longs* (lol) to "kill the blameless kids of Job"-- but it's all in Crowley's wording. He isn't *actually* lying. He *does* long to kill the blameless kids of Job like how he killed the blameless goats of Job-- because he "killed the blameless goats of Job" by turning them into pigeons. So he's really saying to Aziraphale that he longs to *fake the deaths* of the blameless kids of Job and plans to in the same way that he did the goats. In that moment, though? It didn't matter if Crowley was lying or telling the truth. There was only one goal--

--to get Aziraphale to walk away.

To get Aziraphale to leave, for his own safety, and let Crowley handle this. Better that he misunderstand Crowley and be disappointed in him and think him a lost cause than to get himself into trouble. Crowley out here loving Aziraphale that much in the days of Bildad the Shuite. (This poor mfer. Six. Thousand. Years lol.)

So what caused Crowley's plan to save Aziraphale in the Job era to not work?

One of the pigeons bleated, right?

Aziraphale heard it and realized that Crowley hadn't been lying so much as he had been trying to protect Aziraphale from his plan of subterfuge against the Almighty and Satan. The difference is that there are no bleating pigeons in the S2 finale... there's just *a whole certain famous other kind of damn bird instead* and its *absence* from the scene is the big emotional gut punch moment. And we all know it but I'll gif it anyway since this is already a depressing meta (cottage in the south downs cottage in the south downs...)...

...and that *is* the point. Because unlike back in the Bildad the Shuite days, there is no bleating pigeon (at least, not yet) to make Crowley realize that all is not what it seems and that Aziraphale is trying to lie to him and get him to leave to protect him from Heaven.

As Aziraphale is like mortally wounded here by Crowley's confession of love and is so not going to recover from this, he's now got to not only get Crowley to leave feeling like Aziraphale rejected being their own team for Heaven, he has to now do it with all of it out in the open-- with Crowley having openly confessed love for him, with him having asked for them to be together. He's not just going to have to frustrate Crowley more than he ever has before and get him to leave more angry than he was before, he has to, instead, smash into little tiny bits the very beautiful, very passionate, beating heart of the being he has loved since he met him *making the stars* in the bloody sky here...

The only way to get Crowley to go now is to make Crowley think he's rejecting the idea of loving him. Aziraphale honestly can't even sell the idea that he *doesn't* love Crowley because Crowley won't believe it-- he knows Aziraphale does and he's said as much in his whole marriage proposal here. So it has to be that Crowley thinks Aziraphale chose Heaven over loving him. Chose being an angel. That he really meant all of those 'hereditary enemies' and 'you're a demon' moments and to sell that, he sells it.

(You're a dark horse, Mr. Fell, Nina said of him in 2.01... the same turn of phrase Crowley uses when surprised by the secret skills and narrative power of Jane Austen later on in the pub.)

Aziraphale does love himself a bit of theatre. A bit of a disappearing act. The West End, The West End...

...our Nefertiti-fooling fellow...

He sells it with:

Well, of course you said no, *you're* the bad guys...

Come with me... I'll run, it you can be *my second-in-command*...

We can be together. *Angels*. Doing *good*...

...oh, Crowley... nothing lasts forever...

For his final act, The Marvelous Mr. Fell will saw his ineffable husband's heart in half by spewing a litany of everything he can think of to say that will piss him off enough to make him leave the bookshop broken-hearted enough to never come back.

Only someone put a miracle blocker on here because, try as he might and good heavens (pardon the pun), Aziraphale is *trying* here...

...this turnip is not turning into a damn inkwell.

Crowley finally starts to go-- it's looking promising. Finally, Aziraphale thinks, this misery might end. Six thousand years of wanting to speak of all of this between them and hoping for some happiness when-- if-- it could maybe someday arrive, if it even could-- and it's the worst moment of Aziraphale's existence and he knows it is the same for Crowley.

Crowley stops and the "do you hear that?" And no, Aziraphale doesn't hear anything, he just has never been more upset and Crowley needs to just go because Aziraphale can't handle another moment of this, how could it possibly get worse?

Nightingales. Of course.

A call back to S1's "no more world-class composers/little restaurants where they know you/gravalax and dill sauce/old bookshops" but this time, it's "no nightingales". There's Armageddon coming that neither of them know about in this moment. It's still a 'someday, they'll try again' concept to them in this scene, not an extremely immediate threat, as Aziraphale doesn't learn about The Second Coming until after this. So the end of the world that Crowley references here is the end of *their* world and that means no nightingales. No romance. No *them*, together. Worth remembering that Crowley thought, up until maybe what? Five minutes ago? That they were headed to breakfast at the Ritz together. They should have been sitting there together *in this moment*, is what he's saying. Miracling the pianist to play "A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square" and gazing at one another over teapots and mimosas and croissants.

That's gone, since you chose Heaven instead, is what Crowley states and Aziraphale knows it because, God help him (no, literally, GOD HELP HIM! WHERE THE HELL DID YOU GO OFF TO THIS SEASON, FRANCES?!), it's what he's *trying* to make happen.

You idiot, says the once-Bildad the Shuite, who thought he was taking his beloved to the ox rib special this morning and not getting dumped for an old floating head and the cinematic world's most contentious to-go cup of coffee, we could have been... us.

Not really a part of the theory here, just the observation that Crowley's confession/proposal begins with him unable to say "a couple", in case this all goes pear-shaped and he needs to have never said something that romantic, so he says instead "a team", "a group-- of the two of us". He says it without saying it. But, by the end? He just says "us." He *present*-tenses it. He's like forget everything else, angel, we could have just kept on being us because we both know what we are. We don't need to find the right turn of phrase or even the most specific human word for it. We are just *us* and we could have kept on with that but you chose the mentality of your abusive family and asked me to be what I'm not and I still love you because I *know* you but I can't be with you like that and *you* know that.

And he kisses him. Because Franny McD says you ain't suffered enough yet, Aziraphale lol. Should I just gif it while we're miserable? If you've read this far, a month has passed and hopefully, you've taken breaks and I do apologize but I'm gonna gif it because yeah. Here we go, folks...

God, make it stop, pleads Aziraphale to literal God and here comes Crowley with the S1 wall slam parallel, all dammit, angel, I know you've wanted us to snog for centuries and this is our last chance.

I know people have opinions about this kiss and I know we're all posting them here, obviously myself included, but while I've seen a lot of like... 'Crowley knows it's the only time they ever will be able to because Aziraphale is leaving him for Heaven' and 'Crowley wants to remind Aziraphale what he's giving up and could have had' and 'Crowley tries the kiss to see if it'll change Aziraphale's mind' takes-- and I agree with all of those things and think they're all right-- I've not seen a lot of 'Crowley kisses Aziraphale *for Aziraphale*' and I think that's a big part of it, too.

Crowley really isn't stupid. Not when it comes to Aziraphale wanting him. It would be honestly hard to spend a zillion lifetimes on Earth and not get it after like...

And Crowley understands Aziraphale's particular brand of religious trauma more than most, since he has a variant version of it himself. He understands that where his whole thing is that he's very much *not* an angel anymore, that Aziraphale's identity is wrapped up in being one and the conflicts he has with Heaven and while Crowley is not yet quite hearing what Nina said-- that she just got out of an abusive relationship and that she's not yet ready to be with Maggie and needs time-- and marrying that to Aziraphale and Heaven (especially because Aziraphale is showing exactly zero signs of trying to get out of his relationship with Heaven lol), Crowley wants Aziraphale to have had what he (Aziraphale) wanted, even if it was for only a moment. He can't go with him. This is the *one* scenario where Crowley cannot follow where Aziraphale goes, where he can't come to him and rescue him, because Aziraphale has said he doesn't want him to. Aziraphale wants to go and do this and the only way he'll take Crowley is if Crowley wants to become an angel again, which Crowley will not do.

And damned if there isn't a part of Aziraphale that thinks that if The Metatron can really be trusted, wouldn't that be something? That if he gets up there to Heaven and he really is made Supreme Archangel and if Crowley changes his mind, if he comes back, like he always does... if he storms out and leaves but then misses him too much and takes the elevator up... then maybe Aziraphale could make him an angel again and while Crowley hears in Aziraphale offering that you aren't good enough as a demon-- you're not good, period and even if he doesn't totally believe that Aziraphale really thinks that but knows Aziraphale has enough religious conflict that it's a problem for their relationship, what Aziraphale *really* means is... I could fix it.

I could go back and un-Fall you. I could take away your pain. I could stop your suffering. I'd have the *power* to do it when I don't right now and it kills me, every day. I could right the wrong I did, the sin I committed-- the real Original Sin-- six thousand years ago when I betrayed you, when Heaven betrayed you.

I could do right by you, the way She never did.

I am going to Heaven to either have the power to do that or to be obliterated into non-existence and I don't totally know which, though surviving is not looking promising, but all I know is that it's too dangerous for you to follow me right now until I do know so I'd rather hurt you than see you dead.

You want to be with me and I am afraid it will lead to your destruction so I need to say anything to put the breaks on your attempt and make you back off. To a lesser extent, I've done it before. Can do again.

Only this time, no hope of the possible, future picnic, I'm afraid...

It really is the worst possible Aziraphale nightmare here like... everything he's ever wanted. Six millennia of wanting to pull Crowley close and he has to reject him or Crowley could die. Fanfic season here said Coffee Shop AU and also a reverse-Fuck or Die for the ages. People complaining that it's awkward? YES. It's supposed to be. Crowley has no idea that Aziraphale is facing a round of sudden death here and was just hoping for his one fabulous kiss and vavoom. Even if it didn't change anything-- he wanted *Aziraphale* to feel that. To know how much he's wanted this for so long and to have it, even if they can't again. The intent is terribly romantic, as is Aziraphale flailing in the middle of it and giving in because he is made of strong, halo-exploding stuff here but he's wanted this forever. He goes up on his toes, he leans in, his hands flail around and he touches Crowley's back. He *shouldn't* do any of this if he's trying to meet his goal of getting Crowley to leave because it gave Crowley hope. It might have even been what motivated Crowley to stay outside and not go right away, or at least a part of it. But Aziraphale had to because he loves him and he couldn't help it.

Then, *sob*, The Michael Sheen eviscerating all of us here...

For anyone who might still be saying that is an "I didn't want his kiss" face... hard, HARD, VERY HARD disagree. That is "I didn't want *this* kiss, like this, right now." That is a man-shaped being who was just kissed by the love of his life for what may have been the first time but, at minimum, is for what he believes will be the *last* time. (I'm still out here holding out some hope for Blitz, Part 3-- a nice first kiss after they kill some Zombie Nazis with Chekhov's derringer in the bookshop but I digress...somehow, even if this entire long meta is one long digression, I digress lol...)

It's the face of a man gutted by the fact that this, in his wildest dreams, was not supposed to happen like this and he's been alive for damn ever at this point so he's had *all* the wildest dreams. And a lot of them, let's be real, have centered around Crowley doing just this. Exactly this. Crowley ain't wrong with the 'grabbing him by the collar and kissing him senseless in the middle of the bookshop' thing. He's wanted to do it for centuries. And the middle of the bookshop bit? That's important, too. This is their home. It's *their* home, even if Crowley is technically homeless. It's safe for him in here and Aziraphale has made it so. It's where they've spent thousands of hours together, happy and safe in each other's company, and here they are, bouille-bouile-bouile-baby-ing finally and it's a complete and utter, unmitigated trash truck dumpster fire.

Honestly, this was a better kiss than in S2 lol. S1 laying down though how long they've been dreaming about it (and having Crowley start listing animals that are in Aziraphale's nonsense magic spell, like he flashes back to 1941 when thinking about the end of the world and kissing Aziraphale in the bookshop... so you can see why I'm moderately hopeful that maybe they did kiss then, once, before then trying to never again until Crowley kisses Aziraphale in 2.06.)

I'm going to bring this back around now to the comparison I made above with Crowley and Jesus and talk about how 2.06's end scenes are also like the last temptation of Christ. Good Omens makes it pretty clear that Aziraphale is the tempter, really, of the two of them, in their relationship. Crowley can't say no to him and Aziraphale has learned it and loves to puppy eyes Crowley into anything he wants.

Crowley knows it and is fine with it. He's smitten and happy to be wrapped around Aziraphale's finger. Crowley has tempted Aziraphale and we see that in S2 with the ox rib. He is, himself, just by existing, tempting to Aziraphale. But in terms of temptation carrying with it a bit of manipulation and *that* kind of tempting being what's demonic in nature? Then Aziraphale is, and always has been, the demon of the two of them. This is true into the end of S2, as while there is almost nothing that Crowley would deny Aziraphale, there is really only one thing and that's to change who he is for him. To become an angel again, to work for Heaven again, after what they've done to him and Aziraphale. So the end of S2 is then Aziraphale's temptation-- it's a test, of sorts, for Crowley, even if Aziraphale doesn't intend for it to be. Crowley resists the temptation. Even for Aziraphale, he won't follow the path of darkness for himself and become something he's not. Crowley-Jesus. (Aziraphale-Satan S3 incoming lol.)

And if you've been reading all of this right then you know what happens next and what it means from the POV of this guilt-ridden Aziraphale...

I honestly don't think Aziraphale is really that angry *with Crowley* at this point-- I think he's just angry. He's reached his limit and then some. He has a lot of simmering, under the surface rage on a good day that only bubbles over when he's stressed by a situation he can't control and here is the ultimate one, really. He's a little mad at Crowley because they've waited countless years for that and in an argument, while ironically probably kind of perfect for them, is not really how *either* of them wanted it to be... but, mostly, Aziraphale is just angry that he can't have any of those moments at all. That they're out of time. That they had all this time and they never really could be safely together and that he's been haunted for six thousand years of the image of his fluffy cloud of redheaded sunshine, bloodied and stricken, and then tossed to Hell while Aziraphale was powerless to stop it. He's never seen those eyes since and he loves the snake ones. He loves all of Crowley with all he has but he's never been allowed to *have* him and never felt safe enough to try and now it's all over. And he still has to make Crowley fucking leave this bookshop for his plan of self-sacrifice to fucking work here so...

...I forgive you. It's the worst thing he can think of. The thing Crowley always hates. The thing that he knows makes Crowley feel lesser and demonic, even if Aziraphale has always, always meant it as an I love you. He even spits it out to Crowley with an almost self-deprecating, referential tone to it-- like "here we go again-- you say you love me and I say 'I forgive you' because I can't say anything else, can I?" The anger is laced underneath it and all the pain but he's intentionally referencing how this this the thing he says whenever Crowley says they can be their own side. He's trying to claim that nothing has changed in all of these years, when they both know that everything has changed since S1 and the bandstand. That's what makes it hurt both of them even more. Aziraphale chooses to say "I forgive you" because he knows that Crowley has never heard it for how Aziraphale means it and Aziraphale is a little bitter about it and lets it show in the moment, since Aziraphale's I forgive you always really means...

I can't stand to see you in pain and if there's any power in me as an angel to stop it, then I will do that so I forgive you and may that make it easier, may that make it all okay, even though I know it won't.

And just before saying I forgive you, Aziraphale's mouth works and he almost-- almost-- says I love you instead... what Crowley would really give anything to hear.

You can see the 'l' forming there, the beginning of "love", what he *really* wanted to say... what Crowley himself didn't even actually explicitly say. Crowley said it without saying it. He called them a couple without saying that word, asked for eternity without fully asking for it, said he loved him by acknowledging that they had both been pretending, but Crowley was terrified and so he said the things in a way that made it obvious what he was saying and asking for but, so unused to not speaking in code are they, that Crowley didn't say he loved Aziraphale, not directly. He did say it. He just didn't say it in those words.

And for a second, Aziraphale almost does.

He can't stand that he's breaking Crowley's heart. He can't stand that Crowley has kissed him and Aziraphale only briefly kissed him back, only barely touched him, when he really wanted to go at him like an ox rib and never let him go, and he starts to say the truth because no part of him really *wants* to be lying like this to Crowley. But he stops. And not even just because he needs Crowley to leave the shop to save his life but because, in the last four minutes, Crowley has confessed love and proposed and they've kissed and Aziraphale, pretty sure he actually died somewhere in the middle there and he's now stuck somewhere in one of Dante's worst circles of Hell lol, just cannot *also* have this be the moment where he says "I love you" to Crowley.

It's not even false hope that maybe they'll somehow have more time. With Heaven breathing down his neck in the form of The Metatron, Aziraphale has no real hope of that. He just always dreamed of telling him and not like this. He doesn't want Crowley to hear it like this, either, not as a part of a rejection. The anger, instead, surfaces, because why can't he and Crowley just *have* this?! How the hell did Gabriel and Beezlebub get to fuck off to Alpha Centauri after dating for ten minutes when he and Crowley have spent bloody eons in queer pining hell over here? What did they ever do that was so wrong to deserve this? Why was Crowley asking questions so terrible? Why have they had to spend thousands of years pretending not to love each other as if love-- the epitome of the angelic-- was unholy? Why, Aziraphale is wondering, now that they are out of time, did he ever spend so many years terrified when, in the end, it all ended tragically anyway?

How many of those years could Aziraphale have spent loving Crowley the way they ought to have been able to have and denied themselves of for so long?

And then Crowley finally does it. Tells him "don't bother" about the forgiveness-- about the love, as Aziraphale has always meant it-- and he leaves. It worked. The anger and pain and saying "I forgive you" after that kiss... it worked. And Crowley leaves and Aziraphale, alone, is a complete mess of broken and furious and broken some more.

Crowley, as we know, doesn't get to see this moment. Muriel does! Great for fic! Hilarious by show standards that the new angel who is literally being ordered to take over Aziraphale's home against his will is who witnesses the aftermath of the intimate moment our angel has been craving, oh, just since before the dawn of humanity over here.

He touches his lips, his hand trembles... have you all noticed that Aziraphale is literally fucking *tasting and eating* what of himself Crowley left in his mouth here? He's pulling every bit of Crowley to his tongue from his teeth and *swallowing*, like he knows it's all of him he'll ever again be able to consume, like he's committing how he tastes to memory for the last like, who knows, ten? fifteen? twenty minutes? of his own existence that he knows he probably has left...

Jesus fucking Christ, Michael Sheen...

This is all without yet mentioning the single most under-analyzed line in S2 that calls into question a ton of stuff, which is this beauty from Shax, right off the top of 2.01:

"Beezlebub's put some of the lesser demons on half-rations."

What does this have to do with Aziraphale consuming Crowley's kiss like it's the most scrumptious thing he's ever tasted (because it is) and being furious that it'll be their last?

Because that Shax line casually confirms that demons eat. Do they eat human food or some sort of demon food or both? Who knows, really, but they're *supposed* to eat. Ok, but is it just a demon thing? No, because it ties to Crowley's comments in S1 about how he complained that the food wasn't really that good lately when hanging out with Lucifer and The Gang, which then implies that, at least back then, *angels* ate, too. Eating was a normal thing. Over time, though, we know that the higher angels have come to see eating as human and pedestrian and not something befitting of an angel. Some demons eat-- even Crowley eats, if less than and differently than Aziraphale-- but the angels think it's beneath them and if we have confirmation via Shax in S2 that they are supposed to be eating and basically only don't die because they're immortal beings and not human, even if they have human corporations, then the show is saying that all of these angels are fucking starving themselves.

They're doing what they're told and denying their own nature and their own needs in the process.

S2 also shows that with the ox rib, right?

Aziraphale went *at* that thing. He'd never eaten at all in a couple thousand years after being told it was un-angelic and so when he tasted food for the first time, he went so overboard that he's been Mr. Prim and Proper with his napkins and table etiquette ever since out of embarrassment over Crowley watching him food orgasm once-- and that's the metaphor there, as we've all figured out. Our show that has a sex worker named Mrs. Sandwich is all about its ongoing food-as-sex metaphor. S2 even opens with the hilarious turnabout from S1 as a "thank you for my pornography", "why do you consume *that*?" Gabriel shows up at the bookshop-- naked-- and has a food orgasm trying hot chocolate for the first time.

Gabe, babe, Aziraphale does not need the play-by-play here....

Mah point is... mah point is that Tumblr is maxing me at 30 images per post and so you'll just have to picture Crowley slurring "dolphins" while I get to my actual point here...

Mah point is while this is a whole separate analysis almost and one that many of you have already done in different ways re: food & sex on the show, my point here is that starving yourself of food in Good Omens is analogous to being touch-starved or love-deprived and before someone yells at me about how angelic beings don't necessarily need sex or are by nature not into sex unless they make an Effort, I agree with you and Neil Gaiman. I'm just also saying the show is suggesting that they all have human corporations and that many of those human corporations are not sex-averse so for those of them that are not, they're literally out here touch-starved and/or sex-starved here in different ways. But, you say, maybe Crowley is hungry (goodness knows, Crowley *is hungry* lol) but Aziraphale eats all the time!

Yeah. Aziraphale eats *food*, all the time. But he isn't touched all the time. He doesn't have sex all the time. He isn't kissed all the time. The 2.06 scene shows him *physically* making that metaphor of food and sex real for us-- we watch him *consume* what remains of Crowley's kiss--showing that he's desperate for it and deprived of it. He's starved for it, to a point of trembling hands and rolling every bit of Crowley's lingering taste around his mouth like he's taking on every last bite of the best crepe he could ever imagine in all his days...

...and then being, understandably, full of rage that this is the only time he's going to ever have Crowley-- and all he's ever going to have of him, when Crowley just offered all of himself-- forever.

And then The Metatron comes back and is Aziraphale ready to go to his death now? And, Friends, Aziraphale...

...is absolutely not.

He's turned away from the door, barely containing tears. When the door opened and he turned, he half-hoped it'd be Crowley but it was grr That Bastard instead. He looks out the window and Crowley is still out there...

...he left but he didn't really *leave*... and it somehow then still isn't over and will someone please just take Aziraphale out back and angel-shoot him? He can't take any more of this.

What about the shop? he asks, in a moment of desperation and terror over what's to come and some blind, stupid hope that he can somehow get out of all of this with him and Crowley still alive and The Metatron, who anticipated this, tells him Muriel lives here now. Aziraphale looks around the home he's made for him and Crowley for the last 223 years and his favorite books and possessions. Crowley's hat from 1941 is on the hat stand, the horse statue is where Crowley put his glasses back when he trusted him, back when he let Aziraphale see his pretty yellow eyes whenever Aziraphale wanted in recent years... before he just put his glasses back on now and closed himself off again.

Aziraphale is never going to see those eyes he loves again. He didn't even get to kiss Crowley without the sunglasses on before it was all over.

Even Gabriel had something to take up to Heaven with him to remind him of the demon he loved but Aziraphale goes to Heaven and to his death empty-handed because he pushed Crowley away to save him from all of this and, in the final push, he looks at Crowley standing there by The Bentley, all that secretly optimistic, beautiful, romantic hope about him still in him from the angel Aziraphale first met, all the awareness there of Aziraphale-- the only being who really knows him-- and so he's still waiting, still hoping. It goes back a few hours to the ball.

I'll be back. I won't leave you on your own.

But it's Aziraphale's call now and he gets into the elevator. The Metatron wins because Aziraphale's love for Crowley wins. He'll die before he lets anything happen to him, even if he wants to run to that car and to him but where would they run *to*? There's no place to go. Crowley has always been wrong about that. They can't go off together. There's no place safe from Heaven for them.

So Aziraphale gets into the elevator at The Dirty Donkey, leaving Crowley alone in the street once again, just with less hope this time than in 1967.

So Aziraphale leaves the bookshop this time, instead of going into it like he did in S1, when he left Crowley in the street, standing beside The Bentley, while clutching a different book this time-- Agnes Nutter's prophecies in his hand versus The Book of Life and its threatened erasure hanging over Aziraphale like the specter that it is. What was predicted about the future versus erasure from the past and all time. Nothing to see here, Crowley! Everything is as it's seems.

Everything is tickety-boo!

Tickety-boo?

Yes, which is also what Aziraphale-as-Crowley said... when he was kidnapped by Heaven and Hell in S1, remember? When he was taken from Earth to be sentenced to death... along *with* Crowley.

This time, Aziraphale is shutting Crowley out again. Telling him 'mind how you go' again, this time a bit more, uh, emphatically lol. And on their heels, again, the end of the world. Arma-bloody-geddon 2.0: The Second Coming.

Aziraphale heard The Metatron saying that was the plan-- as, of course, our villain walked away and meant for it not to be totally heard, further implying that they have no plans to really make Aziraphale the Supreme Archangel and that this is all a remix of Fraulein Greta Klauschmidt. That then makes this all somehow *even worse*... because now Aziraphale gets in the elevator to ride up to his death to save Crowley but now he knows that it was all for nothing.

War is coming. The planet they love will be destroyed. Crowley, if he knows him well enough, will likely die trying to save it. When he does, he'll still be damned to Hell for all of eternity while Aziraphale thinks he likely won't exist at all once he makes it upstairs and Michael finally gets to Book of Life him. Let the other angels think he's been played for a sucker. Better they think him a fool than that they come for Crowley.

He doesn't want to Fall and doesn't wish for it. If they take his memories as punishment, and they almost certainly will, he won't remember any of the moments he spent with Crowley and even if they could have eternity together in Hell if the world is destroyed, he wouldn't wish Crowley the pain of being around him when he didn't remember anything.

Aziraphale only finding out about The Second Coming in the moment before he gets on the elevator-- *after* everything happens with Crowley-- is a million times worse because now Aziraphale is riding to his death knowing that everything they've done in six thousand years doesn't matter and that the events of S1 didn't matter because all it did was delay the inevitable end of the world and everything Aziraphale loves is about to be destroyed.

That, apparently, was God's ineffable, Great Plan.

All of that is what is on Aziraphale's face on the ride up to Heaven in the final splitscreen.

In that splitscreen, Crowley, for what it's worth, is visually echoing the driving back from Tadfield bit that leads to the "tickety-boo" moment of Aziraphale lying to him by omission. He looks close to a parallel to the S1 moment where he suddenly yelled:

"DUCKS!"

They're what water slides off of. In this context? They were also the thing itching at the back of Crowley's mind-- the not quite right thing, the puzzle he couldn't quite figure out, the question he coudln't yet quite answer... until he could. That's positive, actually. It means there might be something for him to realize, even if that realization might come too late in the short term. (They will solve everything and be fine, memory-intact, immortal beings in love who go off together by the end of it. This is all just until then.)

Ducks are also, sort of, the be all and end all of Good Omens. Crowley knows how to take care of them, after all, when others do not. You feed them frozen peas-- they are good for them and they love them, too. (Don't feed him coffee, you Metatron idiot! He only ever drank one mug of it in S1 and it led to the *points above* see: tickety-boo Aziraphale lying to Crowley paralleling sequence of scenes.) [The "do you have one, single, better idea?" scene is Aziraphale drinking coffee, for reference.]

