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angelisverba · 4 years

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thinkin’ bout you

in which harry owns a flower shop and has a major crush on a girl who comes in to buy flowers every once in a while (and he’s too shy to ask for her number)

word count: 17.3k

paring: florist!h and y/n

warnings: just some pinning and lustful yearning. m for mature...

author’s note: i’ve been working on this forever. not to pick fav’s but i think florist!h comes second to sl23... hes just so.......well, you’ll see!!

* * * * * *

When Harry was given the option to go on a playdate with his car-loving and dirty-nailed schoolmates or spending the weekend at his nan’s house, he would often pick the latter.

He preferred to spend his afternoons frolicking with her Siamese kitty in her wild-flower filled garden, sunbathing in the open grass, or napping on a quilted blanket under the large, round oak tree, with the kitty nestled into his tummy, keeping him warm. When he woke in the arms of his nan as she carried him inside the house for a glass of cool lemonade, he bore a band of pink sunburn over his button nose, and the blue and white striped Mickey shirt was sticking to the areas where his furry friend had provided an extra heat.

So, it was safe to say that from the start, Harry’s tastes weren’t what could be considered ‘average’ or ‘normal’ or ‘straight’ for a heterosexual male of his age in current society.

Not that he ever valued those opinions, but their impressions rang in the back of his loving head when the women who he brought to the comfort of his home made hurtful ‘joking’ comments on how ‘peculiar’ his choice of decor was or giving him prolonged strange looks before shaking their heads and yanking their clothes off so that they landed in a forgotten heap in some unimportant corner of his room.

Granted, he still got a good shag, but it wasn’t enough to fulfill his desires regarding any actions associated with relationships. He wanted someone warm and soft and kind. Someone who wouldn’t judge his home, his music choices, his clothing, or anything else about him. A girlfriend, not a fuck.

Long ago, he’d stopped caring about what others said about him. Adopting this mindset had given him some of the happiest and healthiest moments of his life (albeit occasionally, doubts merged with the ghastly shadows of his loneliness). Business at his flower shop increased as his charm increased with positivity, and a new life within him bloomed like a baby rose bud when he accepted that being single was okay. The ribbons of his bouquets bouncing with an added umf and the mist that landed on his skin when he changed the water in the flower buckets only enhanced the golden hue of his skin.

Harry even took to renovating his home a bit.

Coincidentally, his apartment was located on the floor above his flower stop, and contained a significant amount of singular flowers in vases or bouquets in empty corners to prove it. An array of pastel colors smeared on the once blank walls. Bambi pink in his bedroom, sage green in his kitchen, and a French blue in his living room. The couch was a suede papaya three-seater with black and white checkered pillows, and the coffee table was an emerald-tiled piece standing on top of a geometric lavender carpet, a soft contrast against the dark oak of his floorboards. Harry’s taste in pop-culture, art, and literature was displayed on the frames hanging off his walls. Pictures and posters of his favorite pieces like Matisse’s Blue Nudes and Goldfish and The Dance II. An enhanced, enlarged photo of maraschino cherries and a raven haired pin-up girl. Another glass table by the end of the couch held a silver candlestick and a small statue.

Sometimes, the miniature Greek statue he bought at a thrift store of a man with his nakedness pure and unobscured to the viewers' eyes made his dick bloat against the seams of his pants. If he stared at it for too long, his eyes drawn to the softened cock between thighs that looked so flesh-like even though it was carved out of some clay or ceramic material, his mind would travel to sensual, honey-red places that he hadn’t been in so long. Harry’s imagination explored- as cheesy as it sounds- the sexual aspects of the male genitalia, and therefore his own sexual expeditions and how much he missed giving or receiving a good fuck. More often than not, he ended up with himself in his fist, forehead sparkling with perspiration under the candle lights in his room as his thighs and abdomen clenched with every buck of his yearning hips.

The doorknob of his room was in the shape of an eye, the iris colored a brilliant blue. His king bed- no, frame, just a minimalist white base, pushed up against the wall with two tables on either side, both of them loaded articulately with vintage trinkets and ceramic ring trays shaped like seashells to hold his jewelry. His bedsheets were a stylish combination of pastel colors; lilac comforter, mint and sky pillows. Previously, they had been snow white sheets with strawberry print, but a woman he brought over said they looked like the sheets her five-year-old niece had.

He changed them the week after that.

On the windowsill, a pot in the shape of a white, blue-eyed kitty with vines of string of hearts kissing the floor. A mirror in the shape of a heart with a pink trim besides the lightswitch, above his brown dresser. In the corner, a bookshelf stuffed with books that spilled over the seams, and perpendicular to it, the home of his pet chameleon, Owen (he wanted a cat, but when he went to the pet store and saw the dehydrated creature, he couldn’t leave him there). A 16 x 16 x 30 inch tank filled with a branch that cut across halfway. It was full of all the things he might need, maybe even too much of it, but it didn’t matter because when Harry was home Owen spent most of his time hanging off the collars of his shirts or snuggled in the ruffles of his hooded sweatshirt on his shoulder. The small, color changing friend adored his owner, and only morphed into a mild red color when Harry didn’t feed him more mango.

The renovations occurred in his bathroom; a cherry-red covering the walls because it looked boring before (at least in his opinion). The gold piping of the sink accentuated nicely with the darker color, and the sun seemed brighter when it streamed in through the window above his ceramic claw-footed tub. Owen particularly liked the misty showerhead stall in the corner, and as long as he kept his eyes to himself, Harry didn’t mind it if his green friend wrapped around the showerhead and enjoyed the mimicked tropical atmosphere.

For awhile now, it had been just him and his chameleon (and maybe his mum’s cat if she was going out of town and needed a sitter) but he didn’t mind it.

He got to meet new people everyday within the parameters of H’s Garden, and they all tended to overshare when it came to buying a bouquet. ‘My wife just had our son, want to see a picture?’ or ‘my boyfriend and I have our anniversary on Saturday’ and even ‘my sister had plastic surgery so me and my dad need something that says ‘congrats you look like Kim Kardashain now’ how ‘bout it?’

Stories ranged from sweet, to grotesque, to sad, to funny, and sometimes even evil- Harry didn’t like customers that gave flowers as a ‘fuck you’. He thought it was a waste of beauty and sacrifice. Flowers were living things that had their lives cut short in order to provide momentary satisfaction and life long memories to the receiver, not bitter feelings of revenge. Although it was still business, it pained him that such a pretty arrangement be misused. It was one of the cons of his work. He created what he considered to be masterpieces, and had no control over where they would end up, whether it be as a centerpiece for a candlelit dinner, or in the trash after the apology for a strong argument hadn’t been enough.

However, Harry couldn’t deny that he didn’t love his job, because he did.

When he turned 16, he’d determined that he wanted a peaceful life with a job that wouldn’t bore him. He wanted to be as stress free as possible, with his spirituality as a prominent highlight in his lifestyle. When he turned 18, he had determined that he wanted to be a florist, and began to save up to open his own shop with the occasional help of his friends and sister. He refused to take anything from his mother because he wanted to be the one giving her gifts and money and everything good after all of her sacrifices in raising him. Call him a momma’s boy. Harry loved his mother.

Online seminars and college classes became his best friend, teaching him everything he needed to know about accounting, stocks, and how to keep his business going. He was a businessman first, florist second. During the slow seasons (the start of winter and an awkward half-week between summer and spring) he relied on his investments to triple-ensure that he had enough money to stay afloat.

On his 22nd birthday, as a gift to himself, he signed the lease to the building that housed all of the pretty plants in temporary buckets full of flower food and water, and hired a graphic designer to design the cursive, golden letters that spelled out the name of his shop above the front door.

Now, three years later, he lived as happy as can be.

And he wasn’t lonely anymore.

Well, if you wanted to be technical, his relationship status was still a checkmark over the box labeled ‘single’, but his heart couldn’t be fluttering any harder at the sight of one of his regular customers, and she was there, creeping around in his brain to keep him company.

She was the complete opposite of every girl he’d ever been with. She was sweet, kind, funny, and didn’t judge him for the way he dressed, or his profession. In fact, they bonded over things that previous women had… slyly berated him for. The color of his nails, the lace of his collar, the pattern of his flared pants, and even the sheep on his baby blue sweater vest.

She stole his heart the moment she walked through his door with a soft smile on her face, a sparkling gleam in her warm eyes, and placed it in her pocket the moment she said, “it smells lovely in here!”

Harry, awestruck and blushing because well, she was pretty and wore a shade of purple that somehow made her hair look so soft. Two strands of hair were pinned at the back of her head, essentially keeping the rest of it away from her face save for the few baby wisps that rested gently against her cheeks like a lover’s caress. The stuttering, stumbling cupid’s-bow-struck fool replied with, “thank you. It would be my pleasure to help you with anything you’d like,” and that had been his name, signed on the dotted line of a soul contract. Only she was not the devil. She was an angel.

But even then, it wouldn’t matter. If she was the devil, if she was an angel, something in between or something new entirely he wouldn’t care because he was half gone for her already.

“In that case,” she smiled, and Harry’s heart sang a melody it never had before. It was like the sun beamed from the spaces between her teeth and tickled the fuzzy spot beneath his earlobe. She had the most amazing voice, tranquil and clear and ethereal. “I just moved into a new apartment and wanted the place to feel like home. I thought maybe flowers would give it a little life.”

He vividly remembers that the color of her cheeks changed to that of what is called a ‘blush’, but he didn’t know if it was a trick under the light, or a product of his wistful imagination. Her fingers gently skimmed the petals of a rose from it’s bucket near her hip, and one of the straps of the tote bag on her shoulder disrespectfully dropped away from her shoulder. He wanted to simultaneously rush over and fix it for her, and yell at the inanimate object for not being grateful of the fact that it had the opportunity to cling to her shoulder.

But, before either of these inner-conflicts met a sound resolve, her delicate fingers righted what was once wrong, and Harry cleared his throat, embarrassed because he’d stared for a little too long. He wanted so badly to ask for her name and how she liked her eggs in the morning, but instead he said, “there’s nothing like a bit of something pretty to brighten your day. Did you have something specific in mind?”

He hoped that the meaning of his words wasn’t caught on her, or that would be totally embarrassing and ‘loser’-like.

When she walked out the door with a content smile on her lips, his own heart was beating faster than the flapping of a hummingbird’s tender wings. He was sure that he had never laid eyes on a pair of lips like hers, neither the feeling that blossomed in his chest at the thought that she might be smiling just for him to see and enjoy.

Of course, it was a silly crush. One that clawed and gripped onto his sweaty palms with no sign of letting go. Maybe, Harry thought, it was because he hadn’t wet his wick in so long, and the interaction he’d had with her had sparked irrational, poem-inspiring feelings within the love cavern of his ribs. Because how could he fall head over heels with someone he didn’t even know? Surely, the swarm of hormone-pumped butterflies in his stomach was the beginning of a dead-end infatuation.

Right?

Harry went that entire day, appalled at the apparent angel he had the fortune of being in the presence of in her short fall from the tender heavens. He wondered where she placed the flowers she bought (an arrangement he was particularly proud of, full of lilac, delicate stems of lavender, and puffs of baby’s breath wrapped with a white bow) and where that tiny extension of him was. At the entrance of her home, right below the place she rested her hand against as she tugged her shoes off? At the center of her table? Maybe besides her bed? Where she would see the purple petals and white of him as he wrapped it every time she woke up or went to bed? He hoped- as much as it was a romantic thought- that it wasn’t the last one. He’s been so awkward, so pink. A blush on his cheeks he hadn’t remembered being there since the time he yelped, startled, at the unexpected pain of a tattoo needle, the artist pointedly peeved. Acting like such a boy.

Right before crawling up the steps of his apartment, heart still bleeding with love-blood from the deadly tip of Cupid’s arrows, he made himself a mini version of the bouquet he’d made her, and placed it at the center of his tiled coffee table.

*********

A few days trickled by, and the memory of her face drifted in and out of his mind like a giant sway of fabric slowly billowing in the wind. He was just so… struck by a slab of awe, stunned by her kind of beauty. Natural, the kind that hooks you in it’s purity, like the golden beams streaming in through transparent curtains on a warm spring afternoon.

Her strawberry lips curved elegantly under her nose, and displayed a smile that leaked some sort of heady drug into the air because the air was sweet when he breathed it in. And when he handed the bundle of flowers over to her, the pads of her delicate fingers skimmed the rough ridges of his knuckles. He wondered immediately what kind of moisturizer she used, and if it smelled like honey or lavender or peaches. She smelled sweet. Sweeter than all of the flowers in his colorful soul shop put together. The colors that belong to her, on her person and worn by her, were more captivating than any of the tones that painted the petals on his plants.

Owen got a kick out of this whole ordeal, though. Harry’s passionate mood had him divulging in munching and nibbling on things that tasted the way he felt; ambrosial, fresh and pure. It resulted in the purchasing of endless amounts of fruit, with many bites given to the tiny chameleon. Mangoes, strawberries, oranges, grapes, pears (Asian pears, if the store carried them, they were Harry’s favorite), peaches and guavas. The sudden craving for fruit might be explained as just a casual craving, but deep deep down inside, Harry knew that it was because he wanted to replicate the feeling that coursed through his golden veins when she giggled at something she happened to find funny.

He wished that he had caught her name. The girl had paid in cash (and left a five dollar tip Harry fawned over), so he couldn’t have read it on her card, and he was halfway between charming and awkward that he didn’t even think of asking for it until the minute the door closed behind her, bells tinkling in announcement of her exit. He wished for a hundred different things, but he was not the type to live in regret. Not anymore. So after about a week of floundering in her memory, he meditated for an hour, tropical incense on one of his bedside tables, and cleared his mind as best he could.

The next morning, he did the same thing. Woke up with heavy limbs, plopped himself down on his blue mat and stretched in various positions, his white boxers hanging low on his hips. His lips and eyes were sticky with sleep, and the back of his nose ached with cold air that he must’ve breathed in throughout the night after forgetting to close the window (again) but the pleasurable twinge of stretching aches between his joints were the perfect way to start his day. They urged his mind to transform into the still surface of water, clear and collected from any unproductive-pinning thoughts towards a girl he would most likely never see again.

Even his clothes reflected his refreshed mindset.

Harry donned his favorite pair of flared trousers in an earthy brown color, nestled snugly on his slender hips and around his thighs. The tight fit accentuated the way his back tapered into his waist, glutes shapely and sculpted. A maroon sweater vest that had a teddy bear embroidered on the middle of his chest, the small latte-toned stuffed animal seemingly childish, but on him it only directed attention to the spotlight daze of the velvety heart sheltered underneath his breathless plate. Underneath, a mustard long-sleeve shirt with tiny cherries printed on them. Some straight, some tilted or lopsided. His shoulders and biceps were hidden in the floofy bunches of cloth, anonymity given to the true thickness of his ink slathered skin.

He looked like a corduroy dream. A thick milkshake of patterns and colors, but he managed to pull it off.

A tiny gold hoop on his right ear gleamed under the morning sun coming in through the windows and a pearl necklace rested against the downy skin of his throat. Slender fingered tipped with a coat of pure white, with his ring fingers accented in a shimmery pink. Chunky rings adorning the base of his digits; a silver rose, a band of dancing teddy bears (a running theme with him), two gold rings with his initials H and S on one hand, and a simple ruby stud from his graduating class.

He looked good, he knew that he looked good, and was ready to begin a bright, healthy, non-pretty-girl-thought-polluted day. Even the old woman had pinched his cheek whom he had been assisting- a regular-had said he looked like a proper ‘nice boy’ along with ‘when are you going to her a lovely girl to help you run this place, Harry?’. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that he had momentarily sworn off women until his broken sentiments healed, and they had a long way to go.

In the middle of wrapping a smashing set of tulips and fern stems with a cherry red bow, the bells adorning the top of the door frame dinges, announcing the entrance of another pleasant customer and giving passage to a gust of chilly air. Harry looked up to greet the customer with his usual pleasantries of ‘welcome! I’ll be with you in a moment!’, but the words died on his throat in a desperate hussle, just as the little mermaid had given up her voice to meet her gallant prince.

It was his own personal little slice of heaven presented to him on the black and white checkered floors of his shop. Hair loose against her shoulders again, eyes cast downwards to inspect a bucket of fresh daisies that tickled the space above her bare knees. How she could wear a skirt in this biting weather, he didn’t know, and it partially prevented him from continuing his pursuit of admiring her because the first thought his caring mind jumped too was, ‘is she cold? And if so, does she need a sweater? Because I will gladly give her one.’ His second thought, however, was ‘how could someone be that beautiful?’. The third was something along the lines of ‘all my yoga has gone to shit, and I’m okay with that’.

He cleared his throat, tightened the bow around the stems of the flowers in his hands and said, “I’ll be with you in a moment, love!” His head bowed, looking at his work because he wasn’t sure he could afford the medicals for the paralysis that was sure to take over his meek self if they made eye contact so soon. Harry needed a moment of homeostasis, his soul adjusting to her dulcet presence.

The woman he was assisting, Edna, spoke, drawing him out of his daze, but he had been so deeply in thought that he had not heard what she said.

“What was that?” He asked her. He grabbed Kraft paper from the roll by the register to wrap up her arrangement.

“The girl. You like her?” She was smiling at him, wagging a finger the way his nan used to do when she caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. “Don’t lie to me, I recognize that look. I’ve given and received that look many times throughout my life.”

The woman was not wrong. With age, comes wisdom, Harry thought, smiling to himself at being caught. A dimple carves itself into his cheek, nestling onto the space above the corner of his mouth as if he had no choice in the matter. The apples of his cheeks were shadowed with a dusky pink, and the tip of his nose was twitching like a rabbit when it stood on its rear and sniffed the air, only he was coy after just being caught and wanted to avoid the question as much as possible.

“I’ve got no idea what y’talking about,” he chuckled, keeping his voice low so that the intriguing stranger in the store didn’t hear that their topic of discussion was her. He moved over to the register to ring her up, and even slid in a discount he applied to customers he liked.

“Next time I come in,” Edna said, passing Harry her debit card, “I hope to hear that you got her number, dear. Don’t let these opportunities pass you up. Life is short. And who knows? She could be the one.” Harry gave her the card back after charging her, and handed her the flowers, too. All the while Edna was grinning at him, shaking her head like she knew something he didn’t.

“Take care, Edna. And don’t forget to change the water every 2 days with the flower packets I placed at the stems,” he reminded her, sweetly wiggling his red-lacquered nails at her retreating woman as butterflies awakened in his stomach in a furious flood of nerves. The girl was looking around, her hands hovering over the up-turned faces of a bundle of lively sunflowers, browsing and quietly humming to herself as she waited.

There was no backing out of this, even if he wanted to. And he didn’t! He didn’t want to back out. The girl was a customer, and he would have to approach her no matter what. But she was so pretty it was also intimidating. He doesn’t remember ever being this nervous while approaching someone, especially one he harbored feelings for. His heart was pounding so loud, he was sure it was audible.

“Hello,” he wanted so badly to add ‘love’ at the end of his greeting. “Are y’finding everything a’right?” He asked her, his hands wringing themselves, palms moist with sweat from his unyielding need to impress her. The pink tip of his tongue poked out to swipe across his full bottom lip, and soon after that his teeth sunk down into it, nibbling with uncertainty. Harry made sure that he was standing straight, body aligned to face hers because in that psychology course he took once, he learned that it was a subconscious tactic to engage interest and pleasant replies to attempts at wooing another.

At the sound of his voice, the girl jumped, startled at the sudden vibrations of Harry’s husky voice. Her delicate feet, he noticed, skittered on the floor from her tiny jump, and her doe eyes widened, shouldered rising and falling at a quicker pace than before from the new rush of light fear. When she realizes that it’s just him her hand flattered over the base of her neck and her collarbone in attempts to soothe her racing heart.

“M’s sorry,” he whispers, his hand clamping over his mouth, and then lowering to his chin when he speaks again, “didn’t mean to scare y’love.” This time he can’t restrict himself. It comes so naturally, like the endearment was meant for her, and when a flush covers the bridge of her nose his first instinct is to coo at her for looking so cute. The second is a surge of guilt for having scared her to such an extent.

“It’s okay,” she says, a little out of breath. The blush on her face was partly because she was embarrassed at her own reaction, while the other was that she had let herself act so freely and uncoordinated in front of someone that looked like him. Handsome and sweet and eyes so green they refreshed you upon first glance. Like the cool burn of water going into a mouth that had just chewed a stick of minty gum. “I want to buy these flowers.”

God help him. Her voice alone was enough to make him melt. The lilts and melodies of her voice swarming all four of the ventricles in his heart with warmth, and every blood cell that passed contained a glowing heat, buzzing with her energy.

She points to the sunflowers, her gaze lingering on them with longing. A soft smile toying on her mouth, and Harry could see the tendons in her throat stretch as she inhaled to add another thought to her sentence, “Do you sell vases by any chance?” The girl looked at him shyly, her eyelashes almost twinkling as she blinked, and his heart soared, “I had a really nice one in the shape of a big Coca-Cola bottle, and I accidentally knocked it over, so now I have nothing to put them in.”

Harry is incredibly enamoured by subconscious gestures that take over her hands as she speaks, fiddling as if the vase she spoke about was in her hands, all in one piece before it was broken. He’s quiet throughout her tiny ramble, listening and taking note of her enticing antics. She’s looking down at the floor or the flowers or her hands, and when her eyes dance over to his steady gaze, “I’m rambling aren’t I?” she murmurs bashfully.

“No, no it’s a’right. I can look in the back for something if y’like?” He suggested, arrowing a thumb to the ‘back’ he mentioned. “Did y’want anything in particular?”

“Oh, I don’t wanna be a troubling customer!” She squeaked, concerned with becoming a nuisance she didn’t want to be.

“Y’not a bother, love. M’promise. I’ll go look f’you. What color did y’have in mind?” He asked her, tone calm and soothing to reiterate his sentiment. She was not a bother. The only thing about her that bothered him was the fact that he did not know her name, and even that was his own fault for not asking her.