So, yeah, by comparison here... Aziraphale, you are a duck lol. You have been fed bread by idiots for far too long when, really, you need to be eating frozen peas. Crowley knows this and he knows how to take care of you. With any luck, he's about to have his duck-moment-paralleling epiphany any moment now, though I fear you're already going to be memory-wiped and fallen to Hell when he does. That's okay, though, because this is the main scene that still needs a go-around in paralleling and we know Crowley knows where the dungeons are down there from unfortunate, personal experience.

Cottage in the south downs, cottage in the south downs, cottage in the south downs, cottage....

Notes: Hi! If you have made it all the way here, thank you for reading. I hope it was worth the read for you. You all write such great stuff that I felt inspired to put my lit and film studies and psych background to use and jump in a bit. Thanks for indulging me. I also wish to note that there is a gif above that is by @fuckyeahgoodomens but for some reason, the credit was not working properly so I just wanted to make sure you knew who was providing us the visual joy.

#ineffable husbands #good omens #crowley x aziraphale #good omens meta #long post #good omens theory #i am not kidding you this is kinda long but there are gifs and jokes and i brought snacks?#aziraphale #crowley #good omens 2 #good omens 2 spoilers #gabriel

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cherryjuiceblues · 9 months

Text

𝐌𝐔𝐓𝐔𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋 | 𝟐

➯ HARRY IS A LITTLE OBSESSED WITH Y/N AND Y/N JUST WANTS TO KNOW WHEN HE’LL HAVE SEX WITH HER AGAIN. ✰ dom!harry sexual content. dominant and submissive dynamics. minors dni. 𝑤𝑐 14k ッ mutually beneficial masterlist

Harry doesn’t love his job.

He doesn’t hate it either. But he certainly doesn’t love what he does.

It’s not the hardest of occupations; since becoming CEO (and after getting over the guilt of surpassing his colleagues in status), having the option of assigning others to complete otherwise arduous tasks for him has eased some of his tension.

However—inevitably—those smoothed over stress bumps are quickly replaced by bigger, more stubborn protrusions that take more than a gentle palm to flatten out.

But Harry is comfortable—he’s financially secure, surrounded by a loving family and loyal friends, and treated with respect, revered even, by some. So despite being true, what Harry had told Y/N—that You think I was wishing to own a finance company when I was a little boy? indicating that it has hardly been a dream come true—he is grateful for his position in life. Aware of his privilege but also immensely proud of how much his hard work had paid off.

However right now, as he sits behind his desk with his phone burning a hole in his pocket, Harry hates his job.

Hates the schedule that’s pulled up on his monitor, hates the squeak of his chair as he rolls over to the filing cabinet, hates the way the clock is ticking louder than he’s ever heard it before. And the seconds are taking twice as long as they should.

With each passing minute, the presence of his phone in his trouser pocket becomes heavier and heavier; its lack of buzzing and dinging feeling abnormally disheartening. And everytime his work phone—that’s lying face up on his desk—lights up with an email or a phone call and creates its shrill cacophony that pushes the line of Harry’s brow deeper and deeper into his already default frown, he becomes less and less of the easy-going boss he presents to everyone.

It’s enough to drive anyone mad; this torturous waiting. Harry feels as though he’s being dangled over the edge of a cliff but never dropped, never given the sweet release of death which he would gladly take over the pain of not knowing when he was going to fall.

One week. It had been one week since Harry first met Y/N. One week since they’d had maybe the best first experience he’d ever had with someone, and one week since he’d heard a single thing from her. And the memory of that night is enough to have Harry distracted. Enough to have him on the edge of his seat.

ㅤㅤ

“Please.” She whines—to Harry’s teasingly obvious question.

“More what?” He wants to ask. Wants to make her spell it out for him.

But he doesn’t. He’s nice.

Nice as he stretches her open with his fingers—intrusion more than easy with the copious amount of slick between her thighs—whilst his tongue plays with her masterfully. She pants and whines, bucks and wiggles. Loses the ability to say coherent words without stuttering over them.

He takes his time—relishing in the fierce, squeezing heat around his fingers—in the way her excitement makes his palm shine the longer he goes at it.

And he’s thorough in the treatment he gives her. Behaves as if he’s a professional that’s been paid to change her life. He imagines Niall as his agent who had come to him earlier in the day with a ‘great opportunity’ and demanded Harry give his absolute best.

Pretends that his entire career rides on Y/N’s enjoyment of this night.

Harry thinks, really, that Y/N’s lack of experience means he could do a subpar job in actuality—but the thought just makes him go harder. Makes every flick of his tongue and curl of his fingers feel like the best thing she’s ever known.

She’s soaking into his skin and it’s filthy; the way Harry’s throat rumbles out a groan at the thought of his stubble bathing in her—the resentment he’ll have in washing his face later.

Little does he know that Y/N is thinking the same thing—or rather, imagining the irritation of her thighs his facial hair will leave behind. The soreness that can only come from pure satiation, that she’s sure she’ll admire with great joy. Her first marks, her first memory-jolting piece of evidence of the night she was finally touched. The day she’s been waiting for—for far too long, in her opinion.

Especially now, as it’s happening, and Y/N doesn't know if she’ll ever be able to stop chasing this feeling. Her limbs fight between stretching out in tight, desperate attempts to grasp for her orgasm—and melting into the mattress in a mangled mess of flesh and bone. Harry’s mouth struggles to compete with the smile that overtakes his expression, watching Y/N’s body writhe in response to his ministrations.

This is his favourite thing to do.

She tightens, and squeaks, and drips—Harry’s fingers working her just right and tongue curling in fast, pointed flitters—as she propels further towards the edge. Close, so close; lips moulding around a string of garbled sounds and hips pushing up into the large span of his hand. She’s trying to beg but she doesn’t get the chance because Harry is feeling her spasm in contracting waves and she’s slicking down his fingers, crying out—

ㅤㅤ

Harry’s debauched daydream fizzles away when his work phone chimes insolently. The screen lights up, forcing his eyes towards it.

A reminder.

Team meeting | in 15m

“Fuck’s sake,” Harry runs his hand through his hair, leaning back in his chair as the leather stretches. His trousers are tighter than he would consider comfortable, but he’s safe—no recognisable evidence of unprofessional thoughts in his professional environment.

Harry considers himself to be a focused man—often finds solace in working to provide distraction—but this constant replay that has been leading his mind astray whenever he even attempts to shift his concentration is proving to be a hurdle too high for Harry to jump over. He thinks if he makes himself come then the unavoidable meeting that’s starting in thirteen minutes might be less torturous to sit through.

But just as he smooths a palm over his thigh, there’s a telltale knock on his door. The rapping a pattern that only his assistant uses.

Harry clears his throat, shifting himself higher to appear more orthodox in his chair.

“Come in, Mr Rowland.”

The door makes way as it’s opened, rattling the blinds that preserve Harry’s modesty—matching that of the ones on the full-length windows that look out into the building.

The man moves to stand stiffly in front of his boss’ desk, suit free of creases and long hair tied back to maintain formality. Harry used to have long hair once.

Mitch Rowland is a quiet man; stoic, but not unfeeling. Harry believes him to be the thoughtful type, and he chips away more and more of his exterior everyday, he’s sure. Cracking a joke that makes Mitch laugh feels like a reward—an acknowledgment of all the hard work he puts in to becoming closer to his reserved assistant.

“Time for a briefing, Mr Styles?”

Harry nods, gesturing to one of the armchairs facing his desk. “Yes, go ahead.”

He’s respectful enough to look intently at the man sitting across from him. As he speaks, Harry doesn’t drift off into his fantasy land full of strawberry embroidered dresses and passion fruit martinis—no, he converses with Mitch like the approachable boss he takes care to be, discussing the best way to go about conducting the team meeting and how to amicably pull up the areas that his employees are lacking in.

Truth be told, it’s life changing having someone like Mitch as his assistant. He demonstrates capability—enough so that Harry can often sit back and let him take the reins—it’s satisfying when their brains match up like they're connected via bluetooth. It’s an easy relationship to maintain, and Harry often ponders about how grateful he is.

But never has Harry been more grateful for Mitch as he is right now. (Which is cruel really, for a situation that would probably lose in a battle of importance if voted on by a large audience.)

The meeting is going fine, most likely—Harry wouldn’t know because his mind is elsewhere once again.

ㅤㅤ

“That’s it, take a deep breath for me, darlin’.” He’s good at maintaining composure, but God if Y/N isn’t testing Harry right now. She’s still fluttering—more than ready to let him start pushing into her—as her arousal coats copious miles of skin. He leans over her, pressing a soft kiss to the dip above her chin as he rolls a condom over his neglected cock. The throbbing gets harder to ignore now that she’s laid out for him; all stretched and wet.

“Are you sure it’s gonna… fit?” Y/N looks down, pupils expanding at the sight. Long, and thick, and hard.

“I’m sure,” Harry drags his nose against her throat, lifting back up to catch her blown-out eyes. He smiles.

“I… I want you to feel good too, Harry. Please?”

His heart thumps and his eyebrows pinch. She’s special. He wants to take such good care of her.

“I feel so good, love. I promise.” Harry drops his hips to prove it, sliding through her folds and nudging her sensitive clit as Y/N’s breath shudders. “Are you ready?”

“Can I—can I hold your hand?”

She’s a doll. (Maybe in more ways than one permitting she’d like to be pliable for him, but right now Harry knows she’s cuter than even the sweetest of puppies). He wants to coo right in her face, obnoxious and embarrassing, before his voice takes on a squeaky pitch and he expresses Of course, you can hold my hand—you’re just adorable, aren’t you?

Instead, he wordlessly transfers his weight to the now singular arm holding him up as he reaches for the girl’s empty palm and tugs it up beside her head. Their fingers entwine as the mattress creates a mould of their knuckles—and Y/N’s eyes clear themselves of the fear of rejection, gazing up at Harry with such appreciation that he doesn’t even receive from his employees. Not that he’d expect them to but the way Y/N is looking at him makes Harry feel as though he’s done something far more significant than hold her hand or coax a few orgasms out of her.

It’s almost sad.

“Ready now,” she whispers, and Harry’s forgotten everything else.

He reaches down to stroke over her hip bone in soothing circles. “Keep looking at me, okay?” She nods, eyes never wavering even as Harry guides himself into her drippy hole.

The first feel of intrusion is new—different to his fingers—exciting and tight as the mushroom tip of Harry’s cock presses in gently. Y/N gasps but it doesn’t hurt; it’s a filling sensation, one that makes her question why she’s not always been doing this. It feels right, like it’s meant to be.

And when she breaks eye contact to look down, she sees that he’s hardly an inch in and exhales heavily into Harry’s face. He squeezes her hand, green surveying her expression. It takes all of his composure to ignore how tight she is around him. It’s euphoria.

“H-Harry,” Y/N whines, shiny mouth falling further with each centimetre discovered inside of her.

“So good, baby, you’re so good. Keep looking at me…there you go.” His voice is taut, even Y/N can tell, and she blinks at him because it’s all she can do—hoping she is communicating well enough with her eyes.

As he gets deeper, she suddenly expels a great breath, jumbled words tumbling out. “Thank you, oh—that’s so—oh my god.”

And Harry is bottoming out, balls resting against her bum, as he lets out some air of his own. “Look at that, darlin’,” he smiles, “took all of me, first try.”

Y/N’s face suddenly splits into a grin. She chances a lift of her leg, to open herself up more as she stretches it to the side, bent knee pressing into the sheets.

“I didn’t know I had that much space in there.”

Harry laughs (it’s quite literally forced out of his lungs) and Y/N starts to let out endless strings of giggles—delirious with overwhelming happiness—as her stomach starts to contract. She can’t stop laughing. And every one has her core tightening around Harry’s cock in pulsing flutters.

If he wasn’t searching deep in his mind for the stability not to build up too quickly, then Harry’s heart would be bounding at the sweet sound of Y/N’s giggles. Pure elation in the form of prancing lilts. Bouncing off the walls and racing past their ears; slicing through any of the nerves she had left.

To see her face bunched up in laughter is to witness beauty in its rawest form, Harry is certain. All whilst she lays bare with himself inside of her—connected as far as he can possibly reach—this feeling doesn’t compel him very often. If ever at all.

ㅤㅤ

Sitting at the head of the table with absent eyes, Harry’s nodding his head in faux-interest whilst his mind is full of filth. Not many eyes are on him anyhow, as Mitch talks through the monthly rates but—understandably—when his personal phone starts ringing disturbingly loudly, the heads of everyone turn to watch their boss answer it alarmingly quickly. The same boss who most employees have never seen handle a personal phone in their entire career at his company; might have believed he lived permanently in his office, in fact.

It’s a shock when he holds the phone up to his ear, shoots his assistant a glance and says, “You’ve got this, haven’t y’Mitch?” before exiting the room with a curt nod and a rushed shuffle to squeeze around the chairs.

Harry knows it’s unprofessional of him, but he’s been waiting for his phone to ring all week. So he’ll be damned if he misses an important call just to maintain formality. He can’t fire himself.

The voice on the other end of the line doesn’t quite contain the lilt he was hoping for, however.

“Heyyy, Harry.” He can’t help but sigh as he closes his office door and slouches unceremoniously into his chair. “You’re at work, aren’t you? Surprised you answered.”

“The luxury of being your own boss, Niall,” Harry watches the seconds hand spin around the clock on his wall. Each tick is echoed by nails tapping wood. “You okay?”

“Oh yeah, yeah, I’m fine. I was ringing to ask about you, actually.”

“Yeah?”

“You heard from Y/N at all?”

Harry looks away from his clock. “I haven’t. Is she alright?”

“Oh, she’s more than alright. She had a great time with you.”

He smiles a little, “That’s nice. She’s very sweet, Niall.”

“Mhm she is… I think you should see her again.”

Harry thinks so too. “I’d like that. But I haven’t heard from her, which is fine—I didn’t want to overwhelm her.”

“That’s the thing though—she’s so nervous, even though she’s been proper gushing about ya. She’d love to see you again, I’m sure. But she’s too scared to call you.”

Harry rolls his eyes at his friend’s dramatics. “Alright… what are you saying, Niall?”

ㅤㅤ

Y/N is shy.

Chronically shy.

She always has been and that certainly isn’t going to change overnight. Especially not if she were to meet the most attractive man she’s ever seen, have him take her home and then alter the very definition of pleasure itself. Especially not then.

But she so very wishes that was the case.

The post-it note hasn’t moved from the position Harry left it in when he penned his number. He’d been so sweet when asking if he could give it to her—like making her come multiple times wasn’t enough of an indication that she might want to see him again.

And she really does. God, she wants it more than anything.

But she’s an overthinker. She’s a worrywart, a nervous Nellie, a wet blanket—whatever. In every version of the phone call they have in her mind, she says the wrong thing, or Harry lets her down gently, or someone else picks up the phone. And if she texts him, her responses are awkward, or he leaves her messages on delivered—or worse read—or even worse he asks to see her again and then Y/N has to panic over fifty completely different hypothetical scenarios.

She decides that it’s just not meant for her—relationships, or human interaction, happiness—she’s not sure what specifically, but she knows it’s too much to handle. Harry would only be disappointed in the long run anyway; Y/N is simply saving his time—doing him a favour.

Niall isn’t inclined to agree—because of course the topic came up in conversation. Her friend had never been so eager to talk about anything in his entire life, and he loves talking.

The morning after Y/N met Harry, she was greeted by a dozen text messages, followed by multiple missed calls. (If Niall was ever in danger, Y/N thinks she’d be inclined to ignore him—never phased by the multitudes of spam she receives on a daily basis.) And at the first opportunity he had, Niall was knocking—no, pounding—on her door, sing-songing her name from outside her flat.

There was a reluctance in letting him in. This was all new territory for Y/N and Niall knew that. However in fairness to her—rather oversized golden retriever of a—friend, he attempted with all his heart to pretend he wasn’t bursting at the seams for as long as he could. Grinning in a somewhat subdued manner as she opened the door—elated beam withstanding his journey to her sofa—until he sat down and just couldn’t help himself, springing back up.

“You didn’t fuck on the couch, did you?” Half teasing, half deadly serious as his eyes widen and he shuffles away in an attempt to evacuate quicker if Y/N were to confirm his fear.

Y/N cowered behind her hands, cheeks burning, “No! Don’t say it like that, Niall.”

“Oh right, I’m sorry, hang on,” he cleared his throat obnoxiously, “You didn’t make sweet, sweet love on the couch, did you?”

She squawked and Niall cackled, holding his arms in front of his face when Y/N started to batter him with a sofa cushion.

“Okay! Okay, I’ll stop, I’ll be nice.”

He was nice. A relief to have someone to talk to, and never before has Niall been happier about anything, Y/N is convinced. She didn’t realise the status of her sex life was something to be so thrilled about, but his smile threatened to blind her.

And once the initial embarrassment had somewhat passed, Y/N was honest.

“He was so lovely, Niall. Far too good for me, I mean—God,” she smiled but it’s a little sad.

“Hey,” Niall’s eyebrows pinched, “don’t go there with me, young lady.” He flicked her arm. “Harry wouldn’t have initiated a thing if he didn’t want to. And he left his number, come on.”

And that’s how they’d ended up in a tizzy over calling him. Y/N just couldn’t make herself do it. No matter how sweet, and pretty, and kind he’d been to her. Niall had even offered to do it for her but that had sent humiliating shivers down her spine, imagining it play out. My friend has a crush on you—absolutely not.

The days pass and Y/N works. She eats poorly, often asleep standing by the time she arrives home—and if it is proper food she’s ingesting, it’s something she’s woken up at two a.m. to bake because she’d had a sudden itch to do it. The rest of her time at home is spent cleaning the mess she made whilst baking—which turns into moping with a feather duster in hand. Moping about the best night of her life and how she’ll never get a part two.

Nighttime comes and her fingers don’t feel the same. It feels fruitless to even try. She’s hardly got hands big enough and none of the curling does her any good. It only makes her angry, and that’s the one thing she was always told not to be when going to bed.

She asked Niall not to bring Harry up in conversation again; that it would only make her sad and she’ll just have to get over it. Over him—or over whatever he could’ve become.

So the last person Y/N assumes is at her door when she hears knocking, is the very man she’s trying to pretend doesn’t exist. She’s exhausted—been home for no longer than an hour after a long day of answering the phone to far more people than usual, trying to maintain equanimity as she booked meetings in the rapidly filling calendar. Her lunch break had been undeniably cut short—some may argue it was cut out completely—when the computer she was entering sensitive data into decided to crash (without saving) and Y/N had to compose herself in the toilet so she didn’t stain inky droplets all over her desk.

She was hungry, and tired, and sad, and—above all else—overwhelmed. Y/N’s not sure the last time in her life when she wasn’t, and it really builds up in a person. It’s near impressive that she’s even still running. If Y/N were a computer, much like the one at work, she would have crashed years ago. And point blank refused to turn back on again.

It’s unsettling, to say the least, when she hears that knocking. Because who could possibly be at her door right now? It’s too late for it to be the postman, Niall is still working—and that is literally all the people she knows.

In a panicked rush, Y/N scrambles to answer it, too startled to check her appearance or wipe the panda circles from around her eyes. It feels like everything happens in slow motion, from the door opening to reveal the man standing behind it—to the unveiling of his gentle smile and kind eyes. Y/N is half-inclined to slam it shut in his face with an affronted squeal.

She doesn’t quite squeal, but a noise is certainly made. One of terror, Harry might believe, as her eyes widen and flit around his face in a frenzy. The flowers in his hand are only just noticed, and she pauses on them for a moment, an expression of disbelief passing over her features before they become chaotic once again.

“Harry! I—” Y/N pastes a hand to her cheek in bewilderment, heart sinking at the sight of the man’s eyebrows kinking, migrating towards the centre. Then she trails further down, sees him still clad in his suit—crisp navy pressed to perfection. It’s jarring the way her brain switches from awkward to lewd for a split second, until she looks away with shame.

“Darlin’, are you alright?” He steps forward, hand reaching out. “You’re not going to faint, are you?” His voice is light and Y/N wants to laugh because what a ridiculous suggestion, of course she’s not going to faint! but she’s not so sure she believes it.

“No, no, I’m okay,” she lies.

“Let’s sit you down. Can I come in?”

Y/N swallows, exhaling as she looks up at him, before nodding slightly and stepping to the side to allow him room. Harry barely stops to assess his surroundings—only guides her to where he’s been before—her sofa feeling like the softest of clouds in this moment, while her heart is racing and her skin is tingling. He stays remarkably calm and light on his feet, whisking himself away to do God knows what but Y/N is hardly concerned. All she can think about is the fact that he’s here, and she’s a catastrophe, and she has not prepared for this. She has NOT prepared for this.

Harry finds the kitchen, near tripping over his feet to turn down the boiling pot of water that’s about to overflow. He throws some pasta in the saucepan—something quick he can fill her tummy with—and digs around for another that he fills with a jar of sauce. Then he’s rifling through cabinets to find a vase for the bouquet in his hand—which is something she apparently does not own, so a jug will do—before filling both that and a glass with water to take back to Y/N.

She looks timid and small—hands fiddling with themselves in her lap as she disassociates whilst staring at her coffee table. Harry places the jug down right where she’s looking and she blinks some. Her lips upturn just a little at the sight of the buttery petals.

“Drink.” Y/N accepts the glass easily, swallowing multitudes. Her face is dewy, a slight sheen of anxiety, and her knees bounce. “Better?” Harry softens his gaze, aware of the tension between his eyes—he knows he can sometimes appear cross without realising.

Y/N nods, rubbing at her nose like a little rabbit, he thinks.

“I’m sorry,” her voice is small, “you’ve been at work, and now you’re here and I’m… I’m a mess,” she tries to laugh but it falls flat.

“Don’t be silly. I’m a big boy, Y/N, you don’t need to apologise.” He’s encouraging as he smiles, rubbing over her knee soothingly. She’s still in her pencil skirt and white shirt—but she looks less like a sexy secretary and more like a sweaty schoolgirl. It’s hardly self-respecting.

Y/N grips the glass like it’s an anchor, altering her train of thought. “Uh… no one has ever… bought me flowers before.”

The smile he gives her is compassionate. A small curve of his lips and the widening of his eyes as if to implore his feelings to display correctly on his face. The way he disagrees with the fact of it—why could that be true? It shouldn’t be true. Everyone deserves flowers.

“There’s sunshine in your smile… yellow tulips, that’s what they mean.” He offers the information with zero insecurity.

Y/N’s face starts to burn, heart fighting to burst through her ribcage. She opens her mouth, and then she closes it. Harry’s watching her so, very intently, eyes crinkling when her hands press into her cheeks as if to will the heat away.

“I don’t know what your favourites are, but I thought you might like those.”

“No…” Y/N shakes her head, “yellow tulips are my favourite flower… definitely.” She chews on her lip to detain the smile threatening to break free.

“Yeah?” His eyes are shining, light reflecting off the sea glass of his irises and unlocking the depths of his spirit. “You gonna let me see your sunshine smile, darlin’?”

She laughs, a bright, bubbly giggle as her palms smother her face. “No!”

“What?” Harry grins. “What’s so funny?”

“Stop talking like that… it’s— I’m… flustered.”

“‘M just talkin’!” He insists, hands holding themself in a surrender.

“You’re being… a lot.”

“Too much?”

“No. It’s just— people don’t talk to me like you do. It’s nice… but I don’t know how to react.”

“Just show me your pretty smile, I think that’s a good place to start.”

She giggles again, eyes full of mirth—trying so desperately to embrace the fire in her cheeks. “Thank you for the flowers, Harry.”

They hold each other’s gaze.

“You’re welcome, Y/N,” his voice is soft.

“Can I— Can I make you dinner?” She starts, desperate to repay him in any way that she can. And then her eyes widen and she springs from the sofa. “Oh shit—”

“It’s okay, I did it, love.”

“What?”

“I turned the water down and put some pasta in. I’ve got it all sorted.” He touches her elbow, conveying his wish for her to sit back down.

She doesn’t.

“You— Really?”

Harry nods.

“I’m sorry, God, I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t be doing that! I can’t even boil a pan of water properly.”

“Listen to me, Y/N.” His voice hardens a little. Not enough to be scary, or rude, or suggest he has ill intentions. His voice hardens and suddenly Y/N wants to listen to him, just like he said. It’s relieving, almost, the way his words cut through the thick fog inside her skull.

“Sit down, okay?”

She does, eyes wide and nervous.

“You remember what we spoke about last week?”

The look on his face prompts Y/N to answer—to brush past the sex despite it being the first thing she thinks of. “About you being a— a dominant? Or… uh… taking care of… people?”

“Mhm. How would you feel about letting me take care of you?”

And Y/N is shy—it’s been discussed—but she knows she really has to be honest right now. Even if that means embarrassing herself.

“Guilty,” she murmurs.

Harry straightens up some. “Guilty? Now why would you feel like that?”

“Because! You’ve turned up today with—with flowers and you’ve put dinner on and I already want to pay you back. I don’t deserve it, I’ve done nothing to warrant all of this.”

“All of this?” Harry parrots. His eyebrows furrow but he maintains a gentle tone, shifting closer to Y/N and holding his hand out, palm facing up. She places her own on top with the hesitance of a newborn lamb, eyes meeting his. “Darling, I don’t mean to be blunt but… this is not a lot. Flowers are really the bare minimum, and putting pasta in a pot is hardly a back-breaking task. Lovely… relationships, friendships—they’re not transactional, okay?” His thumb drags across the back of her hand.

She’s going to cry.

“You don’t need to pay me back for anything. I’m here because I want to be. And I want to show you that you deserve to be taken care of. Because you do, Y/N. You do deserve it.”

A tear brims over her rapidly filling waterline. “I’m sorry,” she laughs wetly. “I’m just tired.”

Harry nods, “I know,” wiping her cheek. “You just need a little help. And that’s okay.”

“You wanna do all this… and you barely know me… why?” He’s cloudy in front of her eyes, tears obstructing his handsome face.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you all week. You know that?”

“Okay, sure.” Y/N rubs at her lashes, smearing more mascara around. But she’s smiling a little, at the absurdity of Harry’s words.

He replaces her hands, the soft pads of his thumbs doing an adequate job of preserving her dignity whilst he wipes the smudges away.

“Mean it. Been distracted at work remembering it all.”

She’s not laughing anymore. No, her skin is tingling now. And her throat squeezes around a swallow.

“But it’s not just about sex. I like you, Y/N. And I want to like you more—get to know you, spend time with you. Is that convincing enough?”

Y/N shakes her head. But Harry sees the glint in her eye. He narrows his own at her.

“No? Are you playing with me? I thought you were a sweet, good girl.”

The skin of her cheeks has never been subjected to so much heat in such little time. It spreads out to her chest, and down her arms. She must be praying to some sort of God to ensure her hands haven’t become sodden yet.