His hands rest on his hips, tattooed cross momentarily hidden by the bunch of his sweater vest as he waits for her to respond, his eyes locked on her mouth, her own tongue subtly licks her lips, adding a sparkly sheen to it that only drove him crazy. Ever the jilted fool, his mind jumps to what it would feel like to kiss her, or what it would feel like if she kissed him in other places. What fruits she tasted like, and what kind of kisser she was. A timid one? With a patient mouth waiting to be broken open with the force of his own? Frugal? Opening her mouth and giving him everything she had to offer.

“Something pink, please. If you have it.” That smile again. One that told a million apologies it didn’t owe, with her eyes pinching at the corners with whatever nonsense culpability she felt. Her voice was sweet, Harry thought, like wind chimes on a summer morning.

Feeling guilty for allowing such dirty thoughts to gallop through his mind when she was so… so pure. Like an angel. Even her way of presenting herself was shy and sweet, yet he was thinking about kissing her. Was that perverted? She was a customer he had seen twice, and his mind was already running wild with luscious assumptions; a sunday topped with a red cherry of sensuality. How awfully dirty of him.

But! But those were not the only thoughts he had. He wanted to ask her what happened to cause her to drop her vase, and where she had bought it. If it was vintage, considering it was a Coca-cola bottle, and if she had any accidents while cleaning up the mess of broken glass. He wanted to hear her thoughts. No, better yet, he just wanted to hear her talk. He wanted to get to know her. To know if she was as nice as she looked.

“‘Course,” he mumbled, his eyes shamefully downcast to the floor. “Be righ’ back.”

Harry stalked off to ‘the back of the store’. Truth was, there was no back of the store containing vases. There was only a small closet with boxes of items he might need around the store, like flower food, rubber bands, and decorative paper for the bouquets. A crate of bottled water for when he got too lazy to climb up the back stairs and into his home.

His home.

Plucking the keys from his pocket, a ring that held a ceramic swan his closest friend Mitch had gifted him with a humble admission of ‘saw this at a thrift store and thought about you, H, I had to buy it’, and five keys: one to the front door of his shop, one to the cash box in the register, one to the mailbox, another to the front door of his apartment, and one to his car. The one to his front door was painted at the head with pastel pink nail polish, so it was easy for him to pick out when he was dead tired after a long day of being on his feet (spunky shoes that he liked to wear sometimes didn’t help ease the ache on his back, and neither did his posture).

The back door that led to the stairs had locks on both the inside and the outside. A deadbolt and chain on matching sides of the door to ensure comfortable sleep at night, and peaceful work time during the day. Not having to worry about curious children opening doors or nosy customers relieved him. It was a little amatuer, but the door made a loud noise when opened because it wasn’t quite level, and he had a tiny key so he could lock it from the outside, too.

A loud shucking noise resonated through the store as he pulled the door open, and then again when he closed it behind him. The delicacy of his dainty yet large hands were nearly comical around the tiny golden pin stud that hung from the chain, almost slipping from his hands with nerves as he slid it in place. Harry didn’t think that she was nosy or anything like that, bit if he was going up to give her a vase of his own personal collection, he didn’t want her to find out and feel even more intrusive that she already did.

He was a huge giver, and upon hearing her say that she broke her flower pot, his mind was already thinking about the perfect one to replace it. It just so happened to be sitting on his shelf with a bundle of dying lavender. Climbing up the stairs (the ache in his thighs was a mere twinge compared to what it was when he first moved here), Harry huffed and thought to himself all the ways he could ask for her name and number.

Listen, I really like y’and would like to have y’number?”

Do y’wanna have my number so we can go out sometime if y’feel like it?”

“Is it alright if I get y’number so we can go out sometime?”

“Hey, love. What’s y’name?”

Nothing’s making sense to him. The pick up lines he had stored in his head for the rare times he would flirt with a girl were slipping from him. None of them seemed worded right to use with her. Too abrupt or too brisk. Not sweet enough. He wanted to treat her gently and to be worthwhile of her time. Plus, it also had to be smooth enough that it made her forget she was paying him for flowers or it would be awkward. He was a twenty-six man for crying out loud, not a twenty-one year old smile at the bar looking for a good time. This wasn’t a ‘good time’. This was… a courting. An inquiry to a relationship. A rose rose in a candlelit room.

Harry opened his front door and moved in a quick jog to a table besides his hi-fi that held a translucent pale pink glass, fat at the base before twirling and widening a few inches at the lip. An image of a nude mermaid puffing out at the front like an engraving. Cuddling it into his breast, he grabbed the lavender, speed walked back to his kitchen where his toe banged against the metal of the trashcan as he pressed on the lever to open it. He hissed fuck under his breath and shucked the dead lavender into the bag before turning back to his door, closing it behind him, but not locking it because he didn’t want to keep her waiting. His feet moved quickly down the stairs, the one hand not holding onto the vase cupping a hand over the side of his hips that held his keys so they didn’t make much noise.

The button on the chain slipped from his fingers a few times from their repeated clamminess, and when he was ready to finally twist the knob, he paused to take a breath and collect himself. Harry ran a hand through his hair, fixed his collar, and dusted off his pants legs. He wanted to look perfect for her.

“Don’t be stupid,” he murmured to himself. He had a good feeling about this. About her. And if he messed this up because he looked bad or said something weird he would kick himself into a muddy ditch.

Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and calmly walked back, “I’ve got the last one,” he said, tapping the tip of the vase with his pointer finger. It was a lie, right through his teeth, but he was happy to tell it in return for the way she was looking at him in that moment. His eyes rounded out as he approached her, like the curves of hearts that made up the heart-eye emoji, or the puppy-dog face. Just another physical display of his growing affinity towards her.

“Oh my god!�� She said, “It's so pretty!” The trapped crystals in her irises twinkled with bewilderment at the treasure Harry’s presented her with. She’s got a smile on her face, and he can’t help but think, ‘wow, she looks like a freshly bloomed white lily’.

There’s a vintage print hanging in his corridor, a ‘flower language chart’ with different types of flowers and a sentence beneath them describing the messages they send. For example, red carnations= my heart aches for you. The description beneath white lilies reads ‘my love is pure’.

She asked him if it wasn’t too pricey, and he made up some fake sale he had going on about a hybrid BOGO in which if she bought an arrangement she would get a vase included in her purchase (he added “I’ve got a shipment of new ones coming in an I need the space cleared out before they get here” just to make sure his fib is believable.) And he explains this so shyly. Harry can’t keep his eyes locked on hers because she’s staring at him with an intensity that lets him know she's really listening, and it makes him squirm. The tips of his fingers tap against the vase, and he’s tripping over his tongue, which is ridiculous because he already talks so slow.

“I guess I was right in waiting then,” she said casually, waiting for Harry to finish ringing her up.

His finger froze over the touch screen of the sleek, modern device (he wanted nothing but the best for his store) and listened to the exciting roar of blood through his eardrums at her words. I guess I was right in waiting then? What did that mean? That she was planning on coming back to see him and didn’t? Of course, it could also mean that she was going to buy something else somewhere else, but he couldn’t stop the vine of ripe hope that swelled around his chest. And she looked so apprehensive while saying it. As if she was walking on glass and was looking for cracks as she stepped. As if she was waiting on him to catch on to something.

Harry cleared his throat and looked at her through the corner of his eye, trying to be as discreet as possible as his fingers continued their deliberate work on the screen, “What d’you mean, love?”

“I was going to stop by sooner, but I just got in my head about it,” the girl shrugged, and adjusted the ends of her cardigan so they wrapped around her torso. She had a different bag this time, one of those reusable market bags that was made up of holes, and it was filled with two books and a can of green tea from the vegan store down the street. Harry thinks he can make out one of the titles on one of the spines, which looks suspiciously similar to something that he has on his own shelf.

“Why would y’get in y’own head about coming to m’flower shop, hmm? It’s hardly that intimidating,” he chuckles to play off the dashes of pink and red that are painting themselves across the bridge of his twitching nose, “I don’t bite, either.”

And he hopes that his wistfulness isn’t meddling with his vision because he swears that he can see a matching reaction on her own doll face. “I know! I know, it’s just that I can’t help it sometimes. Talking to other people makes me nervous.”

Harry could coo at her right now. He doesn’t, though. He nods and smiles at her before reading her total out to her, “That I get, too. But y’doing just fine with me, love.”

Waiting patiently as she digs through her bag for cash, he tries to not stare. However, it’s impossible. His eyes had a mind of their own dragging against the forces of his will to feast on her image again. Her hands and the tip of her nose. The base of her neck and gentle swell of her clavicles. The swoops of hair that hung in a curtain from her shoulder as her head tilted in search, and the how her teeth bit down into her lip in concentration. Harry counted the amount of times her eyelashes met her waterline in those few seconds of comfortable silence. Three.

“I thought I had cash on me today,” something in her bag clicks, and she pulls out the rectangular card Harry’s become familiar with, holding it out to him between two deft fingers, painted with red hearts on a white base. “I guess I used my last twenty at the organic food store down the street,” she said.

“It is pretty easy to get lost in there, isn’t it?” He took her card from her, and tried not to make it obvious that he was eager to read her name off of it as he inserted it into the machine. The embossed letters into the plastic read y/n y/l/n, and when he turns back to look at her, he can’t help the smile that spreads across his boyish features.

Y/n.

Y/n, y/n, y/n.

This is what it must feel to be let in on a secret that’s worth millions of dollars. It must, because Harry’s heart is soaring with a closure he didn’t know he needed. Y/n, y/n. Her name tickled him. Stroked him. Lathered him with the honey smoothness of the beeswax shampoo he bought at that fateful organic store. It was a fitting name. Sometimes, one could tell a person ‘you know, I actually thought you were a Amy or a Jessica’, because their looks and style just didn’t match the strength or modesty of their name. But not y/n. It fit her like a glove. There was no other way to make sense of the way Harry’s brain was thinking. The name was her.

“What?” Her lips quirk up into a smile and her eyebrows dip in confusion. Why was he looking at her like that? Did she have something on her face? Here she was, opening up to a cute stranger and she had something on her face? This, she thought to herself, is humiliating. Her finger dusted off non-existent crumbs from the corners of her mouth, “do I have something on my face?”

“No! No, no.” Harry’s careful beam simmered down from it’s previous brightness, and his hand nervously filed through the swoop of chocolate curls sitting on his head like a cinnamon roll. “I just think y’name is pretty thas’ all.”

He murmured the last part so that it was practically incoherent, and lowered his gaze as a searing heat stretching like saran wrap around his head and the divot on the nape of his neck. Oh, God. He was fucking blushing. Great Harry. A normally favorite among the ladies had been reduced to murmurs and thick, uncoordinated movements.

Like dropping her card when she piped up again.

Voice as small and quaint as his had been, "you think my name is pretty?” Her fingers are wrapped around the frail straps of her bag, tight enough that her knuckles were white and Harry was scared that she’d bury her fingernails into her palm.

“I think y’very pretty.” He whispered back. He can’t even bear to look at her in fear that he’s totally fucked himself over once and for all. His logic was this: what girl wants to be told by the guy they’re buying flowers that they’re pretty after he reads her name from her debit card? Especially one who (if outside female sources are to be believed) dresses “the way my mother did when she was a girl in the seventies”? Jesus, fuck. He must’ve looked ridiculous.

Harry opened his mouth to backtrack and apologize for being so unorthodox in his workspace, a breath sitting on his tongue with words ready to spew out, but the bell began to chime and it yanks his head from the register to the front and instead he said, “welcome! I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Flustered and full of regret, the flower connoisseur returned his wired gaze back to y/n, who… was smiling at him? The kind of smile that said ‘oh my god, I can’t believe you just said that. Now please say it again’? Was he… dreaming? Did he have to pinch himself in order to verify that he wasn-

“Thank you... what’s your name?” Y/n looked at the card from his hands and sunk her hand- carefully, as to not get her fingers stuck in any of the tiny holes- and there was another clicking noise before she took her hand back out. That angel-like smear of girlish happiness was still on her, decadently radiating positivity and secret affection. Goodness leaked from the seams of her bones; through the cracks of her breastplate, radiating from her chest to Harry’s. He could feel it now. He could feel that his previous assumptions about her nature were true. She was altruistic and tender, like the inside of a bird’s wing.

“Harry. M’name’s Harry.” This time, he didn’t hide his happiness. Even his eyes shone with a heightened, clear and sparkly shade of liquid evergreen. The joy that bounced inside of him like ricocheting metal balls in a pin game machine. His slender hand, fawn-skinned and graceful like the legs of a deer, stretched out between them. His mother had taught him that along with the first introduction of his name, a handshake must be present, always. Dipping his head slightly, and his words spongy with love-ditz, Harry rumbled, “Nice to meet you, y/n.”

She placed her hand in his, and was practically swallowed by only his palm. He curled his fingers around her, thumb and middle finger overlapping around the clammy center of hers. So she was nervous, just as he was. Y/n was trained on their embracing limbs, and he could feel a spot on his neck where the skin palpated from the rush of blood as she observed their entwined digits. Their hands moved up and down, up and down between them for longer than necessary until her chin twitched back up to meet his, and she blinked mawkishly, slowly, like the videos of rehabilitated barn owls Harry sees on his Instagram.

Then, suddenly, as if she remembered she was not the only one present, y/n jolts upright and shakes her head dazedly. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Harry. I like your nail color,” she added.

He’s cheesing. A shit-eating grin too big for his face and it carves dimples into the flesh of his cheeks. His name on her tongue had never sounded so appealing, like it was made for her and only her to say. Not even the turtle-doves that cooed outside his window in the mornings sounded as beautiful as she did saying his name. And she complimented her nails! She hadn’t scrutinized him like others had, instead, she displayed her admiration for them. No one- well, actually he can’t say that without offending Mitch- no female of his age had ever received him with such open-mindedness as hers. If he didn’t have any self-restraint, he would giggle. Instead, Harry pulled his hand back so that their perfect moment wasn’t sullied with bouts of bad timing, “thank y’love. I like yours, too. You’ll have t’come over sometime and paint mine, yeah?”

Y/n laughed, and he breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn’t been too bold, “I’d love too!” With glee frozen on her, she turned to look over her shoulder at the customer who was browsing the flowers Harry had in buckets, “I don’t want to hold you back from a customer for so long. I’ll stop by again soon, Harry. Thank you so much for your help.”

The moment her hands reached for the wrapped bundle of sunflowers and the mermaid vase, a metaphorical grey cloud of rain and thunder manifested in the space above his head, and blocked all of the sunshine from spanning across his toned, lithe body. Did she really have to go? He wanted to whine. Maybe even wrap himself around her ankles like a child that refused to leave the park. They were only just getting to a mutual spot of comfort! Forget the other customer, he wanted to shout. Harry would kick them out and flip the sign to ‘closed’ if it meant only a few more minutes in the presence of her candy-coated charisma.

But he knows that’s unrealistic, and settles with, “it was my pleasure, y/n,” a flirty wink (at least he hopes it is), “I’ll be waiting f’your next visit.” His taffy lips wrapping effortlessly around his smooth words, fueled by her welcoming receptiveness to his advances. It would be easy to be himself in the future, a little smoother and eloquent in his language and feeling. He was usually clear with what he wanted from anyone, and made it a pleasurable experience in all aspects for both parties involved (once it was three). Harry wanted to sweep her off her feet, and he wanted it to be an enjoyable experience for the both of them. Revel in that feeling of blooming emotions in a new relationship. A healthy one, in which he wasn’t receiving back-handed compliments all the time.

He wasn’t superficial enough to push anyone off the table based on looks alone, but it did help that y/n had the disposition of an angel. An ethereal voice, supple lips that looked so silky and soft they had to feel that way, too, and hands that felt so tender in his. Perfect for holding on a late night stroll, or over the center console of his car when -if they go out on dates.

What really hooked, reeled, and sinked him, though, was the fact that she was so nice to him. From the start, she’d been nothing but polite and sweet with him. Don’t even get him started on the way he swooned at the tone of her voice when he said that her name was pretty! So quiet and velvety, careful and calculated like she wanted him to know that it was okay. That she wasn’t thrown off by his comment. He nearly toppled over, clutching his heart with his legs jutting straight up into the air like a frightened goat.

It wasn’t until the bells stopped ringing the sad notice of her exit that Harry realized he passed up the perfect opportunity to ask for her number, and as he kicked himself over it, he walked with the perfect customer service face he could muster to help the other person in his store.

***

Harry was having a shitty morning.

Not the kind of morning where every aspect of his routine is a terrible mishap, but like the water being too cold and the stove not working or the bottle of oat milk in the fridge being empty so he couldn’t make coffee. No, everything was fine and rolling smoothly, as it should.

His water was the perfect temperature and ran down the toned bumps and divots of his muscles like the relaxing thrums of a lover’s caress in the midst of prowling heat. As soon as it hit his back, he released a sigh of contentment, his shoulders hunching and head rolling back and his hands roamed his shoulders and the back of his neck, rubbing away any aches that existed. The branch of eucalyptus that hung from the golden pipe of his showerhead fused a thick minty scent into the steam that fogged the glass wall, and the calming aroma helped the tendons loosen like the deflating limpness of untied shoelaces. He spent a few minutes just standing there, inhaling and exhaling deeply and feeling his lungs open and stretch beneath his rib cage.

It almost made him wish that he’d opted to use his tub for a hot bath instead.

He was able to cook an egg just fine on his stove, with dashes of Everything Bagel Seasoning with a side of avocado and a slice of toasted cranberry walnut bread, the same thing he had every morning. The carton of oat milk was brand new from his trip to the market the day before, and his coffee tasted the same as it always did. But… he was just... sad. An melancholy soreness that eroded against the insides of his body, consuming him slowly but surely and leaving him with a lost feeling of emptiness and unimportance.

He thinks he might know why he’s feeling this way.

While he’s stirring his scrambled eggs, he’s wondering how y/n likes hers. Over easy? Sunny-side up? Scrambled, like him? Did she even like eggs in the morning? What did she eat in the morning? He knows that some people ‘aren’t hungry’ in the mornings, though that’s only because they’ve gone hungry in the mornings before for an extended time period, and after so long of not feeding their growling stomachs, their brain discontinues the signals of hunger. Harry hopes that isn’t the case with y/n, and that she’s eating the proper three meals a day every day.

And while he dipped a mini vegan chocolate croissant that he got at Whole Foods, he also wonders what she likes to dip chocolate croissants into, or if she even likes chocolate croissants. If she was a person who likes sweet treats, like strawberry tarts with powdered sugar over them or something lighter, like fruit cut into small squares in a bowl. When Harry was younger and would visit his nan on the weekends, she would pick fresh strawberries from her garden and cut them up for him when he’d woken from his nap. Sometimes, she would even sprinkle half a tablespoon of sugar over them. He wonders if she’d ever eaten strawberries like that.

It’s been a week and a half, he still hasn’t seen her, and his heart is yearning.

Harry knows he’s not in the correct headspace to assist other people with a cheery disposition about an hour before opening time, and decides it’s best if he writes a note on the door about how the shop wouldn’t open that day because he didn’t want to taint the reputation of his business by snapping at a customer for the only bundle of sunflowers he had, or dissolve into a puddle of love-sick tears in the middle of ringing someone up. Though really the notice just says ‘H’s Garden will not be opening today. Sorry for the inconvenience!’ followed by a frowning face and a lopsided, filled-in heart.

Harry drags his feet back up the stairs, his lower lip jutting out in a discreet but depressing pout, and grabs Owen from his tank so that the chameleon could curl into the shoulder of Harry’s hoodie while he moped on the couch to sappy rom-coms that would only make him think about her more. At least there was someone there with him, even if his small green friend only used him for mangoes and papaya. They sit together for the entirety of Romeo + Juliet, and when it’s over, Harry’s sniffly and standing up to return Owen to his enclosure and to clean because the riotous emotions that whirl within him are too much to process while sitting down.

Cleaning wouldn’t help him solve his problems, but it would help him cram all of his worries into a tight corner at the back of his mind- sort of like when dirty laundry began to overflow in the hamper and it requires extra force to shove it all in, only to come all back out like a memory sponge. His tormented thoughts on y/n could be compared to a dramatic inner monologue, very similar to how Romeo feels about his Juliet. But, soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and y/n is the sun. Harry has the play on his book shelf (the one with the side-to-side modern English translation because he was never quite gifted in the English department) and as he reaches for a bandana to tie his hair back, he finds himself resonating with a particular line: parting is such a sweet sorrow.

There was no need to change any of his clothing, since he was already dressed in one of his more impromptu outfits; grey sweats and a white t-shirt that read ‘women are smarter’ in black across his chest. He tied the red bandana into a knot at the back of his head, and lifted it over his chin so that it settled on his forehead, sweeping his hair back with a final push back. It doesn’t get in his way when he crouches to clean his various tables, spraying cleaning products with his shirt pulled over his nose, another organic product that’s supposed to be less harmful and smells like cinnamon and sandalwood. His shoulder blades begin to ache because he’s being a little more aggressive than he has to be, but the green tiles were sparkling so he was content.

He washes the dishes, mops the kitchen floor, vacuums the carpets, cleans Owen’s habitat, and tidies the mail that piled up on the table when he finally calls it quits. Scouring his brain for something to do, to keep him busy- his brain busy, Harry settles on the floor with his back to the edge of his bed. He’s shirtless now, and is in need of another shower but he’d rather not because he knows he might end up crying over the possibility that he’s scared y/n off. There’s a book in his hands and a Frank Ocean record playing softly in the background that mentions something about ‘I've been thinkin' 'bout you, do you think about me still?’ and it’s not helping his case at all.

It’s no use.

There’s a plague of darkness buzzing like cicadas in his ears. He fears rejection and criticism. That maybe, she was only pretending in order to make the situation more pleasant so it ended sooner. Most of all, he feared that it would always be this way. That he would never find someone who embraces who he is as a person. Always met with mean side-eye glances or second looks of displeasure and confusion. It isn’t always that way, though, because then that would mean he gets absolutely no action, and that isn’t true.

Harry is very… well-educated in matters that concerned sexual intercourse, but it was always a one-night stand ordeal. It was never ‘I really like you we should go out sometime’. In fact, he noticed that only time his approaches were well received were those in which he was dressed in a calmer manner. Simple, solid colors with sneakers or a t-shirt. Girls would flirt back, make good conversation, allow him to buy them a few drinks, and when he’d take them to his apartment they’d ask why he lived on top of a flower-shop, and if it was his sister or female-friend’s palace that he was crashing. Sex would ensue, but his heart wouldn’t be as present and engaged as he wanted it to be.