“That’s not fair,” she squirms. “I just… like hearing you talk.”

“Hm, you like hearing me say that I like you, is that it?”

“Maybe,” she looks down. “Never really heard it before.”

“Well, get used to it, love. I want you to become sick of those three words.”

“You don’t even know me.”

Harry just smiles. “Will you let me?”

ㅤㅤ

Y/N is confused.

Or rather, she is tentative. Anxious, uncertain, disbelieving—waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Harry sits across from her in the café they’ve frequented quite a few times in the last two weeks. His eyes are closed, taking in the first gulp of his coffee as it slinks down his throat and warms his chest, leaving a pleasant trail of heat in its place.

She admires him; something she wishes she could do more without his beady eyes on her and making her feel all embarrassed. He’s pretty—she likes to look at him. Especially when he’s not in his usual suit and slack attire. (Not that her brain doesn’t start to malfunction when he’s embraced by the flattering lines of fabric clutching to the muscles Y/N has had the pleasure of being crowded by but…) The contrast of seeing him comfortable and unfiltered is enough to make her relax too.

Or attempt to relax.

The first time Y/N and Harry came to The Little Snail Café, the former of the two had been nervous. (That is hardly information anyone would pay for.) It was a date as far she had been aware; Harry had explicitly labelled it so. And Y/N hadn’t been on a date since she was with her ex… but their time out was hardly ever impressive enough to warrant any kind of excitement.

Even remembering that she’d had a boyfriend renders every moment spent with him as less and less meaningful. As time spent wasted. He’d never told her her smile was that of sunshine. He’d barely ever told her he liked her.

But Y/N wasn’t thinking about him. Not on that day.

Harry had forced her to let him serve her dinner that evening he’d brought her flowers. Had implored that she change into something comfortable and sternly ordered glue your pretty arse to that sofa, little miss. That had been hard to argue with. Then he’d proceeded to plate up perhaps her first proper meal she’d consumed in a week and ask her about her day.

Y/N had been a little hesitant to admit the extent of her misery but Harry cottoned onto her pause quicker than most would. He was earnest in his sympathy, eyes void of ridicule as she detailed all her misfortunes.

“No wonder you nearly stacked it when I turned up,” he’d joked. “I’m sorry you had a rough day, love.”

It had been nice to have company. A pleasant silence whilst the two filled their stomachs. Y/N had missed it irrevocably—someone to breathe the same air with.

That had been when Harry asked about taking her somewhere the following day during her lunch break. A quaint place I think you’ll like. It wasn’t far and he’d have her back at work just in time. Y/N found that she trusted his word.

And although she had been worrying about it, as soon as Harry walked through the front doors and into the reception—wearing a chestnut suit that once again clung to him, like thick globules of honey, with his slicked hair that begged to curl onto his forehead in ringlets like that of a piglet’s tail—she had tunnel vision.

Her boss could have come in and fired her on the spot and Y/N wouldn’t have heard a thing. Only the rush of blood in her ears as her pupils expanded to the size of ten pence pieces and her stomach became the home to a dozen butterflies.

Harry had watched her reaction as she’d read the sign above the café—smiled at her bright eyes when she’d told him how cute it was. Had smiled even larger when he took her inside and let her discover the tiny snails etched into the edges of the tables.

“No one else has ever shared my passion for these little guys,” he’d emphasised as they sat down in the corner, sunlight flooding in through the windows and brightening up their irises, making Y/N giggle easily. Harry could tell she wasn’t laughing to make him feel better—or just to flirt—and that only made him try even harder to elicit those sounds from her pretty mouth.

He’d insisted he wanted to get to know her better. So that’s what he did.

Harry learned that Y/N eats far too much sugar, doesn’t sleep enough, and wishes she could have a pet cow. Or that is how he heard the words that exited her mouth. Y/N had only said she usually baked goodies in the dead of night and that videos of little fluffy calves make her cry.

The two never glanced away from one another. It was the kind of chemistry that drew eyes. Subtle glimpses from other customers sipping their warm drinks and cherishing that collective sense of human connection just from witnessing two people so innately into each other. Old couples nudging the other to reminisce on their younger days—workers wiping down tables and feeling a sense of respite during their long day at the unmistakable widening of the woman’s eyes in an attempt to see all of the man before her—to hang onto his every last word.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“What’s your favourite colour?”

“Pink.”

“Dogs or cats?”

“Dogs.”

Y/N had asked him lots of those questions. And had seemed very content with every answer he gave her. Perhaps apart from that last one. Y/N might have preferred cats but it wasn’t a dealbreaker.

It didn’t last long enough, in her opinion; their date. She had to return to work far too soon for her liking. But Harry paid for her toastie and hot chocolate, much to Y/N’s disarray, and dropped her off with a stroke of his thumb to the back of her hand and a kiss to her cheek.

She’d smiled so much she’d had to bite her lip to tone it down. Receptionists were never that happy.

ㅤㅤ

Their second date had been impromptu. And not really a date. Harry had knocked on her door once again—however this time, Y/N hadn’t jumped out of her skin. In fact, she’d just finished decorating a cake she’d hoped to surprise him with and the shock of his presence was replaced with elation at the coincidence.

The door opened, and before Harry stood a smiling girl with youthful glee painted all over her face. A pleasant difference from the last time. She giggled to herself and instructed he close his eyes as she guided him to her kitchen where the sweet smells were surely giving away any element of surprise. Still, Harry played up to it—feigning shock—(it’s not that he’s a cruel man but Harry remembered things about people and Y/N wasn’t so hard to read).

“Oh! It’s beautiful, darlin’… you made this f’me?”

Y/N nodded, grinning. A proper smile, unabashed and without premeditation. Harry felt its warmth; lucky to receive such a display from someone he’d previously seen so reserved.

The cake was cute; rusticly smothered in vanilla buttercream and decorated with halved strawberries circling the edges (Y/N was not so hard to read) and it tasted heavenly. Harry never believed he was much of a cake person—he’d always much preferred ice cream—but devouring a slice with the knowledge it had been made with care, especially for him, had his taste buds in a sugarcoated frenzy.

Y/N had been so elated to watch Harry enjoy her baking that she’d failed to realise that he had come to her home for a reason. And so had Harry, apparently—a look of epiphany crossing his face as he was placing his plate in the dishwasher. (Y/N had tried to do it for him but Harry had smoothed a large palm over the top of her head and all thoughts just melted away.)

“I wanted to ask you something.”

“Mhm?”

“Weather’s supposed to be nice this weekend. Picnic?”

And Y/N still got flustered, sure, but…

“You came all the way here to ask me that? You have… you have my number, don’t you?”

Harry couldn’t help his smile, tongue stuffing his cheek to attempt to control it. “Yeah, I do. I do. Just wanted to see you. Good job I did too.” He nodded to the cake.

But Y/N was all twinkles. In her eyes, over her face, all the way to her toes. She had half the mind to believe Harry visited her just to garner this reaction; to inflate his ego.

“I won’t be able to take you for lunch tomorrow though, ‘m sorry.”

“Oh… that’s okay,” she smiled. It wasn’t okay. It was world-ending news. What was she supposed to look forward to now?

“Been offloading a lot onto m’assisstant lately—should really give him a break.”

Y/N frowned, “I’m sorry.”

Harry barely let her finish the word. “No. No, I don’t want to hear that.” He moved forward, nudging the back of his index finger under her chin. “Not your fault, is it?” His eyes bored into Y/N’s, stern but imploring her to not worry herself like that. To take the blame for something that was not her fault.

“I’m— I…” Words failed to form, eyelashes brushing her cheeks in repeated blinks.

Harry swept it under the rug. It’s not something he wanted her to get het up about. Another time—he’d thought—another time he’d make sure she understood never to apologise unnecessarily. To feel guilty about him causing an inconvenience just to see her; because God forbid she accepted that she was good enough to be treated with such consideration. Another time. “I’ll come see you the day after though, yeah? I still want you to try the beetroot soup.”

“Idon’tlikebeetroot,” the girl mumbled, lips downturning with the admission.

“What was that, love?”

“I don’t think I like beetroot, Harry.” Her eyes lifted…and there was that guilt once again. Fear that disliking something may cause offence or trouble.

“Have you ever tried it?”

Y/N’s silence was deafening. She smiled shyly up at him, skin tingling with the beginnings of heat—whilst Harry simply shook his head with a playful eye roll before stroking his thumb over her chin. The plush pad met with a soft indentation.

“Have an early night tonight, okay? Get some rest.” The syllables rolled off his tongue like a gentle caress; told her she looked tired in quite possibly the kindest way.

Y/N nodded, focusing all her energy on the feeling of his thumb on her skin.

And when Harry had gone, leaving her heart an overexerted mess of muscle and blood turned flower petals and bubbles, she’d simply looked to the ceiling with a shit-eating grin as she tried to swallow a giggle. There was nothing inside her that was not touched by Harry—and everything transformed from rickety and paint-chipped to sturdy and ornate—embellished down to the finest details.

ㅤㅤ

It had been a joy to wake up on Sunday.

Y/N felt the rays of sun through her curtains warming her sleepy face as her alarm blared—an alarm worth setting despite it being the weekend—and as her consciousness came rushing back to her, the memory of Harry promising to pick her up at eleven had her residual tiredness dancing away like it was performing the quickstep.

Dress weather made Y/N happy. Made her feel pretty and confident and giddy; something quite contradicting considering her skittish personality. And that’s exactly how she felt when she admired her sundress in the mirror of her wardrobe—square neck framing her chest, white fabric bunching around her shoulders in sheer puffs and cinching at her waist to flow into a floaty skirt. She looked sweet; the picturesque vision of a girl about to perch on a blanket under the sun and consume saccharine confections. Y/N pulled the hem between her finger and thumb, exposing the skin of her upper thigh, deep in thought at the fantasy of Harry taking her all in. His own confection.

And he did of course.

Though it didn’t unfold in perhaps the way Y/N had hoped. Which is why they’re called fantasies, she supposed. Because she was still her—despite feeling like a whole new person, she certainly wasn’t.

Harry had knocked on her door at two minutes to eleven, which may have been a problem had Y/N not been ready over an hour earlier than she needed to be. (With another bunch of flowers—white gardenias—“They mean I have a crush on you,” Harry leaned over and whispered as though it was some big secret. Y/N took them with a stifled titter and scurried off to place them in water, dress swishing around her thighs.) His gaze had dripped down her, as respectfully as he could manage when all he wanted was to glide his palms all over. The sight of soft skin contrasted by the sanctity of white cotton—her silky hands carrying a wicker basket (the true vision of a picnic) which Harry had plucked out of her grasp with little hesitation.

As a true gentleman would, he offered Y/N his arm to place her hand; the crook of his elbow providing a safe seat to rest from the weary necessity of holding the weight of her own limbs.

Y/N, however, would only be so lucky to mirror Harry’s formalities—to uphold the stereotype of womanly elegance—as her toe catches on a step down towards his car. Emulating their first night outside of her house, only this time it felt worse. It’s far more embarrassing, Y/N decided, to fall when holding onto the person you’re so enamoured by.

It was hardly a fall—moreso a drag of the foot, a buckle of the knee. But it was still enough to have her gasping and untangling herself from Harry. Harry who had kept her secure without any chuckling or patronising. Had his brows furrowed in concern and his hand to her elbow to steady her. Y/N still ripped herself away, turning so he couldn’t see her.

“Oh my god! Don’t look at me.” She was mortified; as the pair stood halfway down the steps, suspended in a moment.

“Darlin’—” Admittedly, Harry did have to try his hardest not to laugh. Not at her trip but her reaction; the drama! “Darling,” he tried again, “you’re alright.” His hand ghosted over Y/N’s shoulder blades, where fabric met flesh.

“That was—I’m mortified—that was so unattractive!” She barely meant it; was just humiliated as she’d said, but Harry shook his head behind her.

“You’re still very pretty, Y/N. Just a little clumsy. But that’s okay,” he turned her around, “you’ll just have to hold on tighter.” Harry admired the kinks in her brows, expressive in her shame, as he guided her hand back to his arm. “Very pretty.” He’d almost whispered it—not out of a wish that she had not heard but as an attempt to reseal their bubble—their intimate world.

The sun stayed magnificently bright for them.

As though it was watching its light bounce between their eyes; wanted the moment to last as long as it could maintain the warmth; the incandescence.

Harry followed the motions of her hands, fingernails painted in alternating shades of soft green and pastel pink, as Y/N devoured a punnet of strawberries. (She’d brought two.) She was a head-bobber, munching away with the occasional hum as her eyes transfixed onto his knees.

He was wearing corduroy shorts and a big floaty shirt, unbuttoned to reveal a white top poking out from underneath. Y/N admired his golden skin, the delicate tattoos bracketing his kneecaps, and the dusting of hair covering his lean limbs. It was still a joy to see him so underdressed, the true image of a boy she would take home to her parents.

The two looked symbiotic—two sides of the same coin, or heart, or strawberry—as Y/N offered one to Harry, who took it graciously with a smile and a scrunch of his nose. (Mild hayfever, he’d described it as.) From an outside perspective, they looked established. A relationship that surely began as highschool sweethearts. Enough so to have strangers whispering I’ll bet you a tenner he’s about to propose to her.

But neither registered any sort of outside perspective, they were the only two people that mattered, after all.

“You ought to be careful, love, you’ll get a bad tummy if you eat so much fruit,” Harry prodded, as Y/N opened up the second punnet of strawberries.

“Oh,” she frowned down at them. “My stomach sorta always hurts anyway.” He perturbed her none, eyelashes fluttering as she bit into a picture perfect fruit. Harry hardened his gaze—registering her unbothered tone with concern.

“That’s not… ideal, Y/N.” He was slow, cautious. “Y’shouldn’t be hurting all the time.”

Her eyes rounded out as she looked at him, lips plush as she took another bite. But she just shrugged her shoulders, tastebuds too preoccupied by the blossoming on her tongue. The wind picked up a little, blowing her hair across her face in soft streaks—as though the Earth was wielding a paintbrush, and using her strands as the medium. She whined a little, trying to avoid getting hair in her mouth as she finished the rest of the strawberry. Harry watched with starry eyes—zoned in on her shining skin—as a drop seeped out of the edge of her lips and dribbled down the side of her chin.

He reached over without hesitation, thumb swiping the liquid away, and Harry basked in the subtle widening of Y/N’s eyes as he brought that very thumb to his mouth to coat his tongue. Her fingers scrambled at her face messily, brushing all hair out of her eyes. It felt incredibly humid all of a sudden.

“Hey,” she pouted, refusing to be swept away under Harry’s ruse, “that was my juice.”

And Harry couldn’t help himself. Not when she was setting the scene just perfectly. “Mm, sorry,” he hummed, “d’you want it back?”

Y/N nodded, tongue darting out to wetten her lips.

“Hm?” He prompted.

“Yeah—yes, I do, please.” She swallowed; Harry’s eyes followed the contraction of her throat.

“Come here then,” he tempted. He was already in a very alluring position, elbows bracing his weight as he sprawled across the blanket, knee propped up and easily manoeuvrable. Y/N shuffled on her knees, the short space towards him, setting herself down with her hands placed on her thighs as though he’d instructed her to.

Harry pushed up, hand ghosting along the side of Y/N’s cheek. “What am I going to do with you?” Their breaths mingled, swirling across one another’s face and sinking into their skin. Y/N’s eyelids dropped closed, patiently asking, waiting. He took his time to admire her anticipating face, leaning closer to drape a sigh over her bottom lip.

“Kiss—kiss me,” she exhaled, eyelids twitching—wanting to open. But they didn’t. They stayed shut, stayed waiting, stayed hiding her from the world around them.

Harry smiled and Y/N swore she could feel it. Feel as he leant forward and brushed the tip of his nose down the front of hers. His hand stroked through the hair behind her ear, large digits coaxing her to melt and mollify into his hands, which she did so easily. She parted her lips wider, blindly tilting to try to meet his. Harry let them touch for a second—a press of flesh—before he leant back, nose nudging hers once again.

Y/N expelled a shaky breath, a little whine falling out of her neglected mouth. Her eyebrows kinked and her pretty nails dug into her thighs.

She chose to stay in the dark—from fear that it would be over if she opened her eyes. But that was something she needn’t have worried about. Harry leant back, enough to see out of the corner of his eye and reach for a strawberry.

He resisted the urge to indulge himself, mouth watering at the thought, and instead brought the pointed tip towards Y/N’s eagerly awaiting lips. Harry grazed his nose along her cheekbone, words finding her sensitive ears as he pushed the fruit to touch.

“Bite,” he whispered.

A noise of complaint lodged itself in Y/N’s throat, but she complied regardless, teeth sinking into the strawberry. Its juice coated her tongue and lacquered over her lips, the gooey pulp going down smoothly as she dared to open her mouth for another offering.

But as she did, suddenly the air around her face shifted, and the heat of Harry’s breath ghosted across her once more. Pointed and heavy exhales from his nostrils as she felt his tongue dart out to swipe across her bottom lip. It felt exploratory, leisurely—like he had all the time in the world to get to know her mouth. And it’s not like they hadn’t done this before—kissed—but it felt new, all the same. It had her breath hitching and her body leaning unconsciously into his touch.

Once her bottom lip stopped being enough, Harry pulled it down with the pad of his thumb and unlatched Y/N’s jaw in the process. He opened her up, and she let him completely, sat still on her knees as he played with her. She didn’t feel toyed with really—was still processing being touched in such a way and wondering if it would ever stop feeling so intoxicating. Harry took one final moment to bask in her blind trust; to watch the stillness of her face and feel the gentle (but rapid) breaths fan against his mouth.

And then he kissed her.

He really kissed her.

Y/N’s hmph quickly turned into a muffled mewl, open mouth accepting Harry’s tongue rubbing over hers as though it was her resuscitative medication. The only thing to stabilise her bloodstream, to soothe her fighting heart. He tasted like strawberries. And so did she. Sweet, and wet, and promising. It felt filthy but it felt clean at the same time—renewing and resetting, like running across soft sands to plunge into bracing sea water—Y/N would let him drip juice anywhere he liked, she’d let him feed fruit from his own mouth into hers. She’d let Harry spread her out and do with her as he pleased. Right there. Right then.

And it caught up to her all too quickly, the overwhelming heat of her thoughts. They were in public. But yet she couldn’t possibly entertain pulling away—not when Harry’s mouth engulfed her entirely. It wasn’t a cute kiss, a sweet reminder of affection or endearment. It was a kiss you shielded your child’s eyes away from, or grimaced at from nearby. It was sloppy, and sticky, and mind-numbingly dizzying.

Harry’s lips left syrupy residue wherever they landed—her top lip, her bottom lip, her tongue, her cupid’s bow. Y/N felt poisoned. Drip fed for weeks until Harry deemed the time right as he went in for the kill. She wasn’t sure she was even doing much of the kissing; perhaps she was simply being kissed. She tried to keep up, returned his tongue with her own and let her mouth encase his bottom lip in a frenzied attempt at reciprocation.

But his hands were holding her face, and then they were sliding into her hair, and all Y/N could do was feel.

Feel, and be felt, and—and—

ㅤㅤ

And Y/N is still confused!

She’s drifted away from their cosy table at The Little Snail Café—well physically, she’s right there but mentally… Her eyes are glossed over and she’s still very much contemplating the state of their relationship. Because… that kiss had been nearly a week ago and… well, Y/N doesn’t want to be thought of as some sex pest (she loses her virginity and now she’s clawing at the walls for orgasms) but she always thought—completely aware of her ignorance and unrealistic education—that the role of a dominant was to… fuck the living shit out of someone on the regular.

And even as she’s thinking that, with Harry right in front of her, she feels crude and disrespectful. But he hasn’t so much as hinted that he was going to have sex with her again, and that moment with the strawberries has been going round, and round, and round inside her head for days and nights and it’s driving her insane. Because, as previously established, nothing she can do matches what Harry made her feel, so any attempt at quelling the ache leaves her worse off than before.

“Don’t much like hearing how I feel about squirting, huh?”

Y/N blinks, and physically shakes her head as if to wake herself up. “Sorry?”

Harry sips from his mug, smiling. “Joke, love.”

“How uh—” she clears her throat, “How do you feel?”

“Hm… messy, but hot.”

She nods—perhaps a confusing reaction to such a sentence. Most people would probably quip back something flirtatious or coy. But Y/N just nods.

“What’re you thinking about in there?”

“Um… I was just wondering when— when you were gonna kiss me… again…”

“Y’are, are you? How uncouth.”

“Well— I just… When you said you were,” she leans forward, volume dropping considerably, “a dominant… I just thought… something different would be happening.” And then she starts to spiral. “Not in a— not because this is… this is great. I mean—”

“Settle down, darlin’, it’s okay.” Harry sighs, scratching the top of his head with a thoughtful expression on his lovely face. “‘s my fault, really. I haven’t explained much to you. And I have no doubt you are basing all of your facts on poor media portrayal.” Y/N scrunches her nose in a silent show of guilt. “It’s not just about sex,” he starts. “It is for some people, but for you I don’t think it is. And I’ve been slow, and cautious in fear of overwhelming you, and it’s resulted in probably a couple confusing weeks for you. So, I’m sorry.

“The whole point is for you not to worry, and you’re still doing that because I’m not doing my job properly, but I was worried you might change your mind so I held off. You can still change your mind, by the way.” Y/N shakes her head. Harry continues. “I’ll take you home now, if you like, give you the whoooole run through. Does that sound good?” Y/N nods. “And you’ll tell me if it’s too much, won’t you?”

“Yes, Harry. I will.”

“Can I take you to my home? Cook you dinner?” He asks, staring at the way Y/N’s head lays heavy against the headrest and her limbs are leaden, as she relaxes into his car.

She nods, lips quirking upwards with intrigue. At the blanks in her mind that will be filled. What to imagine when he’s in bed, when he’s watching TV, or eating… or… showering. “Can I help?”

Harry pretends to consider it. “We’ll see.”

ㅤㅤ

Harry’s house is… not what Y/N expects it to be.

Well, it is in some ways.

It’s large, and it’s expensive, and it’s astronomically grand. But it’s… it’s characterless. It lacks personality—and Harry Styles does not lack personality. Harry Styles is charming, and intelligent, and beautiful. But his house is stark white. There is no indication that his house is not a show home. It’s untouched, unlived in, unloved. And Y/N wasn’t expecting that.

“It’s too big, I know,” Harry gestures to the air around them as he watches Y/N take it all in.

“Not at all! No… it’s so beautiful, Harry.” And it is, it really is. She’s not lying. How can she lie when she’s staring at such a grand staircase? When the windows are so large, and bright that the space is nearly sparkling. And the garden she sees through the other side is blooming trees and unkempt flowers and just begging to be loved.

But as beautiful as it is, it’s still just… white.

He guides her through to the kitchen which…

“Woah,” Y/N admires, “you could make so many cakes in here.” She laughs and Harry grins just at the sight.

It’s true, there’s enough counter space to house at least ten separate mixing bowls. Impressively clean considering the observed shades of white. But there are signs of life in here—photos on the fridge, (one that catches her eye of two women that absolutely have to share his genes) post-it notes huddled around a pot of pens, a basket of cleaning products, a vase of flowers in the middle of the island. A comforting sight to see a little bit of the inside of Harry’s brain.

“They’re very pretty,” Y/N points at the photo on his fridge with a hesitancy that suggests she’s expecting him to berate her for being nosy.

“Mum’ll love that,” he laughs. “That’s her,” Harry points to the woman on the left, adorning sunglasses and a bright smile, and then to the right, “and m’sister, Gemma.”

“You look like each other.”

“Yeah? Y’think so?”

Harry shines when he speaks about his loved ones. Is so happy to talk about the photo of his father, his step-dad, his mum’s cat, the younger Harry surrounded by other young boys (“My mate Jonny, he was stoned as fuck in this picture. Had no idea.” His eyes crinkle around the edges and Y/N can only think about how beautiful those lines look).

Then he moves over to the island and tugs out a stool. “Come sit,” he pats.

He doesn’t let her help him cook—insists that she stay right where she is and carry on looking at him like that.

“Like what?” Y/N pretends she’s not shy about being caught.

“With those gooey eyes.”

“Gooey?”

“Mhm. You look one moment away from melting into the counter.”

“I do not,” she scoffs.

“It’s okay, I like it.”

ㅤㅤ

Harry owns the fluffiest rug in the history of the universe, Y/N is sure.

Obnoxiously cream in comparison to the rest of the colour palette. And in defence of Harry, the walls of his living room are painted a warm beige and his vast, velvet sofa is a deep forest green. The main attraction remains the rug, however. Long and shaggy and absolutely imperative to lie upon.

Y/N withholds the urge, but she stares pointedly and longingly towards it for too long to be considered a passing gaze.

“You can touch it if you want.”

“Hm?”

“The rug… that you’re eyefucking.”

“I—” she blanches, “It looks so soft.”

Harry makes the first move, blue jeans creasing at the knees as he crouches down. He pushes his palms into the strands and watches as they’re swallowed up into the depths of the faux-fur. Y/N hesitates, looking down at him on his hands and knees and wondering if it would be inappropriate to join him. But when he leans back, hands bracing himself behind him so he can lounge—mirroring the position of the day they had their picnic far too much—Y/N caves and drops to her own knees.

It’s sensory heaven—quite frankly—and Y/N knows immediately that she could get lost stroking this sole rug for hours. Harry watches her with an informed smile as she drags her fingers back and forth through the threads, already lost in a little world of her own.

“G’na have a mature and adult conversion now, alright, love?”

Y/N nods.

“Are you going to be able to listen and finger my rug at the same time?”

She narrows her eyes at him, adjusting from kneeling to crossing her legs. “I’m not finger—” she swallows. “Yes, I believe so.”

ㅤㅤ

“—I would encourage you to eat, go to bed at a certain time, turn your phone off. And I would want you to listen to me—not to argue, to trust that I know best.” That sounds easy, Y/N thinks. “I would want you to raise concerns in a polite manner—I don’t think it’s ever necessary to shout. And it would be important to me that you are always honest about the way you are feeling. No trying to make me feel better or pushing it down, okay?”

Y/N had feared it may be complicated, from the way Harry had suggested—had put off having this conversation for so long. But his commanding voice, and intense eyes make her feel so safe, and incredibly mellow. New feelings for Y/N. She nods.

“And when it comes to sex… trust is the most important thing. I don’t want to be doing anything we haven’t discussed, and I certainly don’t want you to make yourself uncomfortable in an attempt to please me. Now I know you may not be experienced with a lot of the things that are involved in these kinds of relationships but would you be interested in learning… with me? What you like and dislike?”

“Yes.”