Wrong. It was always so fucking wrong, and God, if he didn’t get out of this apartment he’s going to breakdown and cry and there’s no one to call to come over because Mitch is on a trip with his girlfriend, Sarah, and his other friend Jeff is on his honeymoon in Sweden. They were the only two on his mental speed dial list during the rare occasions he had a crisis, as they were the two that Harry had ever really opened up to. Mitch was a bit closer to his heart. They’ve known each other since their school days and practically grew up together (at one point they had small crushes on each other, which were confessed years down the line). Jeff was the owner of Winsome where… where y/n had mentioned spending her last twenty dollar bill. He didn’t have an issue opening up to them. He liked opening up to them, but he didn’t understand why they were the only two that ever truly opened their arms to him.

A walk, he decided, would help him… air out his brain. Calm down. Breathe a little deeper, a little easier.

He threw his white shirt back on, and a forest green sweatshirt that donned the emblem of the school he went to earn his business degree that fit him wide around the shoulders and felt like a marshmallow. Putting on a pair of beat up shoes, he shoved his keys into his pocket, hobbling and nearly losing his balance because he was moving way too fast. The door closed behind him with a slam, and even though he was still wearing the bandana around his head, wispy stray curls framing his face in a wild mane, his distress palpable through his appearance, but he doesn’t care. He just needs to get out and feel the cool air against his skin.

There’s a backdoor behind the stairs that will take him to a small alleyway that leads to a back parking lot where other shop owners that live at the top of their stores on the same side of his street parked their cars. He unlocks it from the inside, and throws his shoulder into it, desperate to her out. When it shuts behind him, he doesn’t turn back because it’s the kind to lock from the outside when closed. His fingers curl into the ends of his sleeve so that the tips of his fingers (nails now changed to a sparkling silver color) are the only parts of his hands visible.

Rounding the corner, he whistled the cheeriest tune he can muster. His lips are puckered and his cheekbones high with the extension of his mouth. He’s not very happy on the inside, though he remembers reading something somewhere that if you pretend to be something long enough, you’ll eventually become it. If he pretends to be happy, then he’ll actually be happy.

Right?

Harry rounds the corner of the parking lot and turns on to the main street. It’s only two in the afternoon, so there's people crawling in and out of shops anywhere. He even sees a man and a woman peeking into the window of his store, and he would feel bad if he wasn’t in a shitty mood already. He’s so out of it, that he nearly yells ‘get your hands off my windows!’. He doesn’t though, because for a moment the woman becomes y/n and the man becomes him, wrapping a ringed hand around her waist and whispering in her downy ear ‘they’re closed, darling, let’s go somewhere else’ and she straightens dejectedly, pouting playfully and standing up and her tippy toes so that she could press a quick kiss to his lips.

That image fades though, and the couple continues with their stroll, hand in hand, and his heart is wrenching, writhing and trying to yank itself free from it’s place in his chest because it hurts too much to stay.

Cars whizz past, and he skirts in and out of people on the sidewalk, keeping his pace fast and focused. There’s no intended destination, he’s just moving with the intent to forget the pretty girl who haunts him. Her voice is all he can hear. Her smile is all she can picture. And the rest of her is all he can imagine, which is exactly what hurts the most. Imagination only goes so far, fulfils so much with uncertainty of what the truth was and what wasn’t. Harry could imagine her with her feet up on the lip of a bubble filled tub, a glass of wine in her hands, but then…what kind of wine did she like? Or did she even like wine? And did she even have a bathtub to stretch out in after a long day?

He curses the crimes he may have committed in past lives to deserve this torture. This unbearable pain that felt like he was being dunked in a slow-acting acid. He can do nothing about it but keep walking with labored will power. He passed his shop, and a bakery and a small thrift store that sells used clothing for way too much money. At the propped open double-doors of Jeff’s Winsome, he decides to talk in and browse. There’s so many items that smell good and taste good, that it was fun to just walk in and look.

“Back again so soon, H?”

Spinning on his heel, Harry comes face to face with Niall, a brunette, fit, Irish bloke with a chummy smile and a killer sense of humor. The two have brokered a sort of friendship, considering the amount of time (and money) that Harry spends there. Niall has even started calling him ‘H’ in silent homage to his flower shop.

“Y’know I can’t stay away,” Harry attempted to joke, his lips pulling up in a weak smile, “plus, I think I needed s’more of the peppermint essential oils f’my diffuser.”

“‘Course ya do! You're worse than the bloody vegan mums that come in asking for gluten free baby powder!” Niall cups a hand over his mouth and loudly whispers to so that only Harry catches his verbiage. There was a woman in the back of the store, looking through soaps in the limited kid’s section, the same exact kind that Niall was speaking about. “Go on and look around then, I’ll be here when you’re finished.” He said.

Harry only nodded his acknowledgement, and moved in between wooden walnut shelves. The entire store had a caramel brown color scheme, with only the inventory adding color to it. Macramé potted succulents and plants added to the natural, outdoorsy feel. Winsome had an interesting mix of smells from all of the aromatherapy based products it housed, but it only added to the appeal.

Currently, he held a packet of four lip balms that advertised to be ‘100% all naturally derived ingredients with no artificial additives' infused with ‘healing power of crystals’, two of them ‘citrine cherry' flavored, and the remaining ‘garnet guava’. The brand name is something in Italian that he can’t read, packaging thick and a triangle made of arrows in the corner signaling it can be decomposed and/or recycled. He had the same exact ones at home, only they were all misplaced and-

“Harry?”

A small, timid voice called his name from behind him, and he froze. He knew that voice. It was the same one he had repeated over and over in his head for the past week, waiting for her promised arrival with a hopeful heart.

His eyes go wide with recognition, body still and stiff like a deer caught in headlights. His heart begins to rump at a furious speed, loud in his ears like a million stampeding hooves. The packaged products in his hands shake, and then she speaks again, “Harry, is that you?”

Is this really happening right now? He’s embarrassed at having been caught with lipstick in his hands of all things, but he can’t put them back now. It was too late for that. He lets them hang at his side, and turns around. He hopes there isn’t perspiration dripping from his temples because all of a sudden he wants to yank his sweater off.

Harry turned, slowly. He feared that if he moved too fast she would fly away like a startled dove.

“Y/n…” He’s breathless, but he manages a pitiful quirk of the corner of his mouth, which he licks over right after, “hi.”

She’s wearing a dress this time, frilly at the hem which fell just above her knees. It’s pink and covered and lined with blood red trim at her forearms. A string of pearls glistens at the base of her throat, and her lips are covered in a sheen of lipstick. Her hair, however, is a tousled mess, pieces of it framing her face and untucked from her bun as if she had been jostling around. Her cheeks are flushed with the cold, and clearly that thin beige cardigan hanging off her elbows is doing nothing to keep her warm.

Y/n smiles at him, with the same shakiness, “f-for a second I thought I was talking to the wrong p-person.”

It’s quiet again, and they’re both fidgeting. Y/n’s knees knock together as she shifts her weight from foot to food, and Harry idly rubs his finger under his nose and sniffs boogies that aren’t there. She’s staring at the ground and rocking back and forth on her heels and he can’t think of anything to say because he’s so paralyzed by the fact that she’s actually standing in front of him, and looks as gorgeous as ever. Had he somehow manifested her presence?

While she’s hiking up the ends of her sweater so that they’re situated properly on her shoulders, he says the first thing that comes to his mind. “Aren’t y’cold?”

Her head snaps up and she peeks at him from under her lashes while flattening a hand at her thigh, “a little bit.”

Harry watches her tuck her hair behind her ears and wonders if she came walking from her apartment again. In the cold. Dress as she was. Not that he had a problem with the way that she was dressed! He understood that sometimes when people grew bored they used the smallest occasions to dress up and have some fun and get out of their homes. He did it too, sometimes. To clear his head. Hell, isn’t that what he was doing now?

“D’you need a ride home?” He stumbled over his tongue to backtrack, not wanting her to think that he was a wierdo or anything like that, “t-that is if y’walking, I wouldn’t want you to get sick or anything like that. S’bit chilly out today.”

Y/n smiles shyly at him, a blush on the highest points of her cheeks, and rubs the side of her face against the fabric of her cardigan, “thank you, for the offer, but uhm… it’s my friend’s baby-shower-gender-reveal thing today and I came with my other friend to some last minute gifts and some flowers. I was going to buy some stuff from here because she’s crazy about the whole ‘no preservatives’ and all but, and I was also going to stop by your shop to buy some flowers, but I saw you were closed so I…I’m rambling again.” She sputtered out the last bit, and pressed the tips of her three middle fingers to her lips to stop the words from coming out.

Harry smirked at her antics, but it’s more of a repressed smile, and the rest of his humor gleamed in the sea-glass of his eyes like a message in a bottle.

“S’alright, love.” He’s still holding the lip balms in his hand, and he can feel the moisture that’s collecting on his palms dampening the Kraft like material as he gestured to her dress with the tip of his chin. “Y’wearing pink. I take it y’want the baby to be a girl?”

“Actually, I know it’s a girl. She told me,” y/n pips, shrugging smugly.

Harry laughs at her this time, “Did you finish with all your purchases here? I can make an exception and open up f’you.”

“Oh, Harry, I don’t wanna bother you! Because if this was your day off then-”

He lifts a hand to get her to stop, and uses the opportunity to twist around and put back what he had in his hands. The conversation is flowing so smoothly now, that all of his previous worries are gone. He can only focus on her and the way her eyelashes fluttered and the crystalline sparkly in her voice.

“Y/n, it’s fine. D’ya finish here? We can head over to the shop now if you’d like.” Harry points a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the door.

“Uh, no. I just got here so I still have to go grab some things,” she said, pushing her hair past her ears again. He thinks that she can probably tell the disheveled state her hair was in, because she begins to pop off a pin in her hair to readjust it. He doesn’t mind it, though. He thinks she looks cute. Angel-like.

He nods, rolling his hands into fists within his sleeves so that the cuffs hang over his knuckles, and tries not to trip over his legs as he backs away. “A’right. I’ll wait f’you in the front, then. Take y’time, love.”

“‘Kay,” she gleams at him, biting down on her bottom lip, and Harry turns away fully before he starts whining about how cute she is or before there’s a dent in the heather grey fabric of his sweatpants.

At the front, Niall has his chin at the palm of his hand, and as he gets closer, Harry lifts his head to see that the brunette is wiggling his eyebrows mischievously. There's a shit-eating grin on his face that clearly points to a mountain of teasing in the near distance.

“A little love-struck, mate?” He said, as soon as Harry was within hearing distance. At least he had the decency to keep his voice down, he thought.

Harry flips him off, “oh, bug off.”

Silver glitter sparkling on his nails, and his gaze strays to the floor, bashful of how clear his affection was. He turns to rest his bum against the counter and pulls out his phone to appear busy as he waits for y/n, mindlessly opening Instagram to have something to do (and to stop him from glancing at her ever two seconds).

“Yup. I knew it. Have y’asked her out yet?” Niall doesn’t stop to let Harry refute his question, “y’know she comes in sometimes, after stopping by your place? And she just will not stop talking about how nice yeh were to her.”