“How are you feeling now? Good?” When Y/N nods once more, Harry gets to his feet. His voice slicks down her spine when he drawls, “Come here then. And kneel.”

Whilst Harry had been speaking, Y/N can’t deny the fact that her insides had started stirring around in anticipation. But now, as he commands her to station herself so far below him in stature, the silly little brain inside her skull begins to melt into mush. She crawls the short distance towards him until her eyes are level with the tops of his knees, and she just waits, sneaking a glance up to see Harry towering above her with a subtle quirk of his lip.

He brings a hand up slowly, warm palm ghosting the heat of her cheek and smoothing over her head in a comforting stroke. “I want you to call me Sir. T’help you slip quicker. You wanna be all nice ‘n’ mellow? Forget about all your stress?”

“Yes… Sir.” It comes out as little more than a squeak.

Harry chuckles, “You’re so good.” Y/N quite nearly beams up at him, insides swarming. “You like that? You like when I praise you?”

“Mhm,” she nods.

“Well it’s just so easy for me, darlin’. Because you’re so lovely.”

She closes her eyes, bottom lip nibbled to hide the giddy smile that overtakes her. Harry’s hand in her hair, scratching and smoothing, is already doing enough to make her eyelids heavy. But she supposes sleep is not the end goal.

“Your first time,” Harry starts. “Did you enjoy it?”

What? “Yes—yes Sir, of course.”

“What would you change about it?”

“N-nothing! It was perfect.”

He hums, nails dragging soothing lines into her scalp. “Which part?” Y/N opens her mouth but Harry keeps speaking. “When I fucked you open with my fingers? Got you nice and stretched for me—had your little pussy just quivering and begging me to fill her up?” He fists a more substantial amount of her hair. “Or maybe when I finally got my cock inside of you, and you were so happy. Squirming underneath me like a wet dream.”

Y/N can’t help but grab for his thighs, nails trying to dig in.

“Hands in your lap, darlin’.”

She pulls away regretfully.

“Was it when I fucked up into you, hard enough to force all those pretty sounds out? Or when I stretched over you and held your hands above your head? Had your body arching for me.”

Y/N is on fire. She must be. Her body is aflame and her insides have melted.

“I think…” Harry bends over some, trying to catch the eyes of the girl who is fighting every feeling. Her eyelids are shut, concealing the windows to her soul, and her brows are knitted together so tightly that she might induce a migraine. He smooths them out with a thumb before stroking over the delicate skin of her lids. “I think—look at me, darling—I think… it was when I had your stomach pressed into the mattress and a hand around your throat,” thick fingers squeeze her cheeks together with care, “and all you could do was lie there and take it. As I fucked you for the first time, just like you deserve.

“And after you came around me for the third time, I flipped you over so I could see your pretty face, and I came between your soft thighs, didn’t I, love? Did you want it inside of you? Warm, and sticky, and all because of you? Is that what you’d change?”

Y/N doesn’t actually think he would have come inside of her—he’d worn a condom, after all—but if the thought doesn’t have her thighs squeezing… “Wouldn't change,” she shakes her head. “Liked having you— liked it on…”

“Mm, I think you’d say that about everything. What do you know, after all?”

He’s right, and she hates the way his condescension has her wilting even further into the palm of his hand.

Y/N leans her face into Harry’s hand as he begins tracing over her features with a curious thumb, dedicating every line and mark to his memory. Then he’s crouching down with a little exhale and securing his hands under her armpits to pull her up with miniscule preamble. Y/N gasps, and her hands shoot out instinctively whilst Harry is lifting her up to his height. She grabs his shoulders and wraps her legs around his waist using muscle memory she didn’t realise she had.

Her knees sink into the rich green of his sofa as Harry sits down, gently encouraging her hands down from his shoulders and behind her back. A buzz zips through her chest from the feel of his warm body underneath her. Warm, and strong, and solid.

“Wanna hold these here, okay?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Harry’s tongue darts out to wet his rose-tinted lips. “Gonna be a little rough with you. If you want to stop, you say Red. If you want to slow down—take a break—you say Yellow. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good,” he says, eyes trailing down her neck, deciding what to do, “good,” repeated solely to himself.

Y/N feels the frustration of choosing to put on jeans this morning, mind spiralling at the thought of being on top of Harry with just a skirt to hide her modesty. Just a skirt that would so easily be slipped underneath by his hands, and then her underwear…

But Harry seems less concerned. His gaze is transfixed to her chest; to the intricate lace of her camisole, that—in contrast to her jeans—provides very easy access. Y/N’s breathing picks up at the very thought, ribs expanding and only drawing his eyes further. She’s tugged forward by a hand on her hip, searing through the fabric, and the other holding her hands. Tugged until Harry is resting his forehead on her sternum and inhaling deeply.

Her lungs are working at an extreme rate, and more of his nose presses into her with every breath. Y/N is so close to his hair in this position—just has to bend her face down a little and his musky scent fills her nostrils. It seems they both have similar ideas—breathing one another in—but Harry seems far more relaxed than the near shaking girl on top of him.

It only gets worse for her when he pushes his lips against the valley of her breasts—small, tender kisses that have Y/N’s breath hitching. The straps of her camisole want to fall down her shoulders in angelic swoops but her cardigan prohibits all movement. Suddenly it’s the heaviest and warmest piece of clothing she’s ever worn.

“Har—Sir,” she breathes, head tilting back on her shoulders. The caress of his breath on her body is immobilising, and he seems content in moving at a snail’s pace for his own enjoyment. Whether he gets the message or not is unclear, but regardless, Harry lets go of her hands just long enough to shuck the chunky cardigan down her arms and discard it beside them.

As soon as he tightens his grip around her wrists once again, the strain of her arms has her camisole straps slipping down the curves of her shoulders, like a waterfall of silk. The fabric is so light and thin that it pools underneath her breasts—the crooks of her elbows the only things keeping the straps suspended. And Harry’s immediate response suggests he’s somewhat of a starved individual, teeth digging into the top of the left cup of her bra and tugging it down with haste.

He takes her nipple into his mouth and Y/N is all gasps and bucks. The sensitivity of her skin and the rough suction of his lips, the flicking of his tongue and the grazing of his teeth. It’s deafening; the blood rushing in Y/N’s head, it’s near predisposing. The spit, and the hot exhales from his nose against her chest, the indentations his teeth leave behind when he pulls away to admire the wetness of her breast. But he goes back in—bites at her flesh—chews, and laves, and consumes her entirely.

Y/N’s cunt is pulsating. She is wet, and fervently hot, and the subtle rocking of her hips is ceased by a large palm over hip, which has her whining into the air.

“Stay still f’me,” he slurs into her skin, desperate fingers pulling her bra down further and watching to make sure it stays, before he starts on the other side of her chest. Her wrists are encircled behind her back, and Harry pushes her forward—into his mouth, as if he’s not already practically eating her. And maybe she can try her hardest not to squirm but all that energy has to go somewhere, and she’s panting now—whimpering all these sounds that she’s never heard herself make before—and Harry can surely feel the vigorous inflation and deflation of her lungs.

“Oh—oh, H—Sir, please.”

Please what? Stop? No. Keep torturing her breasts? Also no.

Harry hums against her, long and unwilling as his mouth leaves her with a wet smack. He admires her skin, eyes flitting up to see the dazed girl atop him.

“Don’t like it?” He puffs, inhaling deeply, beginning to dance a hand around her ribs.

“I do, I do,” Y/N breathes, eyes still closed. “Too h-hot.”

Harry frowns though she can’t see, before he’s unclasping her bra and pulling her camisole over her head—standing her up on jelly legs and pulling her jeans down. Sat on his lap once again, he tightens his grip around her wrists and curls his fingers around her throat.

“Can feel your heat, baby,” he looks down to where her clothed cunt rests just before his bulge. His still very clothed bulge. “Give me a kiss.” And she still feels exceptionally inexperienced in the whole department but her body surges forward, urged by the pressure against her pulse, as her lips meet his shiny ones.

This time, when Y/N’s hips start moving on their own accord, Harry doesn’t stop her—tugs her closer in fact. Right on top of where he’s warm, and hard. Their mouths part a centimetre, just enough to pant into one another at the feeling. Of his hand squeezing her throat, and pushing her arms into her back. Y/N doesn’t even notice when he lets go of her wrists—never daring to move them—as his palm comes down in an experimental slap to her arse.

It’s light; enough to not hurt but suggest his intentions. And when Y/N gasps and twitches on top of him, he gets the idea. “Is that nice?”

“Yes.”

“You like that?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Sir, yes Sir,” she whimpers into his mouth, lips pasting to his cupid’s bow and falling away when he does it again. Hard enough to leave a tingle that spreads out to her centre and up her stomach.

“Unzip my trousers.”

There’s no hesitation, both his palms are holding her ass now, desperate to spread them apart but damned by the confines of her underwear. Y/N shakes a little but does what he says, exposing the hot pink of his boxers underneath—and the thick outline of his cock.

“Take me out, go on.” She meets his eyes—blown out and transfixed, mirroring her very own. “Take me out, Y/N,” he whispers, leaning closer to lick a stripe up the column of her throat, and then an open-mouthed kiss to her chin, and her mouth.

He’s heavy in her hand, and intimidatingly big. How did she ever fit this inside of her? But she feels the instinct to make him feel good. This was the one area she had experience in, afterall. The skin is so soft and all she has to do is spit down and watch as it drips from his head along his shaft. But Harry takes her hand instead and laves his tongue along her palm before guiding her down to wrap around him.

His breath hitches; their eyes don’t stray from one another’s. He holds her hand over him and starts to drag it up and down, his blinking lagging a little from the feel of her delicate fingers wriggling underneath his palm. It’s intense, and paralysingly slow—every second spent watching his face feels like sixty—and when she looks down, she feels herself clench around nothing at the sight of her smaller hand wrapped in his, and the way his cock looks between them. Red, and thick, and wet.

It must show on her face because Harry’s unwrapping her hand and reaching forward to press his fingers into the front of her underwear. “Put me in.”

“What? B-but I’m not… and you’re so…”

He nods, “I know. You can do it,” as he awkwardly fumbles for his wallet from his back pocket. Y/N’s heart jumps when he rips the condom open with his teeth—a true teenage fantasy—and slides it on with a swallowed grunt.

He tugs her gusset to the side, breaking strings of arousal and basking in the twitch of Y/N’s hips. She clumsily hovers over him, embarrassed as she holds onto his base. As she lowers down, Harry’s thumb finds her clit—swollen and hypersensitive—and she squeezes him reflexively. He groans, low and vibrating, content to roll her under his digit cruelly—distracting her from the attempt at swallowing him with composure.

Y/N whines as the thick head squeezes inside her tight hole, mouth ajar and eyes half-focused on the man who brings his shining thumb to his mouth and makes a show of relishing in the taste of her arousal.

“F-fuck,” the words force their way out of her shining mouth.

Harry rears a hand back and slaps her ass, harder than the other times, fingers staying on the skin to dig in and pull. “Don’t swear.” And Y/N doesn’t think he’s usually adverse to it but she’ll do whatever he asks of her right now.

“S-sorry, Sir,” she moans out as Harry sinks deeper and deeper inside. Maybe he should’ve stretched her out first but God if it isn’t the most blissful discomfort. That initial entrance—knowing what her body is accommodating for and how far he reaches inside of her most private place.

As soon as she’s seated on him, completely and utterly full, Harry confines her wrists once again as he sits up and encourages Y/N to lean into him. Her breasts squish into his shirt. His shirt. That he is still wearing. “Come on, baby. Tire yourself out.”

Exhaustion is already seeping into her bones but Harry’s voice croons into her ears so tenderly—it coats her skin in a sheen of glitter and pumps sparkling wine through her veins. She makes every effort in lifting up and sinking back down—in, albeit, slow and wobbly movements—but the concentration on her face is like a drug to Harry. It has him thumbing over her nipple and taking it into his mouth again, which only has Y/N stuttering and inevitably stopping. She pants, and wiggles, and whines, enough so to have Harry placing both palms underneath the seam of her underwear and gripping her bum like he’d wanted.

He squeezes and stretches to his heart’s desire, mouth still firmly attached to her breast, but his strong hold aiding Y/N in moving once more. She’s lifted up and down, and up and down—slow enough to feel every ridge of him opening her walls.

“M-my legs hurt. Sir.” Y/N wishes she were a gym fiend as she admits it.

“Do they, love?” He pulls back from her chest, discontent to stop nibbling her skin raw but her voice is oh, so fragile. He’ll take care of her like he promises all the time. “Lean your head on my shoulder—keep your arms where they are.”

When she doesn’t immediately listen, and looks up to his eyes with a silently begging expression, he cocks his eyebrow. “Can I f-feel you? Your skin, please, Sir.” He’d left his clothes on, somewhat intentionally, but he doesn’t feel so mean in this moment. A nod is all the encouragement she needs, as Y/N unbuttons his shirt with clumsy fingers, and pushes it off his shoulder to rest her cheek upon. Her arms go back behind her and her nose moves forward to press into his neck deliciously. He smells of allure.

Harry can’t help himself when he tears her underwear from her body. She’s too soft, and warm, and wet to simply entertain the idea of pulling out of her. And from the noise she makes—a surprised squeak but no beratement—and the clench around his cock, he can only assume she likes it. Likes the desperation, or the display of strength, or his pure animal brain—it doesn’t matter. Because Harry’s kneading her ass in heavy handfuls, and moving her faster and faster, and Y/N is flooding his neck in her warm, tight pants—sweet whines falling out of her mouth.

“Beg me to come,” he grunts, granting Y/N no kind of warning before his fingers dig in harder and his hips slam into her at a speed that has her lungs forcing out high-pitched squeals. The sounds are nasty, unmistakable and unexplainable. The slap of skin, the wetness between her thighs, the noises that leave both their lips. It’s raw, and scaldingly hot, and— and… she needs to rub her clit.

“I— Sir, I can’t—”

“No?” His thrusts don’t falter, not even once. She’s on her back in a second, and her wrists are trapped underneath her. He makes no move to readjust them, only stretches her knee to the side so it pushes into the back of the sofa before grabbing a throw pillow and stuffing it under her hips. “Come on, beg me, little doll,” his hand spans across her mound, thumb meeting her clit in a back-arching press. This, has her cunt tightening—pulsating, contracting, strangling his cock. And with the pillow angling her just right, Harry can feel himself underneath his palm; it drives him batty.

He fucks her into the sofa, hard and unrelenting, leaning over her to chew on her tits once more. It’s sweaty, and messy, and that only makes it hotter. “Beg, Y/N.” His thumb rubs faster, expelling the choked up cry from her throat. She’s so close, is writhing underneath him—fighting the rolling of her eyes into the back of her skull.

“Please! S-sir, I—”

“That’s it. Good girl letting me fuck you—your sopping cunt, baby. Beg better than that, come on.”

His words send her spiralling, orgasm racing up on her and she panics that she won’t be given permission before it happens. “Oh my god! Oh, pleasepleaseplease, Harry!— Sir, please l-let me, please.” It’s adorable, Harry finds, her minimisation of the English dictionary when she’s so bent out of shape. Her pleading is less begging and more repetition, but he’ll let it slide.

He’ll let it slide as he presses his thumb harder and leans back to watch as he murmurs something akin to the value of diamond. “Come. Fucking come f’me, darlin’. Look at you.”

Y/N can’t hear anything. Not now. All she needed was that first word of permission and she’s seeing stars. Spasming around him so tight that Harry’s own moans started flowing out, pace increasing as he rolls her clit under his thumb. “Fuuuck, there you are. Keep squeezing like that, there’s a good girl.”

It takes her a while to come down from, no surprise considering Harry is still pounding into her, and her whimpers echo his moans—desperate and unabashed, his lips red and brows tight. He looks so handsome. So beautiful above her with his flushed skin and his flexing muscles, unbuttoned shirt floating around him. Y/N’s not sure she’s ever felt so peaceful, in a dreamlike state in all her vulnerability. And she keeps contracting around him, like he asks—because when he groans like that, she’d have to be a sadist not to—and as his moans build up in pitch, and his eyes meet hers in frenzied pleasure, she’s sure she wants him to come more than she’s ever wanted her own orgasm in her life.

Harry surges forward, smearing his lips all over Y/N’s mouth. It’s messy, and uncoordinated, and his tongue is slicking her skin. But it’s the hottest kiss she’s ever had. And it feels so good when his groans hit a crescendo, and his hips stutter, and Y/N can feel the warmth of his spurts inside the condom. She whimpers against his open mouth, arms losing all feeling behind her back, but she doesn’t care because his eyelashes are brushing against her cheek and it’s the most intimate thing she’s ever felt.

They’re lethargic, Harry’s movements, and he’d like to be much more alert but his body is tingling and Y/N is looking up at him so trustingly—he wonders if she’s fallen into a stupor.

“Th-thank you, Sir.”

He strokes her hip bones, pulling out with a soft hiss. Y/N whines a little at the sensitivity.

“You can call me Harry again now, if you like, darlin’.” He leans down to kiss her forehead, consuming palms holding her cheeks.

She’s not really listening. “Mm, feels… feel kinda drunk.” She smiles, nose turning into his thumb. Harry gives her another kiss and pulls away, to knot the condom and collect her clothes. Minus the pair of panties that are no longer wearable. He doesn’t feel even an ounce of guilt.

He’ll make her some food, watch as she eats it with her eyes begging to close, and then let her sleep in his bed—hoping she’ll want him to stay.

Little does he know that Y/N will wake up in the middle of the night to raid his kitchen in a matter of ways that Harry will reprimand her for.

But for right now, he’ll keep her as happy as he possibly can.

#harry styles #harry styles one shots #harry styles x reader #harry styles smut #harry styles imagines #mutually beneficial #writing #domrry #dom!harry #fanfiction

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artsekey · 2 months

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I'd been seeing videos on Tiktok and Youtube about how younger Gen Z & Gen Alpha were demonstrating low computer literacy & below benchmark reading & writing skills, but-- like with many things on the internet-- I assumed most of what I read and watched was exaggerated. Hell, even if things were as bad as people were saying, it would be at least ~5 years before I started seeing the problem in higher education.

I was very wrong.

Of the many applications I've read this application season, only %6 percent demonstrated would I would consider a college-level mastery of language & grammar. The students writing these applications have been enrolled in university for at least two years, and have taken all fundamental courses. This means they've had classes dedicated to reading, writing, and literature analysis, and yet!

There are sentences I have to read over and over again to discern intent. Circular arguments that offer no actual substance. Errors in spelling and capitalization that spellcheck should've flagged.

At a glance, it's easy to trace this issue back to two things:

The state of education in the United States is abhorrent. Instructors are not paid enough, so schools-- particularly public schools-- take whatever instructors they can find.

COVID. The two year long gap in education, especially in high school, left many students struggling to keep up.

But I think there's a third culprit-- something I mentioned earlier in this post. A lack of computer literacy.

This subject has been covered extensively by multiple news outlets like the Washington Post and Raconteur, but as someone seeing it firsthand I wanted to add my voice to the rising chorus of concerned educators begging you to pay attention.

As the interface we use to engage with technology becomes more user friendly, the knowledge we need to access our files, photos, programs, & data becomes less and less important. Why do I need to know about directories if I can search my files in Windows (are you searching in Windows? Are you sure? Do you know what that bar you're typing into is part of? Where it's looking)? Maybe you don't have any files on your computer at all-- maybe they're on the cloud through OneDrive, or backed up through Google. Some of you reading this may know exactly where and how your files are stored. Many of you probably don't, and that's okay. For most people, being able to access a file in as short a time as possible is what they prioritize.

The problem is, when you as a consumer are only using a tool, you are intrinsically limited by the functions that tool is advertised to have. Worse yet, when the tool fails or is insufficient for what you need, you have no way of working outside of that tool. You'll need to consult an expert, which is usually expensive.

When you as a consumer understand a tool, your options are limitless. You can break it apart and put it back together in just the way you like, or you can identify what parts of the tool you need and search for more accessible or affordable options that focus more on your specific use-case.

The problem-- and to be clear, I do not blame Gen Z & Gen Alpha for what I'm about to outline-- is that this user-friendly interface has fostered a culture that no longer troubleshoots. If something on the computer doesn't work well, it's the computer's fault. It's UI should be more intuitive, and it it's not operating as expected, it's broken. What I'm seeing more and more of is that if something's broken, students stop there. They believe there's nothing they can do. They don't actively seek out solutions, they don't take to Google, they don't hop on Reddit to ask around; they just... stop. The gap in knowledge between where they stand and where they need to be to begin troubleshooting seems to wide and inaccessible (because the fundamental structure of files/directories is unknown to many) that they don't begin.

This isn't demonstrative of a lack of critical thinking, but without the drive to troubleshoot the number of opportunities to develop those critical thinking skills are greatly diminished. How do you communicate an issue to someone online? How do look for specific information? How do you determine whether that information is specifically helpful to you? If it isn't, what part of it is? This process fosters so many skills that I believe are at least partially linked to the ability to read and write effectively, and for so many of my students it feels like a complete non-starter.

We need basic computer classes back in schools. We need typing classes, we need digital media classes, we need classes that talk about computers outside of learning to code. Students need every opportunity to develop critical thinking skills and the ability to self-reflect & self correct, and in an age of misinformation & portable technology, it's more important now than ever.

#computers #pc #digital #rant #something something planned obsolescence

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dailyadventureprompts · 17 days

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DM Tip: Lining up the Pieces

A few years ago I saw a video that changed the way I design combat encounters, using chess pieces and 4th edition monster roles as a handy way of conceptualizing the enemy roster and making better combat.

I’ve wanted to refer back to it for ages now, but I can’t seem to find it. As such, I’m going to reproduce it’s wisdom here for everyone’s benefit and hope I can find the source one day. ( I feel like it was a Matt Coville video, but my searches have turned up nothing. Seriously, if you can find it I will be extra grateful).

TLDR: You can break down enemy combatants into six (ish) roles represented by different kinds of chess pieces, and you can mix and match them when designing encounter to create fun tactical scenarios. You can also use this as an alternative to CR picking a “budget” of these enemy roles based on how many players are in the fight. Check out the types below the cut:

Infantry (pawn): Generally weaker and mechanically simpler than any other type of combatant, the infantry uses teamwork or sheer numbers to overwhelm the party. This can be anything from rank and file soldiers to a necromancer’s skeletal minions to a pack of wolves, anything that takes up space on the battlefield and prevents the party from targeting who they want or generally getting their way in a fight. 5e combat is a numbers game, and the infantry is there to swing the numbers in the enemy’s favour (until the party cut through them to even the odds). Infantry likes battlemaps with chokepoints they can hold and crossroads they can use to outflank opponents. When budgeting they’ll have a balance of 2 infantry per 1 player they’re matched against , but the weaker they are, the thinner you can spread them.

Brute (rook): High defence, high offence, the brute is an outright threat that the party should not want to take in a head to head fight. Giants, beasts, constructs, and heavy armoured warriors are your traditional brutes, but you could also go with a buffed to hell battlemage getting all up in the party’s face. Conversely, every brute has some kind of weakness that the party can exploit. They might be slow, or be unable to maneuver as easily, or like a werewolf, fiend, or troll, have particular weapons or damage types that overcome their natural resilience. Their job is to force confrontation, blunder into the middle of combat and force the party to act defensively rather than proactively. They soak up the party’s frontline’s attention while forcing the mid/backlines to scatter under the threat of too much raw damage. The brute Likes open spaces where they can have a direct path to the party and dead ends they can corner their targets against. Budget: Around 1 per 3 players

Skirmisher (knight): A very broad type of opponent, the skirmisher’s job is to bully the party’s weapsots whenever they’re exposed. They can do this by being ranged fighters ( traditional archers, magic users) or by being highly mobile (stealthy, mounted, flying, teleporting). They’re the bane of the party’s backline, generally targeting whoever has the lowest armour/or least health, then using their evasiveness to deny any kind of retaliation when the group rallies to protect their squishy friends. Skirmishers have great offence but are generally pretty weak, made helpless when you can deny them their movement/terrain advantages. Skirmishers like unfair fights, terrain that gives them a movement advantage, cover, or allows them the highground over their foes. Budgeting: 1 per 1-2 players.

Controller (bishop): The controller’s job is to fuck with the party, Either by locking down some of their stronger options (counterspelling, mind control, status effects, grapples), by manipulating the battlefield in some way that disrupts planning (aoe spells to prevent grouping together, summoning to reinforce numbers, barriers and banishment to single targets out), Or by advancing the baddies’ goal while the party is otherwise occupied (the cult priest finishing the disastrous ritual, the master thief making off with the mcguffin) forcing them to split their attention. The controller likes to distinctly be away from combat, and will usually be on the otherside of some kind of hazardous/hard to bypass barrier, sometimes of their own making. Budgeting: 1 per 2-3 players:

Support (king): Usually a healer, bodyguard, or some kind of buff-bot, the support wants to piggyback on other sorts of units or make them better at doing their jobs. Generally this means they’ll ignore whatever the party is doing to focus on staying with effective range of those who most benefit from their abilities. Supports will stay back in safety while throwing out buffs, bodyguards will put themselves between the party and their designated defendee. They tend to prefer whatever type of terrain most benefits their partners. 1- 2-3 players

Elite (queen): Something to be reckoned with, an Elite mixies the strength and abilities of two other kinds of combatants and uses both to devastating effect. Combine a brute and a support for an unstoppable frontline commander, or infantry and a skirmisher for an elite striketeam that attacks in perfect coordination before fading back into the shadows. Mix and match for whatever combination you think would be most interesting for a situation, then supplement it with a different unit or two for contrast. Elites make up your traditional “big bad and minions” bossfight, without escalating to the full party challenge of “solo” monsters. Budgeting: 1 per 3-4 players.

Picking the right Pieces:

Generally what you're going to want to do when planning a combat is to first think of what the baddies are trying to acomplish with the fight then pick 2-3 different types of baddie that you think would work well in concert to achieve that goal. "Kill the party" is an all too common goal, but you could easily imagine others that provide for dynamic stakes:

A group of forest bandits intend to rob a caravan, so they unleash a captive warbeast as a distraction while their archers rain chaos from above (Infantry, brute, skirmisher)

A villain abducts an important npc into a carriage while their dutiful muscle run interference (controller, brutes)

A necromancer hurls curses from behind a barricade of gravestones while their undead minions pour from surrounding tombs ( Controller/infantry)

While the party is ambushed by an archer in a tower, a cloaked figure waits in the underbrush, waiting for them to thin out and begin picking them off one by one (paired skirmishers of different types)

After the fighter is tricked into single combat against the mounted arena champion, the rest of the party will have to search the crowd for the caster secretly channeling healing magic to their opponent. ( combined brute/skirmisher elite, support)

Once you've got your pieces picked out, you can start designing the battle arena taking the desires of each combatant into account while also throwing in any environmental flourishes you'd like to enjoy.

As an added benefit for DMs like me who don't have the inclination or budget to collect huge batches of minis, it's SUPER easy to pick up a second hand chess set or two and use them as stand ins. Your players will have an instinctive understanding of what each piece does which will help them understand the roles outlined above.

Artsource

#dm tip #dm advice #combat #dap combat hack #dnd #dungeons and dragons #d&d #ttprg #pathfinder

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virescent-v · 7 months

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Except Me?

A/N: Happy Saturday morning!! ;) Back with another smutty Emily x fem!reader fic. Enjoy :P Warnings: Honestly, if you've read my stuff before, same apply lol. Word Count: 2080

“Is everybody around here getting laid except me?”

“Well, I’m not,” Rossi had said.

You just stood there frozen.

Because while the statement itself was rhetorical, you definitely weren’t thinking that way.

But now you were thinking about getting laid.

With a certain unit chief.

So that everyone around here was getting laid.

Of course, Emily had no idea that you’ve been harboring a crush on her since your arrival to the BAU over three months ago. You’d heard of the infamous Emily Prentiss and the legendary things her team did. You worked your ass off to get your spot on the team and, while you didn’t want to fuck it up, you certainly wanted to fuck.

You avoided eye contact with everyone that was standing there, not wanting the profilers to catch a glimpse of the rising heat on your cheeks. You quietly excused yourself and made a beeline for the bathrooms.

“What’s gotten into her?” Rossi asked.

Emily and JJ shared a look; JJ’s slightly more concerned, while Emily’s was one of curiosity.

“I don’t know. Maybe she didn’t feel comfortable with all of the talk about getting laid?” JJ asked, twirling the ring on her finger.

Emily’s head cocked a little to the side, considering. You hadn’t seemed like the prudish type, but she really didn’t know you too well, seeing as you’d only been here a few months and she was your boss. She made a mental note to check in on you in a little bit, seeing as she had never seen you run off from a conversation before.

The conversation had lulled and everyone had moved their separate ways, Emily heading straight for her office. After a bit of time, she glanced up from her desk, gazed out into the bullpen. She could see you from her office, especially since you were the only one currently around, the only one at your desk. You had some files open on your desk, but you weren’t working on any of them. You were fidgeting; your knee was bouncing like you were anxious and you were playing with the pen you were supposed to be writing with. Emily had never seen you so distracted before.

Making a quick decision, she stood up, walked to her office door. “Hey,” she said, grabbing your attention immediately, breaking the silence surrounding you. “My office, now, please.”

You looked at her, an almost panicked look on your face. Interesting, Emily thought.

You made your way into her office. “Shut the door behind you,” Emily said.

You could feel your heart rate increase. Like you had just been called into the principal’s office. You made your way across the room, sitting yourself in the chair across from her desk. You were fidgeting even more with the cuffs on your blazer, trying your hardest to not make eye contact with Emily. You knew that she had no idea what was going on and if you could just control yourself a little bit more, you probably wouldn’t even be in here with your boss obviously profiling you.

You could feel Emily’s eyes watching you, tracking your every movement. While the BAU tried very hard to not profile each other, you knew that with your behavior you were likely being observed.

Emily let you sit and stew for a few moments, watching you. She had never seen you act so…anxious. And while she knew that part of that was from being called into her office, there was obviously something else going on. “What’s going on?”

Your eyes shot up to hers. She looked so beautiful. Concerned, but curious. You could see yourself slipping under their spell, like you should just say what was going on. But you held yourself back. “Nothing. Just, uh…just feeling a little, um, anxious today, I guess.” Even your voice was shaky. You could hardly keep eye contact with her while talking. You knew all of Emily’s profiler alarms were going off. You just hoped she didn’t ask too many more questions.

“You were fine this morning until our conversation in the hallway. Is your anxiousness right now about that?” She asked.

Your eyes darted toward the right. “No,” you said unconvincingly, your voice managing to crack on the single syllable. You almost scoffed at yourself. You needed to get it together before Emily caught on even more than she already had.

Emily’s head tilted, watching you now with narrow eyes. “Try answering that again, but a bit more convincingly,” she teased.

You glanced up under your eyelashes at Emily, trying to figure out what was going on. She sounded like she was just teasing you, not having figured out what was really going on with you yet.

“I could tell that our conversation made you uncomfortable. You all but ran off to the bathroom. I’m sorry if it was too much,” Emily stated, her hands folded neatly in front of her, resting on her thighs. Her well toned, strong thighs that you just wanted wrapped around your head.

Shit, I’ve got to stop or she’s going to be able to read me like an open book, you thought. You cleared your throat, feeling another wave of heat rush to your cheeks.

Emily smirked to herself. She had watched your eyes linger on her hands, drift around her thighs, before registering what you were doing, snapping yourself back to reality. Interesting, she thought.

Emily decided to see if her suspicions were right - if you were harboring something for her, even if it was just lustful thoughts.

She got up from her chair and basically stalked around her desk, stopping in front of you with her hands on her hips. You refused to meet her eyes, keeping them on her shoes in front of you, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth.

Emily didn’t say anything, just watching you squirm in front of her for a few minutes.

When she didn’t speak, you pulled your face up, your gaze immediately connecting with Emily’s.

“Did it make you feel some type of way when I said I wasn’t getting laid?” She asked.

You almost choked on air, coughing slightly to recover. “Wh-what?” You couldn’t believe she would just ask straight out like that and now you were worried she was catching on.

Emily tilted her head, her eyes scanning your face. “How did you feel earlier when I said I wasn’t getting fucked?”

Your breath stuttered, an immediate flush taking over your face and upper chest.

Emily had to hold back the smirk that was threatening to take over as she watched your eyes dilate almost to the point of black. She leaned forward placing both of her hands on the arms of the chair you were sitting in, her face so close to yours that it felt like you were about to go cross-eyed. This close, you could smell her earthy perfume, feel her breath against your lips.

You had to hold yourself back from launching forward and capturing her lips with yours.

“Do you want to be the one to change that?” Emily asked, her hand coming up to your face, her thumb tracing over your lower lip. “Do you want to be the one to finally make me cum on fingers that aren’t my own?”

“Christ, Emily-” you started.

“Yes or no, pretty girl.”

You took her thumb into your mouth, your tongue tracing around it once, twice, before letting it pop out. “Fuck yes.”

Emily finally let the smirk cross her features. “Then on your knees, angel. I want to cum all over that pretty little face of yours.”

You’ve never gotten out of a chair so fast in your life, the sound of your knees hitting the floor almost echoing in the small office. You reached up to Emily’s waistband, eager to undo her pants to finally get a taste for what you’ve been thinking about for months.

But Emily’s hands smacked yours away. “Uh huh, where are your manners?”

Sitting back on your knees, you glanced up at Emily from under your lashes, giving her your best pout. “Please, ma’am, can I taste your pussy?”

Emily wanted to roll her eyes at your little display, but she found herself getting turned on by how eager you were to please her. “Take your shirt and bra off first. I want to see more of you.”

You didn’t hesitate. It didn’t even cross your mind that you were at work, in Emily’s office, that she was your boss. All you could think about was getting to be the one to make her cum.

You whipped your shirt off, throwing it across the room, your bra following after. You watched as Emily licked her lips as she started to undo her own pants, pulling her panties down too. “You’re so beautiful, angel. Once I cum enough to statiate me, I’m going to fuck you until you can’t remember your own name.”

Your eyes tracked her panties going down her legs, the ones you couldn’t stop staring at earlier. As they got kicked to the side, your gaze traveled back up her delicious legs and zeroed in on her already wet cunt. You let out a little whimper at the moisture you saw waiting for you. “Please, Em, can I?” You asked, never taking your eyes off of the prize in front of you.

Emily’s hand found its way into your hair, holding it back off of your face. “Make me cum, pretty girl.”

You moaned indecently at the first tangy taste of her on your tongue, your eyes rolling back into your head. Your hands gripped her thighs, keeping them apart as your mouth went to work. You took your time exploring her, getting to know what kind of movements she liked, what made her hips twitch, what made her grip in your hair get a little tighter, slowly building her up.

By the time your tongue focused on Emily’s swollen, throbbing clit, you could hear her panting above you, her hips gyrating to a beat that pushed her closer to the edge.

You alternated between tight, little circles around her clit and broad strokes up and down that made Emily’s breath stutter in her chest. You could tell that she was trying her best to hold back the noises she so desperately wanted to make. You hoped to hear them soon.

“I’m so close,” Emily breathed out. “Make me cum, make me cum,” she whispered, both hands finding their way into your hair, guiding your face to her clit. “Put your fingers in me now.”

You knew better than to test her patience; you could almost taste how close she was. You wasted no time, easily sliding two of your fingers into her dripping core.

Moaning into her cunt at how warm and wet she was, you started a brutal pace, curling your fingers so with each thrust they hit against her sweet spot. Within a few plunges of your fingers, you could feel Emily’s thighs begin to shake, her inner walls tightening down as if trying to keep you inside.

“Ungh, fu-fuck, I’m gon-gonna cum,” Emily whimpered.

With one final thrust in, you focused on pushing against her g-spot in a pulsating motion, your tongue flicking fast and hard against her clit. You moaned against her, the added vibrations sending her over the edge.

One of Emily’s hands gripped tighter in your hair while the other clamped over her own mouth to muffle her moans. You continued to fuck her through her orgasm, making sure she got the most pleasure.

As she finally came down fully, you slowly removed your fingers and mouth, not wanting to make her too sensitive.

You slipped your fingers into your own mouth, your tongue wrapping around them and sucking them clean, appreciating the taste of her.

“Fuck,” Emily said, looking down at you. “You busy after work?”

You threw your head back a little chuckling. “Whaddya know, my schedule just opened up.”

Emily smiled, helping you up from your position on the floor. Her hand started caressing your hip, slowly making their way up your chest, circling each nipple before wrapping her hand around your throat. “Good, I have plans for you that involve you cumming all over my cock. Sound good?”

You whimpered before hungrily nodding your head.

Emily’s eyes darkened, a devious smirk replacing her earlier easy smile. “I’ll see you at seven at my place, pretty girl. Don’t be late.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

#virescent v fanfic #emily prentiss #emily prentiss fanfic #emily prentiss smut #emily prentiss x reader #no use of y/n #fem reader #emily prentiss x you #idk i could probably make a pt 2 if people wanted to see what happens after work #if theres errors ignore them ive been up all night lmfao

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juliametzgerart · 3 months

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I have shared versions of this on other platforms before, so I might as well make a tumblr edition: here some tips for MtG portfolios I gathered and might be interesting for some people who follow me. 1. Since this is a trading card game, here comes the obvious one first: Always keep in mind that these are card illustrations, they have to be readable in super small. Which means that strong silhouettes and value structures are a must have. If you work digital, check the zoomed out version on regular basis, or even have some jpgs to check their thumbnails in your file browser. That can give you an idea about their readability. Traditionally you can of course take some steps back, or take some photographs to look at smaller previews on your devices. Also: print illustrations often come out darker than their screen versions, be careful with your darks! It's rather easy for things to go muddy, even if they look good on screen. In doubt, increase the brightness a bit. It's okay to have different versions for screen and print to meet their needs.

2. Be versatile about your topics and compositions. Zoom in, zoom out. Don't fall into the trap of your own comfort zone zoom level of showing things, or one way of doing things. It can be positive to offer purposefully unusual options.

3. Be aware of the focus. If you have a magician with a staff, ask yourself if the card is about the staff(artifact), the mage (creature) or perhaps even the spell. The composition and focus of the illustration should shift accordingly! Clear action is important for readability – since that is not just visual hierarchy here, but also storytelling. Which brings me to the next point: 4. Good narrative matters, but mechanics matter even more. So, again, be very aware of your illustration's focus. You can potentially add extra elements for the story to make it more fun, but it should not get too convoluted, and even less should it distract from what the card it actually about. If you come up with your very own ideas for a portfolio this is of course much more open than if you work from a description. But you can find a bunch of official MtG descriptions online which are super useful for training.

5. Show care. Plan the illustration, get the references in place. It's the best time to get good habits in place, and really finish the pieces. Don't make them weaker by going too fast, that is not convincing. It just lets people assume worse things for tight deadlines. This does not mean everything needs to be rendered to death - but shape design should remain thoughtful and purposeful even where soft and lost edges are used.

6. It's potentially okay to have your specific stylistic or thematic niche. It can mean less assignments at times, but can also mean more special ones. It's cool though for your voice to be visible as long as the other needs of the product are met.

7. Never stop using those references. Get them, make them, use them - take them seriously. (at least for any of the more realistic styles). It's one of the most repeated tips for any student to actually just use more references. They do a ton to get complicated things like anatomy and lighting right, but also cultural references and versatility. Many of the best Magic artists also make the best references – it's not a coincidence. Learn from the people who have already established themselves, they have great wisdom to share. 8. Your quality has to match the current roster. Yeah, sorry, no way around that one. You need at least to be as good as the currently "worst" artist in the roster to have a chance. And the ADs need to be sure that even on a bad day your art can meet their quality bar. Which is the reason why you likely need several art pieces at the required level, to prove it wasn't just some lucky fluke. Though once you're really there, that also means a bit less pressure to perform, since you're likely comfortable at your skill level and can only go up from there.

#magic the gathering #julia metzger #mtg #illustration #portfolio tips #art tips #mtg portfolio things

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paperstarwriters · 9 months

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Sleep

Muriel x Reader

Warnings: Sleepy reader, a kiss is used to shut the reader up. Muriel manhandles reader a bit

Summary: It's late. You're tired, and Muriel is too. All he wants to do is bring you to bed.

[A/N]: Reader is currently me rn. I should really head to bed lol. Also, if this looks familiar, this is the file "A bed and a book" from that WIP Wednesday I did a while ago. (I'll link it tomorrow lol. I need to sleep...)

Masterlist | The Arcana Masterlist

Word count: 2,021

─────── ᶻ 𝘇 𐰁 ───────

Muriel watches you amidst the growing cold of the hut.

He watches you tremble and shiver, as you work, too focused to notice your own quaking limbs, or too busy to give it any attention. The fire dies in the fireplace, and though there was plenty of firewood that he could easily restock the fire with, a roaring fire with no one to watch over it only ever spelled trouble.

Usually he didn't even let the fire keep going this late at night, but you needed it while you worked.

You also, however, needed sleep.

"It's late."

You hum, continuing to scribble as you mutter something about a fleeting idea before you respond.

"I know. Just let me finish this."

Muriel huffs. That's not the first time you've said that and he knows full well that it won't be the last either. He pulls himself from the warmth of the bed, where he had been waiting for you, and plants his feet on the cold floor. The feeling makes him flinch for a moment, and he decides with a sigh, that he would give you one more chance.

"No. It's really, really late."

"You don't have to wait up for me."

In another moment, in another context, Muriel might have blushed at being caught caring for you. At being caught waiting or anticipating your return to his side. Currently however, a streak of frustration, fleeting but hot, burns in his chest. He "doesn't have to"? If he didn't wait up for you, you'd waste yourself away working on your projects. If he didn't wait up for you, he'd have to fall asleep and wake up to empty arms as you sit there just within reach and yet so far away. If he didn't wait up for you, would you ever sleep at all?

Muriel scoffs, and he wonders if you can hear it through your work. He wonders if you can hear him stand from the bed, and stride over towards you. Hearing you gasp as he wraps his arms around you, he figures you didn't, which only serves to target the selfish and greedy part of him—the part that makes his frustration flare all the more at the absence of your attention, the absence of your body pressed against his own.

The look you give him, wide eyed and filled with a startled awe, serves to soothe him for a moment, easing that need for attention, but it brings back to his focus the dark circles under your eyes, and the tremble of your hands hovering over your paper. It's a horrible combination really. The selfish and greedy need for your attention, for your skin against his, made virtuous through his concern for your health and your desperate need for sleep. It made it all the more hard to tell the line where he was being greedy, and where he was being concerned. Yet, if he wanted you to be happy and healthy by his side, could that even really be called greed?

As shock melts into confusion, Muriel can feel your trembling body melt against his, relaxing into the offer of sleep and rest that you continue to deprive yourself of. Greed, Muriel decides, is a kind and necessary thing to indulge in if it means you get to rest.

"It's late," he reiterates.

You scoff, rolling your eyes as you glance around the room, clearly not believing time to have slipped past you so quickly. Knowing you’re delirious with exhaustion, he doesn't trust you to realize that he had stocked the fireplace earlier that day to burn late into the night, and that no, he did not do anything that may speed up the burning process in any way.

Instead, he drags his hand down to your own, trembling as you grip your pen as if you feared it might be ripped away from you in any given moment. Though the temptation to do so is there, he knows full well how ineffective that would be. Instead, he trails his hand down your forearm. The rest of your arm is still pinned down by his in a half hug, but he doesn't even need to exert much pressure to keep you in place—your exhaustion doing most of that work for him.

Fresh from the confines of the bed, his hand and body still cling to the remains of warmth, a sharp contrast to your own, left night-chilled in the absence of the fireplace. It's clear, with the trail of goosebumps and shivers that appear in the wake of his touch, that you're freezing right now, and in desperate need of blankets and warm, warm cuddles.

His hand makes his way down to yours eventually, and he can see the twitch of your fingers as you're tempted to drop the pen to take his hand into your own. Pressing his thumb to the seam of your wrist and your palm, Muriel feeds the temptation, massaging the tender skin as best he can manage despite his calloused fingers. He’s careful not to seem too desperate for you to relax and drop your work to follow him back into the warm embrace of the bed. Up and down, he works his thumb from the centre of your palm to your pulse on your wrist. Little by little your hand sags in his hold, your pen drooping and slipping from loosened fingers, until it finally falls and leaves a splatter of ink on the wood of the table.

Your eyes dart down and your hand tenses up prepared to apologize and clean up your little mess, but Muriel refuses to let you fuss over something so trivial when your own health is at risk. His face dips into the crook of your neck, his lips spattering kisses against your skin luring you further into his embrace until your eyes flutter closed and your head bobs against his shoulder, fighting a futile battle against the urge to sleep.

Letting go of your hand, and slipping his hand instead beneath your legs to scoop you from your seat, Muriel realizes that he too must be a little delirious with sleep. Blush grows against his face, while he continues to press kisses against your skin, but he doesn't have much energy left to care about how embarrassing his affections may be. Instead, he sighs his lips still pressed against your skin as he pulls you into bed.

"Next time, I'm dragging you to bed the moment the sun goes down," he blurts, uncaring for any embarrassing connotations you might derive from his words. Instead, he focused on holding you close against him, in his arms where you belonged as you wormed your own arms around him, finally settling into his embrace.

At least, he thought you were settling into his embrace.

Despite how your body was nearly a puddle of boneless goop in his arms, exhausted and ready for sleep, you try to turn looking back to the table where your pen and papers lay.

"my pen—" you try to argue.

"it's fine," he mutters, his voice a bit gruff with his own exhaustion. "Go to sleep"

"But the ink—"

"it's fine," he grumbles again, squeezing you tighter in case you tried to slip free. "Go to sleep"

"But—"

Muriel sighs again, loud and irritated and tired, before he leans in and seals your lips with his own. He knows that tomorrow, if he thinks to long about the events of last night, he'll burn himself with how hard he'd blush, but today, all he wants is for you to go to sleep and get some well deserved rest. He's willing to sacrifice a little embarrassment if it means you sleep.

Even if he'd find himself embarrassed tomorrow, he hopes that it'll be washed out with the pride he feels in the moment, burning bright and making his chest tight, as he feels you sag in his arms. You’re melting from his kiss alone and that makes his heart soar. The effect he has just from kissing you is wonderful sure, but it's the evidence that he knows you that makes him feel the warmest. He knows how to get you to relax. He knows how to make you feel comfortable enough to finally go to sleep. Pulling back, he settles himself back into the crook of your neck, grinning from accomplishments, as he feels you finally seem to drift of to sleep.

Of course, seem is the word of focus here. Since, moments later, Muriel can feel you once again trying to squirm free from his embrace. Though he keeps his eyes closed amidst your little struggle, he holds you tighter, muttering in a sleep raged voice for what seems like the hundredth time.

“Go to sleep.”

You fall limp at his request, though he's more than awake enough to realize what you're trying to do. Waiting and biding your time for him to fall asleep before you. He sighs at the notion, and changes tactics.

"What's wrong?"

You're silent for a moment, still feigning sleep even if he can feel your heartbeat's staccato rhythm from where you're pressed against his chest. He doesn't push though, almost hoping that you'd fall asleep while pretending to do so, but he still waits for your reply, whether it comes or not.

"I just... I have an idea I want to write down."

"You can write it down tomorrow."

"But what if I forget?"

Muriel pauses. The temptation to wave away your concerns with a simple argument like, "if it's important you'll remember tomorrow," sits on his tongue, but he can't help but reflect an answer onto himself. Perhaps it was the constant wash of affection that you'd give him, or how you were often so eager to denounce whatever quiet self-deprecating thoughts he might voice aloud, or maybe it was just how often he was spending time outside of himself, and with you, or Asra, or the others. He doesn't know what exactly caused it, but he knows how it affects him now. He's important, and yet he was forgotten. To you, this project is the same.

This matters to you. Denying its importance will get him nowhere he wants to be.

"You can tell me," he offers, "I'll remember it."

"You're already half asleep."

Muriel cracks an eye open, "you are too."

Your attempt to refute his statement falls short when you yawn, which makes him yawn as well, though his is half muffled around his smile.

"alright, fine," you mutter eventually, tucking your face against his chest. Your arms squirm from their place trapped beneath his own, this time though, rather than escaping, you wrap your arms around him as you finally settle in his embrace for good.

He listens as long as he can, to you talk about the solutions to the puzzle you have noted down in your book, but you're mostly talking to yourself, thinking through the issue, refuting your own claims as you drift off, voice growing weaker and weaker before you finally sag against him, and Muriel can finally settle in against you, able to fall asleep now that you're in his arms, and he is in yours.

Before he settles however, he takes a moment to appreciate his reward, pressing a kiss against your eyelids, before he leans back and appreciates your relaxed and sleeping expression, whispering. You deserve rest like this. You deserve to relax. You've been so busy lately, he doesn't want to see you in pain.

When he finally tucks himself by your side and presses his cheek against your skin, Muriel can't help but chuckle at the chance to just fall asleep just like that. He knows it clings to him now. That falling asleep would be just as easy as that, but it hadn't always been. Sitting up forced to deal with swirling thoughts alone had once been the bane of his existence, but now, curled up with you by his side, he could talk if he needed to, just like you needed to earlier.

Now, falling asleep is as easy as one... two...

....

In the dying moments of his consciousness, Muriel continues to stare at you, pressing another kiss against your sleeping face, as he whispers precious words, fully aware you can't hear him. It doesn't really matter anyways. He'll tell you them all again tomorrow night. And if you can't hear it then, he'll tell you the next day, then the day after that, and the day after that.

"I love you," he mutters. "Goodnight."

#the arcana #muriel #x reader #reader insert #Muriel x reader #Muriel the arcana #Muriel #the arcana muriel #the arcana muriel x reader #muriel of the kokhuri #muriel x mc #muriel x apprentice

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thetriumphantpanda · 1 year

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Let Me Love You | Javier Peña (One Shot)

Javier Peña has been the bane of your existence since you arrived to work for the ambassador. When you find yourself at a loose end following an altercation in the street on your way home, Javier is the only person you could turn to which turns your evening into something you'd never dreamed of.

Pairing | Javier Peña x Reader

Warnings | Smut, oral sex (F receiving), Protected PIV sex, descriptions of physical assault/robber, alcohol consumption but nothing else I can think of.

Word Count | 5.2K

Authors Note | Been holed up in bed this weekend rewatching Narcos and this is the result. I hope you like it! Like, Reblogs and feedback are my lifeblood so please let me know if you enjoy this! Just a warning that I am very high on painkillers and this hasn't been proofread so apologies for any spelling mistakes.

Javier Peña wasn’t used to rejection. Whether he liked it or not he was the epitome of a ladies’ man and had no issue in getting whichever woman he wanted that night into his bed. That was until you came bounding into his life with your apathy and disdain towards him. What he should have done was leave well alone but if there was anything Javier enjoyed it was a challenge and you had become a very personal one to him.

You’d been an assistant to Ambassador Noonan for a few months now – everyone back at home in El Paso had been so proud when you’d beaten everyone else for the role in Colombia, it’s the only time you’d ever seen your father cry. His little girl, all grown up and off to play with the big guns at an overseas posting.

Colombia had been a culture shock, there was no getting around it. It was busy and loud and all sorts of colourful that you weren’t used to but in the best way possible. When you phoned home each Sunday to catch up with your parents you could feel the desire to go back to your old life fading a little.

The only aspect of your job you weren’t fond of was Javier Peña. Almost immediately one arrival he’d made it his personal endeavor to conquer you as another office romance. Almost all the office girls had filled you in on his reputation as the DEA’s resident womanizer and you’d done everything possible in your power to avoid becoming just another notch on his bedpost.

He hadn’t made it easy for you though. It didn’t help that he was just your type. Tall and handsome, with dark brown eyes that pierced right through your own whenever he spoke to you. You’d learnt from the girl who sat on the desk next to you that he was also from Texas and the rumor was that before coming to Colombia he’d jilted his soon-to-be wife on their wedding day.

“You know he’s got eyes for you, right?” She’d said one afternoon a few weeks ago when Javier had tried to get you to shift the ambassador’s entire schedule around so he could present new intelligence.

“I don’t care, miel,” Was what you’d replied, using your limited Spanish to call her honey, the pet name you’d fallen on for each other in the short months you’d worked together, “I worked too hard to get here to become just another of the girls Agent Peña has slept with.”

“Girl, take it from someone who knows, you would not be disappointed.”

You’d waved her off before gathering a pile of files for the ambassador, using the need to drop them off as an excuse to end the conversation. When you arrived back at your desk, Javier’s partner Steve was waiting at your desk.

“Agent Murphy, what a nice surprise.” You weren’t lying, you much preferred to deal with Steve when it came to the pair of agents, he was married and you appreciated that unlike his partner, he didn’t openly gawk at you when trying to hold a conversation.

“Javier sends his apologies, he had to head out to follow a lead…” You shrugged your shoulders at him, “Anyway, he asked me to bring this down for the ambassador and said if you could make sure it lands up on the desk before the end of the day, he would be most appreciative.”

“You know, if you’d come down and asked without mentioning him, I would have done that, but you can tell him the ambassador is very busy and it’ll wait until tomorrow.”

“Oh come on,” Steve groaned, “If not for Javi then for me? He’s gonna chew my ass if I don’t get this sorted.”

“You can tell him if he’s got an issue he can take it up with me personally, surely that’ll get you off the chopping block?”