Harry’s head snaps up from his screen so fast, something at the back of his neck creaks with the force. Instagram is long forgotten.

“What? Are you fuckin’ with me right now?” He doesn’t mean for his words to come as aggressive as they do, but the thought of her speaking to someone else about him is… well, it’s thrilling.

Alarmed, Niall’s hands come up near his face in the motion of surrender, “no, man! Dead serious. Think she likes yeh, honestly.”

He can only say: “Fuck me.”

Niall is about to respond when a quiet voice breaks their stares, “I’m all finished.”

“Already, babe? I’ll rig ya up, then!”

He’s quick to slide the few products over the scanning square, and y/n and Harry stand beside each other silently, their height difference laughable. Niall’s gaze flickered between them with no commentary, and his lips pucker with a wiggling smile when he finally announces her total. A bit too much for a small changing blanket, oatmeal-based baby lotion, pacifiers with a lavender infused towel attached to ‘aid with goodnight night’s sleep’, and a bamboo hairbrush with a tuft of soft bristles.

Nonetheless, she provides the money with a pleasant smile. Harry can see a bit of tightness around her eyes that suggests discomfort, but he doesn’t say anything. Niall hands her a paper bag with her purchase, “there yeh go! Have a good day now, y/n! And be good, to Harry!”

Harry’s eyes widen at Niall’s last comment, and it takes every bit of self-restraint in him to not reach the other counter and whack him in the back of the head. Instead, he shakes and ducks his head in near shame.

Y/n, however, quips back with “I’ll be nice only if you’re nice,” and bumps her shoulder against his before walking towards the door, looking over her shoulder at Harry who’s smiling wide now, and trailing after her with no regard to Niall at all.

He shouts something after them about being rude lovebirds, but Harry doesn’t care. He’s floating after this heaven-sent like cartoon characters being led to a freshly baked pie with their nose on the scent. His rump high in the air like the Lorax disappearing into the light in the clouds, utterly ignorant to everything else.

When they’ve both stepped outside, they speak at the same time,

“Let me just-”

“Do y’wanna put-”

Harry and y/n giggle at each other,

“You go first.”

“Y’speak first.”

And then they laugh again. Harry pretends to zip his lips and throws away the key, and she says radiantly, “I’ll drop this off in my friend’s car really fast and we can walk to your flower shop.”

Watching her approach a car parked two spots away, a girl with blue, pink, and brown hair leans over to the passenger side, seat belt straining against her throat and when she sees Harry, she waves and it makes y/n push her back to her spot behind the driver’s side. Whoever this girl is, she and Niall have to meet, seeing as they can’t mind their own business. He chuckled and waved back, that girl laughing along with him and it made y/n cover her face with her cardigan covered hands.

“I’m sorry about Charlotte,” she said when she got back, “she doesn’t know how to mind her own.”

“A bit like Niall, it seems.” Harry said. He waits for her to catch up before beginning to walk down the street. Side to side, shoulder to shoulder. They’re so close, Harry can feel the warmth of her body heat through the fleece of his sweatshirt. It’s cold, and she’s still this warm?

“Maybe,” her eyebrows raise, and her head tilts towards him, “they should meet.”

“Tha’s exactly what I was thinkin’!” His voice rises with his excited agreement, and the tip of his nose wiggles as he scrunches his nose.

As they get closer, to H’s Garden, Harry reaches into his pocket for his keys, fingering through them so that they wouldn’t have to stand in the cold for so long. He didn’t want her to get sick.

“I’m sorry, Harry. I feel really bad about this,” she whispered beside him, looking up at him with doe eyes as she worried her lip between her teeth, the sheen of gloss adding an extra allure to her image at that moment. “It’s your day off, and I’m bugging you.”

They stood in front of the door now, underneath the green umbrella cover that extended from the top of the door and down the side of the window. Harry waited for her to step into the little alcove created by the indent of the door before stepping in after her and jiggling the key into the lock. He resisted the urge to pull his lips down into a cooing frown at the look on her face. She really was worried about disturbing him. If only she knew that he spent the entire day moping (and nearly crying) over her.

He sucked on his teeth, “oh, love, please worryin’ about it. Don’t wanna see that frown on y’pretty face anymore okay?” His confidence was slowly coming back, “s’not my day off, I just didn’t feel like speaking to customers today.”

Shrugging, he opened the door, and took a step back to allow her to step through first. Y/n ducked her head as she passed him with a murmured ‘oh, okay’, and he followed right after her, wanting to get away from the cold too because he knew that his nose was probably pink at that moment, but what he didn’t anticipate was for y/n to stop right after breaching the threshold, and bend over at the waist to pick something up from the floor, causing Harry to bump into her at such an awkwardly sexual angle with all of his momentum.

Considering he was half twisted away from her and in the middle of pulling out the key from it’s slot, the amount of force in Harry’s push from behind was enough to cause her to nearly fall forward, a surprised whimper slipping from her lips. Harry, determined not to see her fall, lets go of the key and reaches out just in time to grasp her hips on either side, pulling her back towards him mid-fall so that she doesn't collapse on her face.

However, in the midst of all of this Harry forgets himself and uses a bit too much force. Not to mention, the implications of their position makes him hyper aware of every single place their bodies touched, her small frame against his lithe, tattooed body.

This moment only lasts for a few seconds, but he can feel everything.

He can feel the easy give of the skin of her hips underneath each finger that touched her, the softness of the flesh on her thighs against his sturdy knees. The fabric of his sweatpants is suddenly non-existent, and it’s almost as if he felt every taught tendon of her legs, frozen with efforts of helping catch or brace herself. The heat of her groin is flush against his, and it makes him want to scream with a sudden sensitivity. Her ass is practically seated on him, full and malleable against the points of his laurel covered hip bones. Harry’s semi-hunched, as her weight also pushed him back, and the position is doing nothing to help his frenzied mind settle. He feels like shit because he’s being a horny, pubescent kid instead of asking her if she’s okay, but then y/n moves back into him to straighten fully and their centers grind. Her dress is semi-bunched at the halfway point of her bum, and he can feel heat emanating from her, radiating back on his bloating cock. He has to stifle a moan when she pushes herself up with the tips of her fingers.

Just as quickly as it started, it’s over. Y/n is dusting her bum off so that her dress falls and covers her modesty, and she’s beet red in the face, not looking at him. Which was fine by him, he was too ashamed to look into her eyes.

He clears his throat (something he’s doing a lot around her) and asks if she’s okay.

“Yes. Yes, I’m okay. This was on the floor,” she squeaked, holding up a neon yellow notice sheet in her hand. That damned thing was what caused all of this?

It’s a notice from the delivery men that said, ‘sorry! We missed you!’ with a time and date messily scrawled on the dotted lines. Harry had forgotten that he was getting a shipment of several plants that morning.

Cursing, he takes it from her, “t-thank you. Now how ‘bout those flowers?”

It’s awkward, obviously, but y/n is severely silent. Harry’s still stuffy in his pants, but he ignores it and doesn’t add any fuel to the fire because there’s more pressing matters at hand than a boner. Y/n is the most quiet she’s ever been around him, considering all of her word vomits and ramblings, and he’s suffering. Definitely beating himself up in his head for having ruined the moment. He held onto her for a second too long, frozen. She must feel so embarrassed, and he was self-endulging like a fucking asshole.

Harry asks her questions on what flowers she’d like, and she answers by pointing or bringing a stem to him, laying it on the counter without a word. A mixture of dahlias and baby’s breath with a handful of feverfew to make the pink in the dahlia’s stand out. He lays them out on his work table, cutting the ends at an angle where they need to be cutted and laying them out on a sheet of clear, dusty rose paper. Three packets of flower food are strewn at the corner, and y/n busies herself by fidgeting with them. He grows concerned when he makes a comment on the kinds of ribbons he had stored and she doesn’t say anything. Not even a nod or a hum.

Eventually, he decides he’s had enough of her neglect, and pauses his work to devote her some attention.

“Love, I’m sorry about what happened,” he said softly, trying to catch her eyes, “I know it probably made y’uncomfortable, and I didn’t do much to make the situation better, but I just didn’t wanna see y’fall.”

Y/n’s head is already dipped, so he can’t see her face, but when her shoulders begin to shake, he knows he’s utterly fucked. She starts to sniffle, and his eyes go wide. The paper crinkled as he set down the baby’s breath he’s holding in his hands. He hates seeing people cry, not because he didn’t know how to deal with it, but because he often ended up crying along with them. Also, he just didn’t want to see her cry. Harry wanted her to be happy, glowing, and smiling. Not dull with dollops of woeful distress in liquid form.

He rounds the corner and spares a look out to the street, wanting to make sure that there is no strange onlooker eavesdropping on their interaction. His hand reaches out to stroke her back or shoulder comfortingly, but he thinks better of it and drops his arm. She most likely would not like to be touched, considering what just happened between them. He drops his head, seeking face-to-face interaction, and speaks as gently as he can, “y/n, what’s wrong?”

She avoids his search, and turns the other way while sniffling, “you probably think I’m weird now or something after that.”

“No!” Harry exclaimed, jerking his head back as if he’d been struck, and her words practically had. He can’t believe that she would think that and even go as far as verbalizing her thoughts when he worshipped the ground she walked on and didn’t even know her that well, yet. “No, no. I don’t think that. Y’tripped, that’s all. Happens to everyone. If anythin’ I’m the weirdo for grabbin’ y’the way I did, and I’m really sorry about it.”

Y/n dig the heels of her hands into her eye sockets, “that was so embarrassing, I should’ve told you I was gonna stop or something. I always embarrass myself in front of cute boys and I never know what to do. I just-”

Harry interrupts before she can dig herself further another hole. He highlights a segment of her words, dropping everything else in hopes of changing the conversation and taking her discomfort away, and mostly because he was bursting with relief and happiness. She had said that she thought he was cute, just how he thought that she was adorable, and nice, and everything good. They were on the same level, their minds in sync. Did that mean…

His voice is airy and light because of what she had just admitted, “y’think I’m cute?”

She stills with awareness of what she’s just said, and a puppy-like noise seeps from the back of the throat before her hands sink further into her eyes, embarrassed. Harry tenderly wraps his fingers around her small wrists and pulls her hands away from her face, murmuring about ‘don’t rub y’eyes anymore, love, y’gonna hurt’ with nothing but kindness. A millisecond of distraction speeds through his mind at the softness on the inside of her wrists.

There’s a trickle of blubbering in her part, her bitten lips bumping against each other as she attempts to backtrack, “I mean- I- I-”

Harry decides that it’s now or never. It was a bit inconvenient, perhaps, but with her revelation his confidence soared and he was more prepared now to ask than he ever had been. So, he goes for it, “can I have y’number?”

A moment of semi-uncomfortable silence as the unknown tips the scale. Would she say yes? Would she say no? His head was spinning and he hoped his nose didn’t start bleeding or something because y/n nods slowly, smiling, and then, “okay.”

He’s elated. He was the polar opposite of what he had been that morning. If only Owen could see him then. He doesn’t waste any time reaching into his back pocket and handing her his unlocked phone. They don’t share any words, only coy glances and flirty quirks of the lips as the tips of her fingers move on his screen. Harry can’t believe that he’s finally getting her number, after nearly a month of pinning.