“I hope you know what you’re getting yourself in for.” Was all Steve replied with before throwing the file down on your desk and walking away.

***

It was late. Later than you’d normally stay at work, but the ambassador had asked you for some financial reports which were proving trickier to put together than you had anticipated. Everyone else had left a while ago, the only sounds in the office were your pen scrawling across paper trying to make the numbers make sense and the far-off sounds of the cleaners in the hallway. That was until you could hear shoes on the flooring coming towards you.

“Querida, what are you doing here this late?”

“I could ask the same of you Agent Peña.” You replied, not looking up from the scrawls of numbers in front of you.

“I just came back after following up on something and Steve said you wouldn’t give the ambassador our intelligence today?”

“Ambassador Noonan is a busy woman, what do you want me to say?” You finally put your pen down to look at him, stood in front of your desk in his stupidly handsome leather jacket with his stupidly handsome hands on his stupidly handsome hips.

“Do you know how important that information is to catching Escobar?” He asked, his eyes boring holes into your own.

“And do you know how many people stand at my desk and insist their files are the most important thing she’s ever going to read in her life?” You countered.

You watched intently as he used one of his hands to pinch the bridge of his nose, you could tell he was thinking about what to say next.

“Listen, I know we’ve not always seen eye to eye,” He began, which earned a scoff from you as if to say no shit, “But this was really important.”

“Like I said to Steve, she’ll get it first thing in the morning.”

Without saying a word back to you, Javier turned on his heels and walked away to leave, before stopping to turn back and say two words you don’t think he’d ever said to you.

“Thank you.

***

Weeks had passed without incident. Javier and Steve hadn’t been around all that much – as far as you’d managed to find out they’d been in and out chasing up leads on Escobar out in the field. You hadn’t even bumped into Javier in the apartment building you all lived at. The only sign of life being the sounds of him and whatever woman he’d bought back that night. It was one of the only downsides to your living arrangement – living right next door to him and having to come up with inventive ways to get to sleep when all you could hear was another woman calling his name.

You’d worked late again. It was a Friday night and everyone else had left a while ago to the bar just around the corner from the embassy. Some of the girls had begged you to go with them but you wanted to get ahead of the ambassador’s schedule for next week, opting instead to spend your Friday pouring over briefing documents and getting everything in a row.

It probably hadn’t been wise considering there had been an increase in cartel violence on the streets – but you knew that the narcos were smarter than to try and attack the American embassy or anyone who they watched entering or leaving. As the clock struck nine you decided to call it a night. There was a long bath and a glass of wine with your name written all over it at home. Picking up your handbag and swapping your office heels for something more comfortable to walk home in you started making your way to your apartment.

You weren’t exactly sure when you became aware that someone was following behind you. You’d noticed the sound of feet on the pavement, but it was a Friday night so that wasn’t all that unusual. Something in your subconscious had told you to speed up a little and you’re sure it was when the footsteps behind you did the same that you began to panic a little. You were only a few blocks away from the apartment building. All you needed to do was make it there and you’d be safe.

The mysterious person behind you had other ideas. You were a street away from the building when you felt a tug on the strap of your handbag. It dragged you backwards and you came face to face with a man. He was much taller than you and had a heavy build. Your brain immediately deciding that fighting him off was impossible.

You tried in vain to drag your handbag from his hands, but his strength was obviously greater. You gave a good fight but suddenly felt a sharp sting across your face. Whoever this man was he’d just hit you. Hard. You could already feel the telltale slither of blood falling from your nose and the impact had caused a cut to your lip as well. The force was enough to make you let go of your handbag and you watched miserably as the man ran back off down the street with it.

You wished him luck – there was a tiny bit of money and the keys to your apartment door but not much else. You tried as hard as you could to stifle a laugh at the situation – a bloody nose, cut lip and judging by the ache behind your eye, a black eye, for a few pesos and a useless door key.

Thankful that you were just a few minutes’ walk away from your apartment you arrived, ready to down a glass of wine until your headache dulled before realise whoever that piece of shit was, he had your keys.

You groaned out loud, leaning yourself against your apartment door. Connie and Steve lived upstairs but it was late, and you had no intention of waking their new baby and invading their apartment. There was only one option. Javier.

You prayed to whichever God out there would listen as you knocked on his front door, hoping that had chosen the comfort of his own home and opposed to a brothel for the night. If he did, it was a lovely night on the floor for you.

It took a moment, but you could hear shuffling at the other side of the door before it swung open to reveal Javier, top buttons undone and without a belt on his jeans.

“Jesus Christ, Querida,” He exclaimed, taking in the sight of your face, bloody and already bruising, “What on earth happened?!”

“Some guy tried to take my bag as I was walking home, when I tried to fight it back from him he hit me,” You explained, “Stupid of me really considering he was at least twice my size.”

Javier ushered you inside, closing the door behind you before motioning for you to sit on his couch, “Was there anything important in there?”

“No, I don’t take papers home with me, just a few hundred pesos and my apartment keys.”

“Okay, that’s good, we can get you a new set keys in the morning,” He spoke over his shoulder as he rooted around in his freezer, “Does it hurt?”

“Are you seriously asking if my bloody nose, split lip and potential black eye hurts?” You shot back, deadpan as he wrapped some ice in a towel, “Yes, it fucking hurts Javier.”

“Alright, I’m sorry, just take this and rest it where it hurts.” He spoke, handing over the ice before heading back to the kitchen.

He returned with two glasses filled with amber liquid which you could only assume was whiskey and popped two pills next to the glass he set down for you, “You know you’re not supposed to take pills with alcohol right?” “Trust me, I’ve been doing it most of my life and I seem to be alright,” Was his response as he sat down in the chair away from you, “Both will help take the sting away, I promise.”

At this point you would do anything to get rid of the dull ache behind your eyeballs so, putting down the ice, you popped both pills on your tongue at the same time before draining the whole glass of whiskey in on go. When you opened your eyes, Javier’s were trained on you, staring.

“What?” You challenged, picking up the ice again, “Never seen a girl shoot a whiskey before?”

Without a word, he stood from the chair and took a few wide strides before he was on his knees on the floor in front of you.

“Let me see.” He all but demanded, moving your hand that was holding the ice to your swollen lip.

Once the ice had moved, he used his hand to lean your chin up so he could see your injuries better. Your breath and caught in your throat at him being so close to you. His eyes were pouring over your face as he turned you into the light to get a better look at each injury.

“Whilst he did a number on you, hermosa,” Javier spoke, “I don’t think you need stitches.”

“Thank the lord for small mercies.” You replied as Javier walked to the kitchen and retrieved the bottle of whiskey, stopping to pour a shot into your glass before doing the same to his own glass.

“Do you want to have a shower?” He asked, “You can get yourself clean and I’ll see if I’ve got some clothes you can wear for tonight.”

You gave a small smile, suddenly feeling quite helpless about the whole situation, “That would be nice Javi, thank you.”

***

The warm water of Javier’s shower did wonders for loosening the joints you hadn’t realized you’d tensed so much. Watching the blood from your nose wash down the drain was concerning, and you were sure the headache you had was getting worse, but you hoped the pills and the alcohol would do their job soon enough.

Once you were wrapped in a towel and stood in Javier’s bedroom, you couldn’t help but chuckle to yourself. He’d lain out a t-shirt and a pair of his boxers, the only clothes you think he could find that would fit you. Once you were dry and had slipped on the clothes you took a moment to gather yourself.

You wondered how many other women had been in this room, wearing his clothes. Granted, you doubted that very few of them, if any, had received a slap round the face in exchange for their bag, but there was a telltale pang of jealously that this felt like something he would do for every girl fresh out of his shower.

“Hermosa…” Javi dragged out of his mouth when he caught site of you leaving his room, before couching a little to cover up the obvious slip of the tongue he hadn’t meant to let leave his thoughts.

“Thank you, I feel much better now.” You replied, taking up your old seat on his couch.

“You shouldn’t be walking back this late on your own by the way.” He offered.

“It’s never been an issue before,” You spoke softly, taking a sip of your drink, “I know things are getting more dangerous, but it really is only a few streets, and I don’t drive.”

“Whenever you need to work late you tell me,” He ordered, “I’m usually always around and I’ll drive you back.” “I don’t need you to be my chauffer, Javier.” You snorted.

“I’m not asking to be your chauffer, querida, I’m asking to be your friend.”

An involuntary snort left your mouth when Javier spoke, “You don’t want to be my friend Javier, you hate me.” Was your response.

A sigh left Javier’s lips, “I don’t hate you querida,” His voice was low, “Quite the opposite actually.”

“What the hell are you talking about Peña?”

Another ragged sigh left his mouth as he pinched the bridge of his nose as if to collect his thoughts, “I like you, okay?” He looked you dead in the eyes, “I Like you very much.”

“But you don’t know anything about me, Javier?!” You exclaimed, not understanding how the man in front of you, who had been the cause of most of your problems since coming to Colombia, was admitting he liked you. This had to be a joke.

“I know enough to make my judgement, hermosa,” He replied, “I know that you’re one of the only women at the embassy who won’t stand for my shit, I know that you’re fiercely intelligent and that you’d do anything in your power to help those you care about, I know you’re from Texas and that tequila is what you like to drink on a Friday when you want to forget about your week. I know you call your family every Sunday and it’s the part of your week you look forward to the most because that’s what you always talk to the girls in the office about when Steve and I come for Monday briefing.”

As he trails off you sit on his couch dumbfounded. Javier Peña liked you. Maybe every time he’d tried to coax you into leaving the bar with him hadn’t been for just another conquest. Maybe when the girls in the office had told you he was flirting with you, it was because he was and not because he wanted you to slip his files to the top of the ambassador’s pile.

“Listen querida,” Javier spoke again, moving so you were caught in his eyeline, “I might not know everything about you, like your favourite colour or how you like your eggs cooked in the morning, but I know that you are the only woman in this godforsaken place that makes me feel anything.”

“It’s orange.” You spoke without thinking, looking him dead in the eye.

“Hmm?” “My favourite colour, it’s orange.”

Javier chuckled, pushing himself up from his seat to sit next to you on the couch, placing a hand lightly on your thigh, “Mine is blue.” He offered, causing you both to laugh at each other.

“Jesus Christ Javi, just kiss me already.”

He didn’t need telling twice. Aware of the injuries to your face, he used his hands to cup either side of your face before pressing a soft kiss to your lips, trying to avoid putting too much pressure on the swelling. He needn’t have worried because almost immediately you snaked a hand around the back of his neck and pulled him in closer, allowing your mouth to open slightly to him.

Javi immediately accepted the invitation of your open mouth, tentatively using it to tangle his tongue with your own as he deepened the kiss. The faint taste of blood in your mouth had him pulling back. You could tell he was searching your face for any signs of discomfort.

“Javi it’s fine, it’s a split lip, just…” You trailed off, pulling him back closer to you, “Don’t stop.”

Instead of latching himself back onto your mouth, Javier used his bodyweight to push you back so you were led on his couch with his body covering yours above you. One of his hands was placed next to your head to keep him held up above you, the other was resting at your hip as he looked down at you.

“You look lovely like this querida,” He breathed, “Trapped underneath me all breathless and wanting.”

“It’s not nice to tease, Peña.” Came your response as you bucked your hips towards him slightly, letting him know you needed him.

He smirked down at you before taking the assault of his mouth to your neck. He pressed open mouth kisses down your throat and along your collarbone as his hand slowly worked the hem of your shirt free from where you’d tucked it into your skirt before tracing his fingers up inside the material to rest just under the band of your bra.

A moan ripped from your throat as Javier bit down on the skin behind your ear, sucking gently but enough that you knew there would be a mark there in the morning.

“You like that huh?” He whispered into your ear, “You like it when I mark you?”

“Mmm Hmm.” Was all you could manage to get out as Javier continued to trail his mouth over your exposed skin.

“Words, Hermosa,” He stopped, lifting his head to look you in the eye, “Use them.”

“Ye…yes, I like it whe… when you mark me, Javi.” Came your strangled reply.

“I bet you do,” He rasped into your ear, “I bet if I slipped my hand into your panties you’d be wet for me, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes!” You called out without even thinking, “Oh my god Javi please take my clothes off and touch me.”

You almost expected Javier to tease you more at this point but instead, he pushed himself back so he was knelt between your thighs before making quick work on situating himself on the floor on his knees.

“Sit up for me hermosa.” He spoke, helping you to move yourself so your ass was only just hanging onto the edge of the couch with your back up against it.

Almost on instinct your spread your legs wide for him, watching as he bunched your skirt up against your waist, revealing the light grey cotton panties you’d thrown on this morning. If you’d known then that by the evening you’d be baring them to Javier’s face, you’d have picked something sexier.

You looked down at him between your thighs and saw his chest was heaving slightly with his heavy breathing, “What’s this?” He asked, before brushing his fingers over the material that was covering your core, “You’re soaking already, this little wet patch is giving you away.”

A light moan left your lips as his fingers moved from the wet patch at your entrance all the way up to where he could touch your clit. His touch was feather light but just like anything he’d done in the past few minutes it was lighting you on fire.

“I’m going to eat your pussy, darling girl,” He spoke, hooking his fingers around your panties to drag them off, “Is that okay?”

“Only if you’re good at it, Peña.” Came your response.

If he wanted to respond to your smart mouth he thought better of it. Pulling your panties all the way off and discarding them somewhere on the floor behind him before bringing his face as close to your pussy as he could get without touching you. He stayed like that for what felt like hours as he watched your wiggle your hips and move about to try and get his mouth to touch you.

When he finally did put his mouth to you it was like the universe exploded. He licked a single stripe from your entrance to your clit, using the tip of his tongue to tease the bundle of nerves before pulling away. A petulant whine left your mouth but Javier had waited a long time for this so it wasn’t long until his tongue was back to teasing your clit. He switched between light flicks of his tongue to enveloping your clit between his lips to suck on it. Within no time your hands were tangled in his hair and you were grinding your pussy into his mouth, begging him to make you cum.

“You want to cum, hermosa?” He asked, tearing himself away from your pussy, “You going to make a mess of my face?”

“Oh god,” You moaned, “Javi please, it’s too much.” You looked down and watched as he smirked at you before latching his mouth back around your clit. You’d never felt like this with anyone before, you could certainly understand why most of the girls in the office were obsessed with this man if this is what he could do to them in mere minutes. A flash of jealousy seeped into you which you tried to push to the back of your mind.

Suddenly you felt him push two fingers inside your aching pussy. Your felt him expertly curl them upwards, hitting a spot inside you that you weren’t aware could feel so good. Your hips began moving to meet the thrusts of his fingers inside you as his tongue continued teasing your clit. You could feel the telltale tightening in your abdomen and just silently prayed to god that he didn’t stop.

“I can feel you getting tighter around my fingers hermosa,” Javi groaned from your pussy, “I want you to cum for me.”

His words mixed with the assault of his fingers and mouth were all you needed at that point. Your thighs tightened around his face as you cried out his name whilst his mouth worked your through your orgasm.

Once Javi had worked you through most of the aftershocks of your orgasm he sat back on his heels to look at you.

“I don’t think anyone has made me cum like that,” You spoke breathlessly, “That was insane.” You took the time to look at Javi, from his place sat on the floor.

His mouth was glistening with your slick and the further you let your eye roam the better the view got, until your eyes settled on the prominent bulge at the front of his jeans.

“Looks like you’ve got a little problem there, agent.” You teased, pointing to him.

“Little?” He asked, raising an eyebrow, “You’re going to regret that.”

He stood, making light work of removing the belt that held his jeans up, “Turn around and lift your skirt up.” He ordered.

You did as you were told, draping the upper half of your body over the back of the couch, widening your legs so Javier had a view of your ass and your exposed pussy. You looked over your shoulder to find him fishing a condom out of his wallet before shedding himself of his jeans and boxers. Little had been as far from correct as you could have been. His cock was hard and you watched intently as he rolled the condom on swiftly. Your mouth watered at the thought of having him heavy in your mouth.

“Enjoying the show?” He asked as he moved behind you, letting two of his fingers dip into your pussy, “So wet for me hermosa, you ready for my cock?”

“Yes Javi,” You breathed, moving yourself back in an attempt to get him closer to you, “I want you to fill me up.”

“Whatever you want, darling girl.” Was his answer.

You felt him scoot up behind you, taking your hip in one of his hands, using the other to guide the head of his cock to your wet slit. The friction caused when he started pushing inside of your was delightful. He was big, the biggest you think you’d ever taken but the feeling of fullness was overwhelming.

You could hear soft grunts from behind you as he pushed himself all the way into you, stilling once he had bottomed out, “You okay?” He asked softly into your ear as the hand at your hip squeezed lightly.

“Fuck Javi,” You moaned, “You’re so fucking big, it feels so good.” “Yeah?” He asked, a slight chuckle to his voice, “You like my cock inside of you?”

“Uh huh.” You managed to drag out from your mouth as he slowly pulled out and thrust back into you.

The pace was slow to begin with, giving you a chance to get used to his size within you and half because Javier knew if he started his usual bruising pace with you, he would be done in mere seconds. God you felt good around him.

“Javi please,” You begged, “I need you to move.”

“You want me to fuck you?” He asked, pulling his cock almost all the way out of your pussy before stilling, “Needy little thing, begging for my cock like that.”

He wasn’t one to deny a lady what she wanted though so he set about giving you exactly what you wanted. Soon enough he was pounding into your pussy from behind. The strangled cries that he pulled from your lips were enough to let him know you were enjoying yourself – pair those sounds with the way your pussy was clenching around him every time he pushed himself into you and he was ready to come undone.

“You’re such a good girl for me aren’t you?” He cooed into your ear as the hand that wasn’t keeping him upright tangled in your hair, “Put your hand on your pussy baby,” He ordered, “Make yourself cum on my cock.”

You did as you were told, snaking one of your hands underneath your body. You used one of your fingers to circle your clit, the wetness dripping from your entrance enough to slicken you.

“That it’s baby,” Javier spoke in encouragement, “I can feel that pussy clenching around me, you going to cum for me?”

The entire thing was overwhelming – the filth falling from Javi’s mouth, the feeling of his cock filling you up and your fingers on your clit pushing you to the edge. Your second orgasm creeped up on you, falling over you in waves as you cried Javi’s name.

“God fucking dammit,” Came a voice from behind you, “Baby I’m going to cum.”

Words had failed you, but you moaned in approval, doing what you could to push your pussy further into Javi’s hips. A few more thrusts and he stilled within you, letting out a raged moan as his hand squeezed hard enough to bruise at your hips.

Javier stayed still for as long as he could, letting the two of you catch your breath for a moment before he pulled himself out of you. Without his body to keep you upright you collapsed into the couch, doing what you could to pull your skirt down so you weren’t bared to the room anymore.

Javi padded back into the room after disposing of the condom in his bathroom. He sat down on the couch, lifting your legs to rest against his thighs. He was still dressed in his shirt and had thrown on a fresh pair of boxers on his way back to you.

“Javi…” You spoke, drawing his attention to you.

“What is it, hermosa?”

“I think we skipped right past friends, don’t you?”

A laugh erupted from his mouth. You think it’s the first time you’ve seen him properly laugh and you like it.

“You mean your friends don’t eat your pussy and fuck you like that?” He asked, raising his eyebrows at you.

You let your hand swat his arm, “You know, I can’t say they do.”

His eyes darkened slightly as they looked at you, “Does that mean they don’t wrap you up in bed, let you sleep for a few hours and then wake you up to bury themselves inside of you?”

Your eyes widened at the insinuation. You’d assumed you’d spend the night sleeping on his couch until you could slip out and get your keys sorted.

“You want me to sleep in your bed?” “Hermosa….” He breathed, “We won’t be sleeping much at all.”

#javier pena #narcos #Pedro pascal #Javier pena smut #Javier pena fic #javier pena x reader #javier pena x female reader #javier pena x f!reader #javier pena x you #javier pena fanfiction #Javier pena Pedro pascal

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y-rhywbeth2 · 3 months

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Decided to go poking through the point and click dialogue files to look for Durge comments I haven't seen. Strangely I don't think this is all of them, because I have heard my Durge start hissing under his breath about screaming in a decidedly Durge fashion while in stealth, but I don't see it here.

*The ones with an asterisk are where I think it's Durge, but it might be one of the ones they share with Tav. They appear at the end of the sections, where Durge's lines go, but who knows: they aren't marked. Tav players feel free to let me know if your character has ever said any of this.

Reaching 0 HP: "Death is for other people."*

Harassing them by spamming their portrait: "I'm maiming as fast as I can!" "A thousand needlepricks in my rotten skull."

Combat turn start: "They're dying for me. All of them." "Behold the dance of death."

Stealth: "A knife in the dark."* "Time for bitter business the light would fear to shine on."*

Moving: "Walk in death." "Dream in red." "Pave my path with corpses. Build my castle with bones." "They should all be running." "Have I been this way before?"

Selecting them: "Mind never quiet." "I can do better. I must." "Where am I? What's going on?" "Still in control. Just." "Keep it together." "Father, they will die for you." "Everything is clear." "Nothing hurts anymore." "All is ash and meat!" "Intestines throb. Blood whispers." "Must lug my guts through this hell." "Wretched thing, pull yourself together." "How many die today? How many die tomorrow?"

Attacking, or casting an offensive spell: "Worship me, the prophet of the end!" "One down, millions live." "Father, are you watching?" "A beautiful death." "Kill! Kill! Kill again!" "Hee hee hee." "HAH! HAH! HAH!" "A fine day for murder!" "Bodies for the harvest!" "The butcher calls." "You will die for me, won't you?"

#Durge and their disassociation. Fugue states...?#I wonder how often that happens #“I'm maiming as fast as I can!” - apparently the Urge is Bhaal spamming their portrait #long post #/durge

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iheartyouyou · 8 months

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SWEETHEART | Jeremiah Fisher

Summary: After your parents file for a divorce, you’re forced to move in with your mom’s friend until the divorce is finalized. You wished you could stay with your dad and your friends, but when you meet Jeremiah Fisher, that changes. And now you’re wanting to stay in the Cousins. Too bad things don’t last forever.

Word Count:

Part: 8

previous part series masterlist

Authors Note: I don’t know why but I can’t tag some people even though I’m spelling their users right. I’m sorry for that, I have no idea how to fix it. Anyway, thank you for all the love and support from the other parts! <3 I also apologize for grammar or spelling mistakes, I tried to proofread but I’m not sure if I got everything.

You chug the rest of your beer, rolling your eyes at the obnoxious scene in front of you.

“Tell me more! Tell me more…” Jeremiah’s and Cam’s voice fades the more you walk away, turning the corner to find the nearest bathroom.

Noticing the long line that probably hasn’t moved in 10 minutes you make your way upstairs.

After your little pity party earlier, Conrad arrived. It was strange for him to be here since he’s been all “moody and quiet” as Belly would put it, but it made sense since Nicole was here.

“Hey, you see Jere anywhere?” He asks you, looking at you for split second before looking around the yard.

You cross your arms over your chest, “Probably in one of the rooms hooking up with someone.”

Conrad looks at you, an eyebrow raised in amusement. “That’s Jere. If you see him, can you tell him I’m staying the night here?”

You purse your lips, really wanting to be petty and say something along the lines of “oh he’s probably going to be staying the night at his one night stands place as well” but you decide against it.

“Sure.”

Conrad thanks you, entering the house.

Staring at the liquid inside of your red cup, you realize you shouldn’t be outside because you were avoiding Jeremiah and Taylor. You should go in there, make new friends and have fun.

You bounced your leg up and down, anxiously.

Screw it. You probably look like some weird loner out here. Even Conrad’s inside and he’s supposed to be the anti-social one.

And after many drinks and socializing with many people, you somehow ended up in the living room where karaoke was going on. Leaving almost immediately after Jeremiah and Cam started singing their hearts out.

You made no effort in trying to tell Jeremiah what Conrad said. You avoided him all night, the moment he walked in the same room, you walked out.

Placing your cup somewhere, which most likely will never be found, you make a beeline straight to the stairs.

You may have had a little too much to drink that night as it took all your strength to not eat shit on the stairs. Finally making it up there, you try every door only to be met by some random couple either in the midst of making out or ripping each others clothes off.

“Sorry.” You say loud enough for the third couple you walked in on to hear. You close the door, your eyes drifting to the last door at the end of the hallway.

Oh please be a couple free zone.

If not, you can just wait in line. Or find a bush outside.

You hold your breath as you peek your head in, grinning as there was no couple on the bed. Just a flower crown.

You walked in, slamming the door behind you and flinching hard when you heard the two gasps coming from beside you.

“Ew, what the hell you guys! You couldn’t have done that in the car?” You complain, throwing your flower crown next to Taylor’s that was on the bed.

Steven and Taylor were frozen in horror, staring at you with wide eyes.

You scrunch your face up in disgust, walking by them to get to the bathroom. “Wha—“

“Oh my god!” Belly shrieks, pointing at the two in disbelief.

Before Belly could even confront the two, Steven dashed out of there.

“Steven—“ Taylor starts, trying to grab his arm before he could leave but he already did.

“You’re hooking up with my brother?”

“I swear, It just happened!” Taylor excuses, shrugging as she look between you and Belly.

Belly makes a face, “Wha- What you got bored? He’s dating someone! You know, someone he actually likes.”

Taylor scoffs, pointing to herself. “You’re saying he couldn’t like someone like me?”

“No, no, that’s not what I’m saying—“

“Ohhh, shittt! Steven has a girlfriend!” You say out loud, finally putting two together.

Belly spins to look at you, her eyes narrowed. “What? Did you know? Jesus— how long have you guys been hooking up?”

“I just got here! Like a second before you, maybe half a second before you…” You say, starting to ramble before Belly cuts you off.

“This could get so messy, Steven, he’s taking her to the deb ball and all those girls are her friends!”

Taylor rolls her eyes, “Oh my god! I’m so sick of hearing about this fucking deb ball. I don’t even know who you are anymore.” Taylor looks her up and down, using her hands to elaborate.

“Why? Because I’m not just going along with everything you wanna do? Is that why you threw yourself at my brother? So, that… you can get back at me?”

“Y’know, you act so innocent Belly. Like you’re the victim.” Taylor hisses.

“Victim?” Belly repeats.

“I think you’re the self absorbed one, Belly. How do you not know I’ve had a crush on Steven for years. If you weren’t so obsessed with Conrad—“

“What is wrong with you? People are going to hear!”

“Who cares! There’s more than one story happening here but you seem to only care about the one where you’re the main character.”

There’s a pause before Belly excuses herself, rushing out of the room.

You stand there awkwardly, watching Taylor pace the room as she buries her face into her hands.

“Starting fights with everybody tonight, huh?” You sarcastically say, stopping when Taylor looks up to glare at you.

“Mind your own fucking business.” She snaps, snatching her flower crown off the bed before storming off.

You shrug to yourself, rushing to the bathroom.

“Okay but think about this… what if we are all dead but we just don’t know it? Like when we die, will we know when we are dead? Will it just be a void or what?” Your new friend slurs, explaining with his hands to prove a point.

You nod quickly, “That makes so much sense! I wonder if I’m dead.”

“I wonder if I am too.”

There was a pause before the two of you broke into fits of laughter, snorting and not giving a damn since pretty much everybody in this household was drunk.

“I wonder if vodka and apple juice taste good.” You ramble, putting your finger to your chin as if you were thinking.

Whatever his name is scoffs dramatically, shaking his head way too fast. He stops, looking like he was going to puke before going back to normal. “Y’know what’s good? The cherry mountain dew and vodka. That shit is chefs kiss. You ever see Gordon Ramsey?”

“Gordon Ramsey? Oh. my. gosh. Like JonBenét Ramsey?”

“No, that’s different. I’m talking about the old guy.”

You think for a moment, taking a sip of whatever you had in your cup before responding. “Oh the british guy.”

“I think he is! You know how to talk in a british accent?” He speaks in a accent, raising his eyebrows up and down.

You had no idea what his name was. But you bumped into him on accident and the two of you just started talking. Who would’ve known you guys would have a lot in common?

“Yes, hello sir.” You speak in a terrible accent that wasn’t even british, frowning as the guy broke into a laugh.

You flinch at the sudden weight around your shoulders, turning to look at the one and only, Jeremiah Fisher.

“Heyy look, it’s playboy!” You chirp, shrugging his arm off you.

Jeremiah ignores your comment, doing some dumb handshake with your new friend who now wasn’t your new friend because apparently he knew Jeremiah.

“Oh great.” You mumble, drinking the rest of your drink.

They make some small chat while you awkwardly stand there, swaying on your feet as you thought of ways to get out of there.

I’m gonna go use the bathroom!

I’m gonna go find a drink!

I’m out of here!

Adios!

“Oh right, I came over here to take this little fire cracker home.” Jeremiah announces, pinching one of your cheeks teasingly. You smack his hand away, glaring at him.

“Okay, I guess I’ll see you around then?” The guy asks, hopeful.

You smile, nodding. “Yeah.”

He scratches the back of his neck with his free hand, hesitating, “You, uh, you think I could get your number or something?”

Your eyes widen, your cheeks burning. Oh god, did he just ask you for your number? You heard that right? Right?

“Ye—“ You start, already searching your pockets for your phone before you get cut off.

“It’s actually been a crazy day, think we’re just gonna call it a night. Let’s go, Y/N.” Jeremiah states, staring at you expectantly.

You glare at him, sending an apologetic look to your new friend. “Whatever. See you around.” You managed to say before Jeremiah led you through the house and to his car.

Jeremiah opens the door to the backseat, impatiently waiting for you to get in.

You don’t. You just stand there.

“You couldn’t have waited till after I gave him my number? You’re such a cockblock.” You complain, looking back at the house.

Jeremiah rolls his eyes. “He’s a player anyways! You wouldn’t have been the only girl on his phone.”

You scoff, sarcastically smiling at him. “Says you!”

He groans, letting go of the door to rub the bridge of his nose. “Just get in the car, Y/N. I’m tired.”

“I’m tired.” You mock, begrudgingly getting into the car. You reach out to close the car door before Jeremiah could.

You look through the window and watch as he stood there for a moment, seemingly contemplating on something before walking back to the house.

You waited until you couldn’t see him anymore to kick the seat in front of you out of anger, which was barely a kick as your leg felt way too heavy to even move. Same thing with the rest of your body.

Stupid Jeremiah.

Always ruining everything. Ruined Belly’s dinner for you, ruined the party for you, what else is he going to ruin?

It’s funny how fast he changed from the moment you met him to now. When you first met him, it was like, it was too good to be true. He was practically a golden retriever just in human form. Everything about him was perfect, everything. His hair, his eyes, his lips, oh dammit, why didn’t you kiss those lips—

You stop, holding your breath in realization.

Did you have a crush on him?

Pfft, why would you, have a crush on Jeremiah Fisher?

But I mean, who wouldn’t?

No. Stop it.

The car door opens, making you jump.

Jeremiah tosses a napkin at you, “There. You happy?” He closes the door before you could even react.

You pick up the napkin, flipping it over to see the number written in pen ink. You feel guilty.

Both the driver and passenger doors open, causing your eyebrows to furrow. Isn’t Conrad staying the night? Didn’t Taylor leave with Cam and Belly?

“Taylor, you better not crash my car.” Jeremiah complains from the passenger seat.

God dammit.

“Relax, Jeremy. I’m actually a excellent driver. Plus, I’m not the one who chugged a beer in under a minute for what? 5 dollars?” Taylor giggles, starting the car. She moves her seat forward along with fixing the rearview mirror.

“Hey— it’s money. You would’ve done the same!” He says defensively.

You don’t bother with putting your seat belt on, too exhausted. Leaning your head against the door, you close your heavy eyes. Their argument fades into the background, your head pounding.

“THAT’S TOO CLOSE!” You jolt awake, scanning your surroundings before realizing you were still in the car. Jeremiah and Taylor still in the front seats, arguing.

You rub the side of your face that was against the car door, looking out the window to see that you guys were outside of the familiar beach house.

“Gosh, you’re so dramatic!” You hear Taylor say, putting the car in reverse before slamming on the breaks. The breaks sends you forward, not enough to hurt you but enough to fully wake you up.

“Excellent driver” my ass.

Jeremiah sarcastically groans, “I’m never letting you drive again.”

“Good! Your car smells anyway.” Was the last thing you heard before the two of them exited the vehicle, their argument being muffled.

You looked around the backseat, searching for your phone along with the napkin. You spot them on the floor, snatching the both of them and shoving the napkin in your pocket.

You squint your eyes as the light from your phone nearly blinded you, checking the time and missed messages from earlier.

Belly

Left early 11:25

Jeremiah said he would give you a ride 11:25

Perfect for some alone time if you know what I mean 😏 11:26

Oh yeah how should I ask Cam to the deb? Do you think he would want to go with me? 11:28

Smiling, you shake your head. You type out a quick response but before you could send it the car door opens, revealing Jeremiah.

He holds the door open, rubbing his eyes before motioning for you to come out. He holds out his hand. You take it, shoving your phone into your pocket.

Silently, he wraps his arm around your waist before closing the door. He helps you into the house, then up the stairs and to your bed room.

He finally let’s go, sitting you down on the bed.

Crouching down to your level, he scans your face. “Are you wearing makeup?”

You realize how close he is, your breath hitching. You looked into his eyes, those eyes, getting lost for a moment.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you nod.

“Where’s your makeup remover?”

You point to the vanity. He gets up, unzipping your makeup bag before he stops. He holds up wipes, “This?”

“Yeah.” You muster out. Your heartbeat quickens as he comes back, stopping to crouch in front of you.

You reach your hand out to grab the wipes but he stops you, grabbing your chin with his other hand and softly pressing the wipe to your face to get rid of the makeup.

Your cheeks heat up at the gesture, feeling the cold wipe on your face as you dropped your hand. He takes his time, making sure to get everywhere.

He tosses the wipes in the trash can, going back to his crouching position to take off your shoes. You don’t stop him, your whole body felt like it was burning. You’ve never felt like this.

It felt like you were going to explode. Or puke. You didn’t know if it was because there were too many butterflies in your stomach and they needed a way out or just the alcohol you had tonight.

“Your hands looks better.” He mumbles, grabbing your hand to examine it. He flips it over a few times before letting it.

You stare at your hand the bruises looking more of a yellow-greenish color, “It’s pretty sore though.”

“I’m surprised it didn’t break.”

“What, after you guys ditched me?”

He’s quiet, frowning. “I came back for you.”

“Pfft, because you knew your mom would kill you if you didn’t.” You say, dropping your hand into your lap.

“I came back for you, not because of my mom.” He affirms, making eye contact with you so you could know he was telling the truth. You break it, your cheeks feeling hot.

There was silence for a moment but he breaks it, suggesting that you should lay down. You agree laying down as he shimmies the comforter out from underneath you. He tucks you in and fixes your pillows, making sure you were comfortable before he wishes you goodnight, leaving.

“Jere?”

He stops, turning back around to look down at you in concern.

“You okay? You need anything?”

You shake your head, staring at him. “No… I just…”

You felt so weird. So tingly. You were exploding with so many different emotions. You’ve had crushes before, silly crushes… but this was different.

You wanted to tell him. But, was it too late? What if Taylor was right? Would he really just hook up with you to leave you the next day?

“Thanks.” You finally settle on saying, facing away from him. You bury your face into the covers, mentally cursing at yourself but also just wanting to sleep.

He doesn’t respond.

And before you know it, he’s gone.

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#tsitp x you #tsitp x reader #tsitp imagine #tsitp #the summer i turned pretty #jeremiah fisher fluff #jeremiah fisher #jeremiah fisher fanfic #jeremiah fisher x you #jeremiah fisher imagine #jeremiah fisher x reader #belly conklin #conrad fisher

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yurinaa-world · 5 months

Note

hello! dan heng, blade, jing yuan with a cat hybrid reader

they found the reader abandoned on some alleyway like a kitten, they have cat ears and a tail, but other than that they have human features

they like taking naps, being petted,climbing to high places

platonic thankwyouu

Characters: Dan Heng, Jing Yuan, and Blade platonic! x Gender-neutral Reader

Synopsis: with cat hybrid reader

Warnings: Fluff, spelling mistakes

𝒟𝒶𝓃 𝐻𝑒𝓃𝑔

Worries about you sleeping in the archive room since it’s a complete mess with books everywhere and his trashy 'bed', which would be akin to sleeping on the floor, but still falling asleep there? Even if he has a bit of a hard time going to sleep, you can sleep there seamlessly without a care in the world.

You want him to pet you all the time, stopping him from putting anything in the archive and just spending his time petting or brushing your ears or tail, the small sounds of purring coming from you. He’s awkward when it comes to doing this stuff for you; he doesn’t know if he’s petting you too roughly or not!

Tries to get off of high places. Yeah, you may be a hybrid, but you are still part human. Your body is mostly human and just has the tail and ears, and you have extra agility, but your feet won’t land like an actual cat would, so please get off that shelf and don’t bother trying to land on your feet; just jump into his arms.

𝒥𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒴𝓊𝒶𝓃

You just randomly show up at his office, having nothing to do, so he gives you things to sort out files and other things, but you always end up falling asleep. On top of the files, you look pretty cute just lying there, but you should wake up since your face will get numb and have a mark on it, and you’ll complain about it.

Pets you a lot, gives you a lot of attention as much as he gives to Mimi, and has you spend time with each other. Mimi treats you like its own kid, also petting your ears with its paw and licking your face or pressing the side of its face against yours—how adorable! At least you play together without any problems.

You shouldn’t be in trees; you shouldn’t be there; you might get hurt, and you don’t have one of the workers to yell at you to come back down, but you don’t seem to trust anyone but him, so he’ll get you down instead.

𝐵𝓁𝒶𝒹𝑒

Carries you back to your room whenever you fall asleep somewhere random; he just sighs, giving you a piggyback ride while going slow, making sure you don’t wake up, and trying to be gentle all at the same time.

“Blade, give me some attention!” You complain about taking his hand and putting it on your head, wanting him to pet your cat ears. He is such an attention hog, wanting all his attention on you, and sometimes he even pinches your ears in a mean way, making you whine! Why did he do that? Because he can.

Honestly, you're in a high place; it doesn’t matter to him. Do whatever you want; if you can get up there with ease, you can come down with no problem, but if you start asking him to help you, he won’t help unless you say please; if not, then too bad.

if you liked this, consider tipping me on ko-fi! it'd mean a lot!

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nexusnyx · 1 year

Note

OMG can I request a shuri x reader where reader gets hurt but refuses to worry shuri with it until one day it just gets unbearable. Idk I just nee dthe fluff fr

→ soft and sweet

⚠️ Mentions violence and injuries, no spoilers. | 🏷️Hurt/comfort, fluff. [2.9k]

"Should you be back in my lab so soon?"

Her voice makes everything still, and not even Ayo's eyes so firmly set on you matter. Every muscle in your body is frozen, as always.

"Your majesty," you nod, and watch as Shuri makes her way inside. "I'm sorry. I know you said don't be back so soon—"

"And yet, here you are," Shuri interrupts. In under five seconds inside the room, her presence has commanded everything—from your prognosis projected from your beads into thin air, to the aura of command that so far, belonged to Okoye sitting in the corner with her legs crossed. "What was it this time?"

"Reckless abandon and, what I suspect, the desire to see a certain—" Okoye starts, only to be interrupted by you.

"Improvements." Your heart rate betrays you in the back, but Shuri's eyes are on you. "Ayo mentioned improvements. I'm always curious."

"You don't have to be curious and injured to come here," Shuri shrugs. "You're the youngest Dora in training Okoye's ever recruited. I trust you not to break things or touch anything in the lab you shouldn't."

It's not the things I'm worried about.

"Let's take a look at you." Shuri's words make you nod, solemn and tongue-tied.

As straightforward as ever. Ayo clears her throat, and says, "As I was saying, Your Highness, our dear sunshine over there thinks she's still in the ballrooms sometimes."

"Ah," Okoye smacks her teeth. "You're just upset she injured herself after managing that move."

Ayo scoffs, turning around with her mouth wide open. "She almost stabbed Aneka."

"Almost being the keyword," Okoye retorts, sending you a smile that turns sour in two seconds. With her eyes set on you, her eyebrows pierce together. "Never do that again without telling me first that you'll be trying your... dance-y moves."

"Ah. So that's what it was?" Shuri asks, and you have to blink away from her eyes to be able to answer.

"Just trying out new things," you answer.

"Your 'new thing' made you dislocate your shoulder, clavicle and—Bast, how are you just sitting there?" she turns around sharply to the other Dora in the room. "How is she not knocked out in pain?"

"Drugged," both of them answer at the same time.

Your nod comes a beat too slow, and Shuri registers as she turns back to you.

"Yup." They definitely gave you something on the way in. "I am a-okay."

For the first time ever, you hear it.

Shuri laughs.

The sound freezes you again—it spells all the cells in your body, caught under an immediate trance. You only heard it before a couple of times, under different circumstances.

Under different times.

Times when Shuri was still Princess, and not Panther. Times when she had witty remarks, cheeky smiles, and middle fingers to offer to anyone willing and asking for it.

Bygones; or so you thought.

A quick, military sweep of the room — a surprising feat for your altered mind — shows you're not the only one surprised by the sudden burst of laughter.

Only two seconds of it, but the first one is enough to almost shock you back into sobriety, and the second has enough room for your heart to break. Ayo and Okoye share a look, and the amount of sadness that pours between pokes between your ribs.

Then, the laugh ends, and the moment was unfortunately too short for you to enjoy it.

"A-okay," Shuri mutters, chuckling. "You sounded like Ross for a second."

"The coloziner?" you shriek.

Shuri smiles at you, and damn it—"The one and only," she replies with a smirk. Her expert hand sends all your files flying, and she gestures for someone outside the room's glass walls. "I'm glad you're under medication already, 'cause I'm pretty sure this is about to hurt."

"Doras feel no pain," Okoye sneers.

Both you and Ayo nod in agreement. "No pain."

"Really?" One of Shuri's eyebrows goes up. "So if I do this—," she pokes the tip of her finger right against your clavicle and smiles when you wince. "Ah. I thought you felt no pain?" the sarcasm drips from her just like her damn clothes.

Why does she always look so good? "That was mean," you whisper. No whine comes out of you, because Okoye trained you better than that.

Shuri's smile widens as the doctor walks in, and she stands still in front of you for a moment. "Just a reminder that you're still human." Something else trembles beneath the surface of her words, and it compels you to look into her eyes. "One about to be part of the most well-trained and skilled army in the world, but a human, nonetheless. Please be more careful."

Please. The knot that grows in your throat out of nowhere is hard to swallow. "I will, my Queen."

"I saw you here not two weeks ago," she goes on. You can feel the doctor's hands starting to roam on your arms, and Ayo excuses herself with a quick 'we'll wait outside for you'. "I meant what I said. If you want to look at designs, just drop by."

"And bother you while you work?" you scoff in laughter. "I wouldn't dare to assume my time's that precious."

"Ouch," the thump of Shuri hitting both hands against her chest makes you look up—her hands placed over where her heart is, and her face set in a theatrical look of pain makes you feel so stupid and gone. You wanted her to smile like that all the time, preferably because of something you did or said. "And here I was, thinking my spar companion was at least a friend."

A friend.

You bite down on the cry of pain when the Doctor puts something back into place, and offer Shuri the best smile you can at the moment. "I was here thinking I was just the miserable, unlucky girl who Okoye wanted you to have as a punching bag."

Shuri cackles again. "Right. The prodigal punching bag who's been keeping me on my toes outside the suit, you mean?"

The lessons — twice a week, by the riverside, at dusk — are somewhat of a dream.

"How can I keep you on your toes if I don't end up here every now and then?" you gesture with your head around the lab, and Shuri's mirth is gone from her eyes.

"You're more creative than this," her tone is scolding. "Aneka took it easy on you. I don't want to see you coming back worse because you tried something on Ayo and she severed something that might never be replaced."

You nod at that. "I'll be more careful, your Highness."

Shuri opens and closes her mouth once, then nods at you. Whatever she wanted to say is left aside as she nods towards Vance, then leaves the room with Griot speaking on her shoulder.

You'll see her in two days.

It'll twist your insides as much as it does every time.

"Girl," Dr. Vance snorts, and you groan.

"Shut up."

"Good Bast, Shuri is blind."

The promise works, if only for a little while.

It's hard not hurting yourself when life does that by itself, so easily, and so often, too. It's hard to stay away from something that's a part of your road, and unfortunately for you and everyone around, bruises and aches were a part of you for as long as you were alive.

For a few weeks, the purples on your bodies and the grunts that come out of you come, for the most part, from your training sessions with her.

Black Panther.

Shuri is as deadly without the suit nowadays as she is with it, but as a woman of science, her training was nowhere as intense as a warrior.

You were training for six years before she took the mantle, and now, graduation is on the horizon.

"Eyes forward," Shuri whispers, right before she attacks.

The glint of purple and black paints your skies too, because of her.

It's so hard to focus when she smiles.

'Do not think I haven't noticed how poor your focus is when she's on-field, child.' Okoye, once reinstated as General, took you back under her personal wing. 'If that goes on, you will never graduate.'

It works, the slap on the face.

Fighting Shuri becomes easier once it's resignified to fighting for her, and the bruises come less often.

There's your graduation.

A whole new line of Dora Milajes—and you're one of the sixteen.

Shuri dances on the stones of the waterfall, and you think happiness is the only thing that looks more fitting than the mantle on her.

"Now I'll never see you around my lab again," Shuri jokes in the middle of the celebration party.

She found you with a drink in hand talking quietly with Nakia in a corner, speaking in hushed tones about trips around the world if you ever managed to take a vacation, and Nakie excused herself as soon as Shuri arrived.

It made you feel suffocated.

She had on traditional fighting clothes, and even the smooth, cold drink was going down in hard gulps. "Don't worry, I'll find a way."

"Yeah, it's called taking my invitation."

"I've been there," you argue with her, trying to fight a smile. "I went to see the new suits. And the improvements to the spear."

Shuri shakes her head. "Okoye's request."

"I went there two weeks ago to pick up the gadgets and stayed for hours. I'm pretty sure I got in the way of your work and made you arrive late for a UN meeting."

Shuri smiles as she shakes her head again. "The pick up was Ayo taking advantage of you. The meeting—," she tilts her neck. "I didn't want to go anyway. You just gave me a good excuse to show up fashionably late."

"I heard you made a scene."

"It's a thing we Wakandas too once outside our nation. You'll find out soon enough," she leans against the counter, and you almost take a step back because your brain alarms go off—

too close, too pretty, she smells so good, oh Bast please send me a light and I'll do all my morning prayers, I swear—

"'m not sure the General's keen on letting any of us new girls go out any time soon."

"I'll ask for my friend to be my escort as a personal favor, how about that?" Shuri wiggles one eyebrow.

Cool, you think. "I think you're above playing favorites," you chuckle.

"Then you don't know me very well," she whispers, smile turning into a grin. "See? That's why I'm bringing you along."

"We'll see about that, your Highness."

Being hurt is part of the job, but not a part Shuri is fond of, you discover.

Each time you shrug off the shrapnels of savages attacking your nation or the swollen bumps around your body, her face loses every inch of that easiness it had.

Shuri demands you to slow it down, to take it easier, to—"stop jumping head first in front of things! Are you out of your mind? You're not a human shield!"

To which Okoye fights back with, "My Queen, with all due respect, that is exactly our duty. To you, and to Wakanda. We are your defense. She was just doing her job this time and, doing it well, may I add."

"Her spear's not a shield, General. Something that, may I remind you, all of you have in your uniforms. Shields! So she doesn't end up like this!"

It's only when she raises her voice that you notice.

Shuri's chest panting.

"General—," you start, but as always, Okoye's a step ahead.

"Your Highness," her tone is gentle. It's the same tone you've heard her speaking with the kids, and sometimes, you. "I'll be back in an hour to check on her and my other two girls. And then we'll discuss the attack. Is that ok?"

"It is. You may go, General," Shuri nods to her.

And then, you two are alone.

And it hits you. "Panther," you whisper.

Shuri shakes her head, pacing around the room. "I'm thinking, give me a second." You doubt a single thought could be formed after the day you two had, but if one person in the world could have them, it'd be her. "It has the be something I'm missing—a breach, a—a bug. Something."

You see the way she rubs her hands together and try again. "Shuri."

After more than a year of working closely together, it's one of the few times you've used her name, and it works the same as the others:

Everything else stops, and Shuri turns to you.

Her posture relaxes as if someone pulled a pin.

"I'm sorry," you tell her. She's still in her Panther suit, and it's all you can get out. The lab is pitch black dark except for the glimmer of the machines that are turned on, and as she steps closer, you hear the stupid announcement of your vitals monitor alerting of your heartbeat rising, and shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

As blind as she can be, Shuri is not deaf.

"Why are you sorry?" she asks.

The sounds grow louder because she only stops when her legs touch the side of the bed, and you have nowhere to hide your nervousness. "I told you I'd be more careful and..."

"You weren't."

"No," you look away from the sewing pattern of the suit and try to find a thought that doesn't involve the way you can still feel the air humming around her. "And you seem... worried."

"Seem?"

It's like a hiss.

You look back at her, and Shuri runs one of her hands over her face.

She exhales loudly, and when her eyes find yours, your mouth runs dry.

"You jumped," she whispers at you—out loud, like a confession. As if you weren't there, and she somehow can't believe that. "Right in front of me."

You did, and you would again, and she knows that. You nod, unsure of what to answer, if you even could answer. Unsure if you would be able to no matter how much you wished to.

"Your eyes were on that thing, and I know you heard the drop, but..." there was no time for her to reach it. "I had to," you finish, and the little smile that forms on your face seems to do it for her.

Something snaps inside Shuri because her whole face loses its composure, and both of her hands come up to cup your face, alerting to what must be the entire building that you're on the cliff, hanging over and looking down at a heart attack.

"Never. Do that. Again." Her palms are sweaty on your cheeks. When she speaks, Shuri's bottom lip trembles, and all you can think is—

Oh.

I'm blind too.

"I have to," you repeat a little dumbly.

Shuri laughs, right in your face. It sounds like disbelief, and her hands grip you tighter, and you have to bite back a whine at how much you enjoy the force of that hold. "You're going to kill me if you do that again. Did you know that? Griot informed me. Griot said, 'My Queen, I'm obliged to inform that your heart has reached concerning rates', as if I didn't fucking know, as if—as if—," her chest moves up and down faster again, and you do something you never thought you'd have the guts to—

You hold her back.

It's surreal to feel the texture of the suit underneath your hands, but what's even crazier is the notion that she's under it.

"Breathe," you whisper to her.

"I can't—" she exhales shakily, and you plunge forward with your gut.

When her hands cupped your face, you tuned out everything around. The embarrassing heart rate, the machine noises; anything not Shuri didn't matter, and when her breathing comes out in raggedy tries, your lips reach forward before you realize what it is you're doing.

When you do realize it, both of you are caught under it.

It's a spell, you think.

Attraction. Love.

It's white noise and being submerged underwater all the same time—it's the feeling of her soft, delicate lips on yours, and the way you can feel her pulling in a deep breath before she whispers, "Bast..." and leans forward again.

Whatever it is that keeps you tied to her, you embrace it. Magnetism, gravity, electricity—it must be a little bit of each, all thrown into the bowl like the best recipe in the world, and the result is there,

on her lips, and the taste of her kiss.

Bast, indeed.

You'll never let go of the bruises if this is where they land you in.

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cameronspecial · 5 months

Text

Her Guardian And His Redemption

Pairing: Bodyguard!Drew Starkey x Reader

Warnings: Sexual Thoughts, Being Kidnapped, Someone Getting Killed.

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 6.7K

Summary: He was supposed to be there to protect her, but he wasn't. And then he made the biggest mistake of his life. How could he fix it?

A/N: This is Part 2 of Her Protector And His Hubris.

Masterlist

Francesca Chambers is not Y/N. It was painfully obvious to Drew as soon as he opened the file about her. Each page details a new fact that tells him he is going to hate working on this assignment. Francesca is the daughter of Senator Chambers and many of these sheets depict her run-ins with the media. One article on a meltdown about not getting the right colour car on her sixteenth birthday. One Reddit thread about a heated argument with someone just trying to do their job. One video of her attacking her friend because they were wearing the same outfit. He didn’t need to do any more research on her to know she was going to be a handful. She was nothing like Y/N and everything like his previous clients. Every single week there was a new party. A new incident. A new thing he had to cover up so he didn’t get in trouble with the senator. To make matters worse, Francesca seems to think that he should be completely infatuated with him because she is God’s gift to the world.

“Drewwww, I need your help,” she drawls out from the bathroom. He sighs and puts his book down. The paperback copy of East of Eden is worn out. The spine is cracking because of how many times he has read it and the cover is missing the corner, lost a long time ago. It is not as nice as the copy Y/N gave him, but he couldn’t bring himself to take it. He knew that every time he looked at it, it would remind him of the danger he put his love in. The cushion of the chair creaks under his weight as he rises from the chair. He makes his way upstairs and stands outside of the door. He wraps his knuckles against the dark wood, “What’s wrong?” “I need you to come inside,” she pleads.

“I don’t think it would be appropriate if I do so.”

“Please, Drew. It’s important. It is a matter of my safety.”