When she’s finished, she clicks it off and sets it next to him with an added pat to the back of his suspiciously clean white phone case while he’s tying the flowers together with a loose rubber band at the ends to attach the food packets. He’s fine with working in silence now that she's not crying anymore. He throws occasional glances in her direction, and catches her watching his hands while fiddling with her own. Her brows were furrowed and her mouth was twitching.

“Will you text me?” She asked him.

He’s careful not to bruise any of the petals as he sets them down again, pausing with his ministrations to pick up his phone. He wiggles his eyebrows at her and types a quick ‘Hi. It’s Harry :)’. He hits send, “until you’re sick of me.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.” She shakes her head, and Harry’s reminded Rachel McAdams in The Notebook while she’s in complete denial of her feelings for Noah. The comparison makes his heart flutter, considering the romance of the onscreen couple. “How much do I owe you?”

Harry waves her off, “it’s on the house.” She begins to argue, but Harry stops her before she starts rambling again, “y’better go or you’ll be late, love.” He holds out the arrangement to her, tufts of baby’s breath poking out from between the vibrant dahlias like fluffy clouds, the feverfew looking like miniature white daisies in the center.

She looks at it, and back at him before huffing, “fine, but you’ll have to let me return the favor.”

“Of course,” he smirks, “with dinner, maybe?”

They’re both gleaming at each other now, “okay.” Y/n takes a step back, her body half twisted as she walks away, but it remains like that for a moment as her eyes rake him up and down, a murmur following, “bye, Harry.”

His veins charge with electricity, and his dark taffy lips part at her actions. Had she just checked him out? He doesn’t recover quick enough to return her goodbye because the previous swirl of arousal in his navel was bristling back to life at the implications of that look. Calm, slow, steady, and her eyes remained doe-like and innocent.

She had to have known exactly what she was doing, whispering his name the way she had, looking over her shoulder and under her eyelashes the way she did. Deviously provoking his thoughts to begin a new with a reinspired fervor. The space in his underwear was growing tighter by the second, a blissful ache swelling.

Before any other customer stepped in after her, Harry locked the door, and jogged up the stairs to prepare himself a nice, hot bath, simultaneously cursing and thanking the stupid fucking delivery men.

********

Harry can’t stop thinking.

Obviously, this is a huge issue for him. He was constantly thinking, and well, who wasn’t? The process of thoughts wisping around in his brain was one that he often put an unnecessary amount of energy into because he had no one to filter these thoughts onto, releasing them through a conversation to prevent the exhaustion of his brain and heart. A prime example of these mishaps being the depressing slump that occupied his demeanor that very morning.

This?

This was different.

As soon as the apartment door was shut behind him, Harry pulled the suffocating sweatshirt off of his upper body, fingers hooking in at the collar and yanking it off with a swift tug. It landed somewhere on his kitchen floor, and he didn’t stop to take note of its final destination. Instead, his legs instinctively took him to his bathroom.

Chest heaving, Harry walked to the small window leaking sunlight and rolled the stick between his fingers to close the blinds. His thumb dipped into the waistband of his boxes and dragged them down lopsidedly, the tiger tattoo roaring as it became exposed. When the blinds are fully closed, the white extension clangs against the shutters from his aggressive release. His body was slowly being consumed by a raging fire stoked by the illicit images his brain conjured of the innocent, unsuspecting y/n.

His inner turmoil consisted of guilt for using her image that way and justification from the conspiring rake of her eyes along the upper half of him that was visible behind the counter. He was so fixated by her, that her look alone felt like a tempting caress along his skin. And it all happened in a matter of fucking seconds. That’s how gone he was. That’s how fucking gone he was. Harry guesses that the easy excitement also had to do with the fact that he hadn’t gotten laid in a while (he only ever gets lucky when he goes out to the bars with Mitch or Jeff, and they’d been gone for a significant amount of time) and the strong affinity he had for the girl who bought flowers from him.

Explanation or not, he had to do something about the problem in his pants. He was painfully hard, and when he shucked his pants off fully, his underwear dragged with the movement and pressed against the tip of his swollen prick. A darkened patch of moisture bloomed where the head was, and he saw stars at the short pressure. He wouldn’t take his pants off just then, though. He liked to stall his pleasure as much as he could so that when he finally did cum, his stomach muscles contracted and his toes remained curled for more than ten seconds.

He twisted the golden knobs of his tub so that the water would come rushing out at a borderline scalding temperature, and opened the small cabinet above the toilet for a bottle of almond and coconut shea butter bubbles. He uncapped it and bent over the edge of the tip, the cool, porcelain lip touching his crotch and provoking a choked whimper to leave him. Jerking his hips back, he poured the soapy liquid into the spot where the water cascaded, and retracted his hand when the beginning of froth formed along the surface.

The heady sweet smell permeated the air with the rising levels of bubbles, and Harry couldn’t wait any longer. Because he liked to torture himself, he closed his eyes and slowly dragged the hell of his hand over the outline of his cock, a groan ripping though the silence. It’s so painfully good, that he does it one more time, and he jolts forward. He removes his hand, slips his thumbs underneath the waistband of his boxers, and lugs the fabric down his hips at an excruciatingly slow pace. The head of his member smearing precum all along as he moves and when he gets caught in the ripples of his boxers the muscles in his thighs flex at the ripple of pleasure that zips into his nerves.

“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath. His mind was a spinning vintage reel of slideshow images of y/n. Y/n on bruised knees, her mouth wide open and her own drool on her tits, the tip of his cock flat on her tongue as she pleads with weepy eyes for him to cum down her throat. When he finally springs free of his underwear, a hefty slap rings out as his dick collides against his abdomen, right on the space underneath his belly button.

There’s a stripe of liquid on the trail left by the mushroom head of his prick, and Harry’s eyes roll to the back of his head, throat straining as he hovers over the bathtub. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s ever been this hard over a girl before, and it’s driving him crazy. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to last as long as he usually does. As he swings a leg over the edge of the tub, the hot water encasing his calf, he’s thinking about how soft she is. The inside of her wrist and the palm of her hand. If she’s that soft on an external part of her body that’s used everyday, he can only wither away at the idea of what the inside of her thighs feel like.

Bubbles are swarming up now, swathing his thighs and buttocks as he sinks into the sloshing water. When he’s completely seated and satisfied with the belly-button level of water, he clumsily throws a hand in the direction of the knobs to shut them off, and reclined his head against the curved end of the tub with his eyes shut.

He hikes up his knees so that they’re resting against the porcelain walls, and mindlessly ruts up into the water at the filthy images he’s picturing, white foam collecting in sparse clouds over the math on his chest. He doesn’t know what’s gotten into him. It’s as if his body is being transported back to the moment his hips clashed with y/n’s. At the recollection, his mouth drops and his eyebrows pinch in a silent moan. The feel of her flesh underneath his fingertips has him bobbing in the water, and the next ideation has him gripping the base of his cock.

Vividly, he pictured her on all fours, keening back onto him as her pussy enveloped him in warmth, a warmth that is almost replicated by the temperature of the water, dripping and making a mess of him but what’s turning him on most of all is the easy flushness of their bodies. He had felt the way her bum gave way under his hold, and he imagined the bounce of her flesh as he thrusted into her.

He moaned a broken call of her name with his eyes still shut, and heard the trickling of water as his fist rolled up his stiff prick, squeezing at the tip so that a few more droplets of precum dribbled out. With his thumb, he rubbed over the red mushroom head and lathered it in slow, leisurely circles, a throb pulsating with the beat of his heart as he returned to flicking his wrist over himself.

The way that he looked at him and the sound of his name on her lips seared into his memory. Airy and willowy, similar to it resonated in his brain with the fantasy of sinking into her for the first time, stretching her and having her preen and arch with desperate whimpers of his name for more. Harry considered himself to be ‘well-endowed’ and his size was a factor of what sent him careening over the edge as girls mewled over his size after he’d bottomed out. He wanted y/n to mewl under him, both of them falling apart at the seams at the mutual pleasures because if Harry’s this broken over just the thought of her, then he’s sure he’s going to lose himself beyond recognition after he’s buried himself into her velvety walls, slick with her arousal and so fucking warm.

Just as she had been earlier that day. There had been two layers between them- the fabric of Harry’s pants and her panties- yet, he was still able to feel an immense heat from the apex of her thighs against his cock. He needed more than this. He needed her, not just his hand driving him closer to the edge.

His jaw clenched as he bit back on a particularly loud moan, for no reason other than he enjoyed self-sabotage from time to time, and the speed of his jerking hand increased. His other hand gripped the side of the tub, and his legs flexed as he began to thrust up into his own fist, a trail of bubbles sticking to the tanned muscles. The cut rectangles of muscles of his abdomen glistened like freshly chopped cubes of apricot with the droplets of water that remained clinging to him. His breath came in labored, strained puffs as the palm of his hand twisted, tightening at the tip and loosening at the base.

For a moment, he paused and cupped his balls, massaging them as the fantasy in his head continued. His mouth wrapping around y/n’s nipples, her eyes glazed over from previous orgasm that he wanted so badly to give her. She’d whine something soft and quiet to match her personality, ‘please, Harry, please I want more. Need another Harry, please’, and he’d speed up the movement of his hips, driving deep into her and cooing into her ear about, ‘c’mon, darling. Give m’another then. Y’want it so bad, yeah? Give me a’fucking ‘nother’, and she’d release a peircing moan that explodes in his eardrums while arching into him. She’d squeeze impossible tight around him, gushing with her own cum.

The water in Harry’s tub sloshes around his ankles, and the muscles of his abdomen clench so that he’s closing in on himself, sputtering on an outrageously loud cry that he can’t contain and his hand increases the speed of his filthy ministrations because he’s right on the edge. He’s about to fucking cum and the back of his eyelids burns with the possible variances of y/n’s face in ecstasy provided by him with his nose deep in her cunt, lapping at the sweet honey that spills with every whimper of, ‘please let me cum, Harry. I’ll do anything, I’ll be good, please let me cum.

He tensed violently, his face contorted painfully as white ropes spurt from the tip of his cock over his fist and onto his chest, blending with the white almond foam. His feet are braced against the edge of the tub and his head falls back and his stomach tenses even further, the final leaks of his cum dribbling out.

With the fuzziness that comes after an orgasm, his body melts back into the water that’s still warm, and his jerks with a pant as he allows his softening prick to sink into the water. The head on his hair is matted in a chocolate smear across his forehead, and his lips are a raging heart of cherry blossoms, parted with arduous gasps of recovery breath. His hands fall into the water at his sides, and with the lapping movement of the liquid against his sensitive member, he ruts into nothing again.

Reclined with his eyes closed and heartbeat slowing, Harry murmurs a final, “fuck me,” at the extreme sensations that had raked through his body.

Somewhere in the muffled distance, his phone dings with the notification of a text message, and with a tired noise of resentment, he sits up and reaches for his sweatpants that lay in a messy puddle besides the tub. His fingers drip darkening spots onto the grey material as he rummages for his phone, and then he finally clicks it on...

It’s her name, lighting up his screen, and the text reads:

y/n <3 : so… dinner?

Harry doesn’t think he’s ever crushed on a girl this hard before because even though he’s just completely physically spent himself, there’s something stirring in the depths of his tummy just at seeing the heart she put next to her name.