Knowing it could spell out a disaster if he doesn’t check on her safety after that, he enters her bedroom and then the bathroom. He finds her in the bathtub, covered in bubbles. “I need you to get me a towel,” she orders with a smile. He looks at her with tight lips, “That doesn’t concern your safety.” “Yes, it does! I could slip while going to get it,” she argues, batting her eyelashes at him. He doesn’t argue; it would go nowhere. He gets the towel for her, throwing it on the toilet before storming off to his room. This isn’t the first time she’ll pull this type of shit and it won’t be the last.

———

Drew would never admit that his feet are aching. He should be used to this much standing by now. Yet, every time he goes shopping with Francesca, time seems to slow down, causing the blood to pool his feet. He isn’t one to be bashful and he isn’t with Y/N, but without Y/N around, he doesn’t know where to look. Especially because of the store they are in right now. The lacey materials all around the store fill his imagination with thoughts of her. Every garment he sees, he pictures her and all the naughty things he wants to do to her. “I want to try these on,” he overhears Francesca's demand to the sales associate. The other woman puts on a fake grin, “Of course, Miss. All of our changing rooms are currently in use at the moment, but I could make sure you get the next available one. Do you want to keep browsing and I’ll come to get you when it is ready?” Francescar’s eyes narrow and her lips pucker. Drew prepares himself for the hail storm that is about to occur, pretending to survey the store for threats. Although, he probably entered the store with the biggest one. “Excuse me! Do you know who I am? My father is a senator and one for call to him can have you fired,” she screeches, pointing an accusing finger at the employee.

The blood drains from the associate's face, “I’ll see what I can do.” “Good,” his client’s words chase after the scurrying worker. “Can you believe some people?” she mumbles under her breath. Drew gives her a disapproving look, “You were rude to her.” “No, I wasn’t. I was just reminding her of her place,” she retorts. He rolls his eyes, nothing can get through to her. They are soon rushed to the changing rooms and Drew stands at the entrance. Francesca goes into the changing room, coming back out soon after in the first lingerie set. It’s a pastel green set that goes with her olive eyes. Drew can see her vying for her attention out of the corner of his eyes, yet his focus is on something outside of the changing room. It is a pastel pink slip dress. Flower lace covers the breasts and also forms two slits at the bottom of her dress on the sides.

An image pops into his mind. The woman he loves standing in a doorway adorned by pink and flowers. He waits patiently for her to saunter over to him with her arms swinging at her side. She would straddle his hips, sitting back on his thighs. Her finger would raise and curl to beckon him forward. His hands find her thighs, pressing her closer to his crotch. He brings his lips closer to her and captures the beautiful petals. “I love you,” he promises to her. “Drew, you aren’t looking at me.” Francesca snaps him out of his fantasy. Irritation seeps out of him, “That’s because my job is to identify threats in our environment and I can’t do that if I’m looking at you.” He doesn’t glance over at her; instead, he continues to search the store for possible threats. She huffs at the lack of attention, “You are such a buzzkill.” She goes back into the changing room, leaving him to wish he could really say those things to his precious.

———

James Notting isn’t Drew. It was obvious to Y/N that he was a good bodyguard. Except he would never make her feel the way that Drew can make her feel. She knows she is safe with James; it doesn’t feel the same way as when she is with Drew. Drew’s protection made her feel warm. With Drew, it didn’t feel like an obligation. It feels like his life mission to keep her safe. He wasn’t doing it for the money. He was doing it because he truly cared for her on a personal level. She doesn’t blame James for not being Drew; she has a hole inside of her heart James can’t fill. She finishes packing up her work to bring home and heads to the elevator with James following behind her. He opens the car door for her once they get to her car. As she ducks to get into the car, she has to move her right shoulder, which causes an ache to shoot through it. Her hand reaches for her healing wound and this only causes more pain. “Are you okay?” James worries. She nods and continues to sit in her seat.

The car ride to her apartment is quiet. The only sound is the music playing from her playlist. When they get home, Alice is already making dinner in the kitchen. The aroma of the frying chicken instantly hit her nose. She greets Alice with a smile and makes her way into her office to put her work away. She is about to head back downstairs to talk to Alice when a cardboard box catches her eye. She should’ve brought that to the security firm a long time ago. Y/N holds in a breath as her feet drag across the hardwood floor towards it. Her hands shake while reaching for the lid to take it off.

Versace and cigarettes. It surrounds her in its embrace. She immediately regrets opening it and wants to put the lid back on; nevertheless, the items inside draw her in like a siren song. She picks up the item on top. The custom copy of East of Eden she had made for him. Realizing he left it behind hurt her more than she could ever know. She was so proud of herself for thinking of the gift. Every time she found him reading it, a small spark would shock through her heart. To her, the book was a symbol of her love for him and he left it behind as he left her. The next thing she finds is his WCU shirt. He probably forgot it was in her drawers because it became her sleep shirt after the first night they made love. She used to make him wear it for a day whenever it would stop smelling like him, making him laugh with the way she would beg him to put it on right at that second. A coil wraps around her heart and tightens until it squeezes tears out of her. She brings it to her nose like she did on that fateful night, breathing in all the memories she had with him. The late mornings in bed she would spend with that shirt on. He would play with the hem of it while he guided her cooking from over her shoulder. The way he would go crazy to bring her pleasure with it on.

A polaroid is the final thing she can bring herself to pick out. The sunlight from the apartment window gave her an ethereal look. She was focused on the art book in front of her, sketching an outfit for her upcoming fashion show. He brought the Polaroid camera to his eyes and called out her nickname. It caused a smile to bloom across her, which was the moment he captured forever. The photo was printed out and he wrote My Precious in the blank area with a heart at the end. She watched as he put the photo in his wallet. “So I can have you wherever I go,” he said to her, kissing the photo and then her. Of course, like it always did, the kiss turned into passionate sex. Y/N guesses he doesn’t want her wherever he is now.

———

After dinner, Y/N goes into her study to finish up her work. Her eyes double-check the guest list for her fast-approaching event. “James, I have the list for you to look over,” she informs the man somewhere in the apartment. He stoically enters the office and takes the list from her. He closes the door behind him, walking to his room. The sofa chair creaks as he sits to look over the names. He is looking over the possible guests to get a sense of what to expect and to flag any potential threats that she needs to change out. Most of the people are her usual ones until he meets one that causes him to freeze. Francesca Chambers. Shit. She probably invited the senator’s daughter because the girl is known to throw tantrums when not invited to exclusive events. Y/N never would have done it if she knew Drew was Ms. Chambers’ bodyguard. James could tell her that fact, but he won’t. Drew made a mistake and James wants to help him fix it.

———

When the invitation came in the mail, Drew started to buzz with anticipation of seeing her again. He has seen her on social media, but it could never be the same as seeing her in person. It could never beat being able to reach out and feel her warm, smooth skin. Tonight’s event is raising money for the foster system. It would go towards group housing for kids who can’t stay in a foster home, food, and items. Another very important fact that Y/N wants to emphasize is getting children in the foster care system actual bags for their things. He remembers the day she had decided this would be her next fashion event all those months ago. She had watched an Instagram reel of a foster mother and one of the details that stood out was the fact that the children the mother was newly fostering had their personal belongings in a garbage bag. Her heart broke for the children who were already going through a hard time. She wanted to give them the dignity of their stuff being regarded as special. He had to comfort her as she cried for the kids in the foster system. He loves that she always brings her plans into reality.

During the fashion show, he stands at the back of the room, searching for anyone he needs to neutralize. Every outfit is absolutely stunning and pride fills him up. He wishes he could’ve been there to watch her create such beauties. The end of the show is nearing when Francesca has to go to the bathroom. Like a good bodyguard, he follows her and waits outside of the room. He can still hear the noises coming from down the hall. His foot impatiently taps against the floor. Francesca is taking forever. The music starts to fade out and is replaced by a familiar voice. “Hello, thank you for coming to support the event. There are around three hundred ninety-one thousand children in the foster care system. Now, that may not seem like a lot to you. But that doesn’t mean that they don’t deserve better…”

Her voice starts to fade from his ears as he begs the universe to make his client leave the bathroom so that they can make it back for the end of Y/N’s speech. The universe doesn’t answer. Instead, Francesca takes ten more minutes in the bathroom and he discreetly rushes her back to where everyone is. It was too late. No one stands on the stage anymore and everyone is already moving on to where the cocktail party is being held. Francesca picks up her purse from her chair and they head over to the next room. His eyes scan the room, looking for the one person who could make him feel at home even though he is so far from where he grew up. He had been trained for this moment, so he could easily find her. He is too far away to hear the laughter that falls from her lips. Her head is thrown back in delight and he desires to be by her side, whispering how magnificent she has done. How noble this event is. How proud her mother would be of her. He knows those are the words she is dying to hear. Fear floods through him. There are so many people in this room, right now. And while he does trust James to protect his precious, big events like these can be hard to navigate with no help.

Francesca hates charity. Why should she care about people below her? The only reason she is at this event is because she has to see the girl, who has such a strong hold on Drew. No matter how stupid Drew thinks she is, she knows he is in love with Y/N Y/L/N. She has seen the articles around the pair and Francesca wants that love for herself. Even now, she can see the way he looks out for Y/N and jealousy toils in her stomach. She needs his attention on her. She struts over to him and places her hand on his chest. “I really like this suit on you, Drew. You fill it out amazingly,” she flirts, running her hand up and down his pectoral muscle. To her surprise, he doesn’t shove her hands off of her. She takes this as an invitation to continue even if his awareness isn’t on her. Satisfaction comes to her when she catches Y/N’s envious gaze.

How dare he? Y/N and Drew had to keep their relationship a secret, yet it was okay for him to be public about his relationship with a senator’s child. Francesca is a more public figure than Y/N. It made no sense. They both had agreed to keep them on the down low, so she doesn’t understand why this bothers her. Francesca leans in to whisper something in Drew’s ears and he doesn’t react. Y/N is familiar with Drew’s composed demeanour. What kills her even more? Drew is letting Francesca touch him at her event. He broke her heart and now, he was breaking it all over again by flaunting his relationship with another girl. He can’t be clueless about who is hosting the show. Y/N never thought that Drew would go for someone so spoiled and rude. Maybe she doesn’t know him at all. She turns back to Jackie and distracts herself with the other woman’s story about a fashion malfunction.

Drew hates the feel of Francesca’s hands on him; however, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that Y/N is safe. That her surroundings aren’t putting her in danger. Like he should’ve done the last time he worked for her. His vision falls on her again. This time, he examines her in full glory. Her red dress helps her stand out against the crowd. It only has one strap that rests on the side of her left shoulder. This leaves the still-healing bullet wound out for anyone to see. The skin where the scar is is taught, puckering in redness. He hopes she is taking care of it and that it is healing fully. If his self-confidence didn’t get in his way, then he would’ve been there to help her do all that stuff. He can make amend with that part of himself by keeping her safe tonight. He spends the rest of the night ignoring his job and fulfilling his life mission.

———

She gets home around one in the morning. Her feet aching from the night spent in heels and her hair giving her a headache from how tight it is. She stumbles to her bedroom, ridding herself of her clothes. She turns on the shower and gets to work on taking her hair down. Once steam starts to fill the room, she checks the temperature of the water to find it is perfect. The warmth of the water causes her to let her emotions out. She can’t distinguish between her tears and the water from the shower head. It makes no difference to her. Memories from the night pass through her brain. The way Francesca would cling to Drew’s suit. The way he wouldn’t even look in her direction. The way that watching him with another girl made her feel like she lost him all over again. To make it worse, every single moment she had with him made an appearance. It feels like every single emotion she has been trying to avoid comes crashing down on her at once.

Her shower ends about half an hour later and she may be tired, except she needs to complete her daily ritual. She gets her ice cream out of the freezer and plops down on the couch. The Office’s theme song starts to play on her TV. The ice cream helps fill the ache in her heart and lulls her to sleep, causing the ice cream to melt as she slumbers.

———

It has been about a month since Y/N’s last event and the exes haven’t seen each other since. In that month, Drew realized he lost his social security card. He couldn’t get a new one yet because his birth certificate was missing too. His brain wracks through the last time he remembers seeing it and bites his lip when he realizes where it is. He left it in Y/N’s filing cabinet. She had insisted he put all his important documents there for safekeeping. His social security card must be there too. This is how he finds himself waiting at the concierge desk of her building. He no longer had access to her apartment without going through security protocols. “Hello, Ms. Y/L/N. There is a Mr. Starkey here. He says that he needs to retrieve a birth certificate and social security card from your residence,” he listens to the concierge call Y/N. The man behind the desk places the phone on the receiver and turns to Drew, “She says you can go up.”

He listens to the elevator music, tugging on his flannel’s sleeves with nerves. He doesn’t know what to expect with being so close to her again. The front door is already open once he gets to her floor. His feet glide against the tile of the floor, scarping a little against it. Y/N is waiting for him at the door. “Where are the documents?” she asks. He gives her a soft smile, “I forgot them in your filing cabinet.” Her slippered feet slap against the hardwood floor as she walks to her home office. Drew removes his shoes and follows her. He catches up to her to see she is already getting out his files from the cabinet. He holds his hand out to take them, only for her to throw them carelessly onto her desk. She doesn’t wait for him to take it for her to quickly leave her office.

He runs after her, not ready to let this conversation come to an end. “Your charity event last month was amazing,” he applauds. She doesn’t look over her shoulder whilst she boils some water for tea, “Really? I didn’t think you had noticed with Ms. Chambers on your arm.” “Am I detecting jealousy?” he kids, hoping it would relieve some of her tension. “Jealous of Francesca Chambers?” Y/N laughs. “Why? Because she gets my sloppy leftovers. Because she is dating someone who promised to protect me, but is the reason why I got shot.” It was cruel to use Drew’s lowest point in life and to pit it against him. She doesn’t care. She needs him to hurt more than she does right now. She can’t stand to be in his presence. Drew’s heart bleeds with pain and it takes everything in him not to start crying at that instant. His insecurity starts to make itself known again. The constant belief of being at fault for his precious almost dying plagues his mind. He deserves this pain. It’s only half of what he deserves. “I never wanted you to get hurt. You know that right?” he justifies, stepping forward only for her to step back.

“Well, I did get hurt, Drew. You couldn’t protect me and I almost died. It was all your fault,” she screams. “Leave. I want you to go, now!” He tries to argue. “Precious, please. I need to hear you say that you know I didn’t want you to get hurt,” he pleads. No matter how irrational, he needs confirmation that she trusts him. That she did believe he would do whatever it took to keep her safe. She needs his anguish to subdue hers. “Please, Precious. Tell me that you believe me.” She breathes out a low chuckle, “Why would I say that? It. Was. Your. Fault.” Words can’t explain the feeling in his heart. The acid of her word burns his heart so it disintegrates. The one thing left behind is the carving of her name, waiting to be filled by her love again.

———

There were three places where James didn’t need to follow Y/N to every room she went. Her apartment. Her father’s house. And her office. At her apartment and dad’s place, James needed to remain on the premises and ready to be at her side. In her office, he could remain in front of her office as long as he checked in with her every hour. An hour isn’t very long; however, it is long enough for Y/N to disappear. “I’m just going to meeting room five-sixty. It’s supposed to be a two-hour meeting,” she fills him in. He bobs his head, “Got it. I’ll check in on you in an hour.” With her notebooks and laptop in her arms, she heads toward the elevator and presses the down button. Being on the twentieth floor meant that she had a long wait down to the fifth floor. On her ride down, people went on and off without her attention because she was absorbed by her phone. She should’ve been watching her environment. Drew used to drill into her brain how important it was to do so if she was alone. It must have slipped her mind.

By the time an unsettling feeling overcame her, it was too late. Her eyes glance up from her phone and she twists to the other person in the elevator. Ahead of her recognition of the figure beside her, a white cloth smothers her mouth and nose, causing her to inhale the fumes. It has a hint of sweetness combined with the familiar scent of nail polish remover. Her orbits start to droop and she is pulled into unconsciousness.

———

She wakes up cuffed to a chair. Her hands and feet are both restrained and she tries to break the chair. A shooting pain goes up her butt while the sound of metal hitting concrete reverberates through the cold cement room. Shit, it’s a metal chair. She doesn’t bother to shriek for help. There is no point in wasting her energy. She tries to think of how to dislocate her thumb to escape the cuffs. It doesn’t come to her. The door in front of her opens with a squeal and her kidnapper makes herself known. Sienna Cox is a carbon copy of her brother. Y/N recognizes Sienna from the pictures Sean showed her during their three dates. The dangerous woman approaches Y/N with a knife in her hand. She circles the chair, letting metal glide against metal. Y/N flinches as the sharp point greets her soft skin. “You are the reason my brother is in jail,” Sienna states, hate dripping from each word. Y/N is never one to back down, “Actually, I’m pretty sure it’s because your brother tried to kill my then-boyfriend, which got me shot. Your brother almost killed me.”

Sienna’s hand harshly tugs back Y/N’s head and the point of the knife connects with her neck. Y/N tries to remove Sienna’s hold, which produces a crimson knick on the side of her neck. “No, my brother is in jail because you had to choose a low-life bodyguard over him,” she growls. Y/N provokes Sienna more, “Hmm, nope. Your brother being an ass and delusional is the reason why he is in jail.” “Ugh, shut up,” Sienna yells, pulling pain from the incapacitated girl by slashing her forearm. Blood oozes from the cut and she can tell it is going to need stitches. She cries out in pain, starting to truly feel her life is in danger. Earlier, she didn’t think Sienna was capable of hurting her. How could she be so stupid?

———

Drew previously thought the day Y/N got shot was the most terrible day of his life. He was wrong. The ringing of his phone stops him from doing his job. He should be watching Francesca at the mall. The phone call prohibits him from doing it. The sole thing more important than James’ call would be Y/N’s. “She has been taken.” No greetings. No pleasantries. No small talk. Those didn’t matter though. Y/N was in danger. Drew doesn’t think about his client and runs to the car. “I want you to pull all the security footage from wherever you are. Comb it for the last seen citing of her,” he instructs. “Get background checks on everyone, and I mean everyone, who has been in the same vicinity as the place where she last was seen in within the last thirty minutes of her being there. Where are you?”

“Her office. She went down to the fifth floor for her meeting. She never got there.”

“Okay, I’ll be there soon. Start with the hallway footage for both the twentieth and fifth floors as well as the elevators. Have a secondary team look through all other footage.”

“Got it.”

He blows through every single stoplight. He’ll deal with this later. James meets Drew at the door and gives him an update on what they found so far. “We know she was taken from the elevator, except we can’t identify the person who took her because a hat is obstructing her face,” James notifies. Drew looks shocked, “How do you know it was a female?” All the women, who don’t like Y/N, never registered as a peril to him. They weren’t the type to get their hands dirty with physical harm. “Height and body shape. We are going through the women who checked in to match outfits with the pictures they took when they checked in,” James clarifies. His brain processes everything, “You probably aren’t going to find her at the check-in. Get the tech geeks to program the computers to extract all the footage with similar clothes to the suspect. I’ll go through all of it myself. I want it done in the next five minutes.”

Y/N’s office is eerily cold without her brilliant smile to light it up. His hand traces against the glass desk's smooth surface. He should’ve been here to stop her from being taken. It’s happening all over again. This could be his chance. He could halt her from being hurt. From nearing the brink of death again. This time, he is going to be there to be the one to protect her. His vows to himself are interrupted by James. “They got what you want.” Drew jogs after James to the emergency base camp for the search. “Show me what you got,” he orders. He inspects the screens simultaneously and finds what he needs. He knows her from the background research he did on her brother. Sienna Cox.

———

Honestly, Y/N would’ve done anything to get away from Sienna. Her villain monologue is a horrible torture method. At least she is too distracted to use the knife more on Y/N. “And when I visit him in jail, they take my phone away. Do you know how hard it is to not be able to use my phone for an hour?” Sienna complains, twirling the knife in her hand. Y/N fights the urge to make a snarky remark. The ruckus from upstairs freezes both girls. “Ugh, what could that be?” Sienna groans, leaving the room.

Drew wanted Sienna to know they were there. It would make it more fun for him and the group. The narrow hallway means Y/N can merely be in one direction. I’m coming for you, Precious. He thinks to himself. Sienna rounds the corner of the doorway and halts at the guns trained on her. She changes course back to where she came from. The rescue team runs after her to find her with a knife against Y/N’s neck. “Take one more step and this Bitch gets a new necklace. A deadly one,” Sienna warns, digging the knife in harder. A sob racks through Y/N’s body until she spots Drew in front of her. A silent connection transcends them with their eyes locked on each other. She didn’t mean those words and she trusts him. On the way over here, Drew found out everything about Sean’s sister and what buttons of hers to push. “Okay. I just wanted to let you know that James over here loves your podcast,” Drew plays into her ego. He discovered if there was one thing Sienna loved more than her brother, it was herself.

Unfortunately, she doesn’t buy his bait and the knife bites more into Y/N’s neck so that blood flourishes around it. Y/N whimpers at the new pressure on her. “You think that you can flatter me into letting your precious Y/N go? Well, you can’t! You guys are the reason why my brother is in jail and I’m going to stop her from testifying against him,” Sienna screeches. Her arm raises in the air with the knife, ready to bring it back down into Y/N. Drew has killed before, but this is personal. He can’t let fear come in the way of what he has to do and he prays that Y/N has the sense to stay still. His gun aligns with Sienna’s head, taking the shot. A coined-size hole punctures her head and blood spews out of the wound. Y/N shouts as red rain showers her. “Get me out of here, please,” she implores, struggling against her restraints. Drew motions with his head to tell James to take care of Sienna whilst he helps Y/N. He hurries towards her, pulling out a tissue from his pocket.

One hand smoothes back her hair and the other wipes the blood off with the tissue. “Drew, you’re here,” she sobs out, reaching for him with her seized hands. Red swelts are starting to form around her wrist and Drew wishes he could kill Sienna a second time. He gently pushes her hand against the metal armrests, “Of course, I am, Precious. But I need you to give me a second, okay? I’m going to get bolt cutters to get you out of here.” Her pleas end his movement. “Don’t leave me, please. I don’t want to be alone.” He nods at her need and wraps his arms around her shoulder. His lips press against her temple, “Never. I’ll never leave you.” He calls out for some bolt cutters and a few minutes later he is given some. “Okay, Precious. I’m going to cut the cuffs off with these. It might be a little loud,” he briefs her. He snips the bracelets around her wrists and ankles. She is finally able to move freely, bringing Drew as close as possible to her. “I was so scared. I thought I was going to die,” she confesses, gripping to him like he is a life raft. He flattens her hair some more, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you. She can’t hurt you anymore.”

“Y/N,” a familiar voice hails. She untangles herself from Drew’s hold, tearing his heart apart at the loss of contact. Her father grasps her in his arms. The father-daughter duo cling to each other, weeping at the fear of her being lost. Drew did what he came to do and it seems like he isn’t needed anymore. With his vision trained on the pair, he exits the damp cellar and goes home.

———

Saving her proved to him how much of a mistake breaking up with her in the first place was. Simply apologizing to her isn’t what she deserves for what he did. He could make a big grand gesture to show how wrong he was. Pay for a skywriter. Organize a flash mob at her favourite places. Rent a billboard at Time Square. Those weren’t right for Y/N though. They weren’t personal to her; nonetheless, Drew knew the perfect thing for her.

———

It’s been a week since Y/N was held captive for about three hours. She has already found a therapist, who has been helping her through her trauma. One thing has been killing her since that day and it’s the fact that she didn’t get to say thank you to Drew for saving her. She was horrid to him when he came to get his documents and she completely picked at his insecurities. Even with her behaviour towards him, he was there for her in her greatest moment of need. To add the cherry on top of the cake, he quit his job at the security agency because of her. He was going to get a suspension for leaving Francesca at the mall, so he decided to quit instead. James reassured her that Drew had enough money saved up to be out of work for at least ten years, which eased some of her worries. She glances at James standing behind her and she brings her hand up to knock on the door.

Drew opens the door with a measuring tape around his neck. A dazzling smile crosses her face and her eyebrows form a hairy caterpillar. “Precious, are you okay?” he frets, examining every inch of her to make sure she has no additional injuries. She nods and spots the sewing machine behind him on his table. The sage green fabric is snagged between the sewing needle and the base of the machine. She shakes out of her confusion to verbally answer him, “Yeah, I’m fine. I actually came to say thank you. You know… for last week. You don’t know how much it meant for me that you were there.” She fiddles with her fingers and his hand cups his neck as he rubs it. “You don’t have to thank me, Precious. I know I hurt you, but I will always be there to save you. I’m glad you are safe,” he appeases. She disagrees, “No, I was so rude to you. You didn’t deserve it. I hurt you and you put it aside to help me, like what I should’ve done that day.” He doesn’t need her to tell him what day she is talking about. He already knows.

Silence overcomes the couple and Y/N is again drawn to the equipment behind him. Her finger points at everything, “What’s all of this?” “Oh, um,” the hand on his neck continues its friction of the skin. “I’m trying to sew you a jacket.” One corner of her mouth raises, “You are making me a jacket?”

“Yeah… I made a mistake and I needed to show you how much I love you, so I wanted to make you a jacket that says, Precious.”

Her heart skips a beat and the idea of him learning to sew just for her makes her feel honoured. “That’s really sweet, Drew.”

“Can I tell you something?” he asks. This is his opportunity to tell her who she is to him. Her head hinges up and down. His hand laces with hers and he pulls her into this apartment. He closes the door, “I called you precious because even before we started dating, I knew you would be a treasure to me. It was an instant connection for me and I was a fool to have let you go. I understand if you don’t want to forgive me now. I just need you to know all this.” Her hand reaches up to his chest, grazing it softly with her warmth. “You broke up with me and I didn’t think I could ever forgive you. But you were there when I needed you and with the jacket, I can see how remorseful you are about the decision you made. I’ve made some poor choices too. And if you can forgive me too, then I think we both deserve a second chance,” she admits, not being able to meet his eyes. His finger raises her chin, “I will always forgive you because there is no one else in this world that I was meant to protect more than you. A second chance is all we are going to need. I’m never letting you go.” She jumps into his hold, smushing her lips onto his. His hands grip her thighs to keep her steady and his tongue enters her mouth.

Air eventually needs to enter their lungs, so they break apart with their foreheads together. He sneaks a peek at the fabric on the table and he sighs. “I know I’m supposed to be making it for you, but I’m going to need your help with the jacket. I screwed up somewhere and I have no idea how to fix it,” he fesses up. She giggles, “I can do that, except not right now. There is something else we need to be doing other than sewing.” He grins at the way her eyebrows move and he carries her to his bedroom.

A few months ago, Drew had made the biggest regret of his life. All he saw was his faults and it led him to that decision. Thankfully, the universe saw his pain and decided to help him out. It gave him a chance to prove to himself he was worthy. It gave him his redemption.

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