He couldn’t be happier.

* * * * * *

and here he is!! what do you guys think?? pls pls pls leave your feedback in my askbox! i’d love to hear your thoughts! and if you really really loved it, don’t be afraid to press that reblog button <3333

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calling4glaives · 2 years

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Personnel File 7: Pelna Khara

It's our second-to-last deep dive into the named members of the Kingsglaive with everyone's favorite supporting glaive, Pelna. If you haven't already, check out this awesome summary of his actions in the movie. Pelna really does deserve some more love.

From the facebook blurb:

From the tumblr blurb: Young Kingsglaive that is extremely intelligent and insightful. Because the circumstances surrounding his home and life are similar to those of Nyx and the others he feels a strong affinity towards them. Even though he gets along well with his friends, he also spends much time in private.

Name: Pelna - Urdu or Hindustani - پیلنا or पेलना in Hindustani, Pelna means either to push, shove, thrust, penetrate (yes, it seems to have the double entendre meaning there as well, so be careful with your searches), and is related to the Maranati Pelne - to carry the weight, balance, manage. [[This is a stark departure from the origin of other names in the movie, and a family of languages we are not experts in. If we've made a mistake, please correct us.]]

Khara - [[We refuse to believe it is the most common search result of Arabic, because Pelna doesn’t deserve that meaning]] Looking to the generally Greek or Latin origins of the other glaives, it could very well be χαρά, a greek term meaning joy or gladness, often transliterated Chara, but Khara is equally plausible. [[Especially since a Japanese animation studio uses that spelling for their transliteration of the word]]. If it matches the origins of his first name, Khara could be taken from a variant of a common Punjabi surname, a character from the Ramayana - a rakshasa who fights Rama in defense of his sister (who was maimed by Rama after kidnapping his wife) and is killed by him - or a Hindi word खरा that means pure, genuine, upright, frank, derived from a Sanskrit word meaning stone-hard, solid, cutting/edged.

[[from the wiki]

Equipment: -Battle Dress: Pelna wears the uniform type that Libertus does: thick, ornate, breastplate held up by studded metal braces on top that connect to the shoulder piece and plain leather straps below that connect to a ring in the back; cloth elbow and thigh pads held up by more leather straps; segmented pauldrons on each shoulder connected to a quilted piece over the shoulders; badges underneath on both upper arms; no belt; and a padded ring around the neck. Unlike Libertus, Pelna lacks the silver stripes on his jacket, his leather is dyed green, as are the leathers of several other glaives we see of this type, and Pelna wears the standard gloves. On the airship assault, he (as well as Luche) adds a chin-strap to his uniform.

His blade seems to match Luche’s and to be worn the same way Luche’s is.

[[Pelna is on the far left, but we see two others wearing identical uniforms with the same green straps; the one in the foreground has the same dagger as well.]]

-Casual - Pelna, like the rest of the group other than Libertus, seems to be wearing his uniform minus the jacket to hang out at Yamachang’s. Interestingly, his shirt has the silver on black image of the sword down the middle, where the jacket would show it if it were open, but the rest of the shirt appears to be green, just like his leather straps. It also has three-quarter sleeves trimmed with some sort of ribbon or design - perhaps an alteration Pelna made or had made, as this sleeve length or pattern and this much color are both almost unheard of elsewhere in Insomnia.

[[Pelna's unique shirt, and perhaps rebellious alteration. Image courtesy of @capsource ]]

-Standard - Pelna’s glaive uniform seems pretty much standard, with no embellishments.

Personality: Pelna seems to be a good, steady friend on and off the battlefield. He tries to defuse or break up the fights at Yamachang’s and in the briefing room, and seems to be on pretty great terms with everyone, even beyond their normal issues - he has the ability to tease Nyx as “hero” without causing affront, and despite his protests, he is able to gather the glaive on nothing more than Nyx’s hunch. He’s not a pushover, though, or unfeeling, snarking against Lucis, Nyx, and rescue missions just as well as anyone else.

He’s also fairly skilled at his job, able to track the coordinates and determine there is an airfleet there from within Insomnia, and on the battlefield actually returning from the the thick of the fighting before saving another glaive in the first battle, and able to take down two MTs in seconds. He also seems to display a physical reaction to "overusing" magic – coughing smoke after his quick warp and seeming rather unsurprised about it in addition to the usual “burning” effect, and in the earlier battle cautioning Nyx about overusing it.

[[image from @capsource, edited so the daggar shape is more visible. Note the burning effect on his face. The chinstrap is barely visible.]]

Death: Pelna's death is one of the more gruesome on-screen deaths, battered around by Ultros like he was, and his limp body seems to parallel the broken MTs - both just pawns in this game. :(

Behind the scenes: Pelna’s facial model is Tausif Patel, who was 25 in 2015 for those looking for age approximations, and his mocap artist is Will Bowden (who has also used the name Viv Wetherall), who acted many of the Kingsglaive characters as well as Horizon Zero Dawn and Terminator Salvation, and also acted theatre and has been friendly with the fandom.

Pelna’s voice actor is Ben Diskin, who has extensive experience as a voice actor in anime, cartoons, and video games - including Sai from Naruto, Young Xehanort, and Numbah 1 and 2 from Codename: Kids Next Door. His Japanese voice actor is the even more prolific generally good-guy voice of Takagi Wataru.

That's it for Pelna. As always, let us know if we missed something or have something to add, and good luck with creating!

#kglegends22 #kingsglaive #ffxv #ff15 #Pelna Khara #deep dive #edited on 22.7.31 for chinstrap; smoke; which glaive he saved #edited again 23.5.4 for missed reference to which glaive he saved

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sassyhobbits · 4 years

Note

for one night standards would you write a scene where aelin cant be found in the castle maybe bc shes doing sth ridiculous with her daughter like a mother daughter photoshoot to surprise rowan with later but when rowan can't find her he gets all panicked and out of his mind bc he still has unresolved trauma from when she was kidnapped and its all angsty until he has both back in his arms but also gives rowan a chance to talk and work through his experience with aelin gone? (because lets face it he probably ignores his feelings about that as much as possible in order to not burden aelin further and because it was just too painful)

loved this idea!!! i also added the prompt “Because I know when I open my eyes this will all turn out to be a dream and I’ll lose you again“ Thank you to everyone who supported ONS!! i had such a fun time writing it and im always happy to come back to it. enjoy!!

~~~

Rowan Whitethorn was generally a patient man.

He knew how to wait his turn, to take his time. He was always one to raise a brow at those who seemed to be in a harried rush to everything. It seemed stressful, to say the least. He was perfectly content to sit back when needed.

Except for now.

He had made a trip back home to Doranelle to surprise Isolde for her graduation from her masters program. Aelin had wanted to come as well, but with the baby and the responsibilities she had back in Orynth, it just hadn’t worked out. Still, she sent her well-wishes to Isolde through a video chat, letting little Eliora babble into the camera and say hello as well.

Their daughter was just over six months now, already growing far too fast for Rowan’s liking. He treasured every moment he got to spend with his two favorite girls.

And although he was always happy to see his family back in Doranelle, it had been the longest he had been away since Eliora had been born. It made him highly impatient to return home.

His jet touched down in Terrasen in the early afternoon. It was summer, though the day was mild. The sky was a vivid blue, fat white clouds floating lethargically on the breeze. Absolutely beautiful.

Due to the time difference, he hadn’t been able to call Aelin before he had got on the plane. He tried to reach her as he slid into the dark sedan that would drive him from the airport to the palace, but all he got was her voicemail.

Maybe she was in the shower, or changing Eliora’s diaper. Maybe their daughter had a finicky night of sleeping and now the pair were trying to catch up on their slumber. It was fine. Or so Rowan told himself. He still hadn’t been able to stop the small clench of nerves at the pit of his stomach.

He scolded those foolish feelings. Of course his wife and daughter were safe. They were just waiting for him to return.

The drive was quick and easy and he was back at the palace before he knew it. His feet carried him towards the room he shared with Aelin, a small smile curling on his lips as he thought about having his wife and daughter in his arms once more. He missed the feeling of Aelin curled against him as they slept.

“Aelin?” he called, pushing into their room and nudging the door shut behind him. “I’m home.”

He was greeted by nothing but silence. No sound of running water in the bathroom to suggest a shower, so soft snores or shifting sheets meaning a nap. He strode into the bedroom, finding that the bed was already neatly made, not a thread out of place.

He dropped his bags by the dresser, noting that Aelin’s phone had been left there, face up. He picked it up, seeing that she still had the notification of a missed call from him and a few miscellaneous emails that hadn’t been checked.

“Aelin?” he said again, moving towards the nursery. He had gotten used to the sight of Aelin sitting in the rocking chair with Eliora, either when the babe was hungry or she just wanted to hold her daughter. Rowan had countless pictures on his phone of the two of them in that position. The sunlight streamed from the window and hit them just right in the mornings, making them look like a painting.

But the nursery was empty and the window was shut.

Those nerves reared their ugly heads once more. He had no reason to assume the worst, the palace was one of the safest places in the kingdom.

But… Aelin had once been snatched away from him on palace grounds. During their own wedding.

Rowan shook himself. No. That was the past. This was now.

Since his wife didn’t have her phone, he knew it would be fruitless to try and contact her that way. But, Rowan knew Aelin better than he knew himself.

He began a sweep of the palace, checking out her favorite haunts. The library was a bust, so was the gym. He had checked the kitchens to see if she had swooped in for a snack or something sweet, but she wasn’t there either. Rowan luckily ran into Aedion, asking the prince if he knew where Aelin was. But her cousin hadn’t seen her at all that morning.

With each failed attempt at finding them, Rowan’s fears steadily crept up. It wouldn’t be much longer before they had wrapped themselves around his throat and pulled him deep into their depths.

He took a long breath to center himself before striding out into the gardens. His heart started beating faster, not seeing any sign of her at first. Rowan’s fingers curled into tight fists as he stepped over fresh, green grass. Gods, where were they? If something had happened to them…

But before Rowan’s fears could conquer him, he heard a soft voice on the summer breeze. A familiar voice at that. Relief washed through him, heavenly and soothing, as he followed that melodic sound.

It was Aelin. It didn’t take him long to realize that she was reading one of Eliora’s favorite books to her. It was a silly tale, and it was made even more vivid when Aelin told it. She was an excellent story-teller. They didn’t know how much Eliora really understood, whether she just liked the brightly colored pictures or the faces her mother would make when she told it. Regardless, it always made the little princess smile.

Rowan rounded a hedge, a warmth spreading through his chest at the sight before him.

Aelin had spread out a large quilt under the shade of a willow. Some of Eliora’s toys were scattered about, but currently, the toddler sat in her mother’s lap, wide-eyes glued on the book before her.

Rowan couldn’t help but think Aelin looked stunning today. Her golden hair was left loose, swaying on the breeze, the summer sun bringing a healthy flush to her cheeks. She wore a silky, pale blue wrap-dress, bare feet tucked beneath her as she read. Eliora looked mighty charming too in a bright pink dress with a matching bow.

Rowan strolled towards them, Aelin’s eyes jumping towards him as she noticed his presence. A huge smile broke out on her stunning face.

“You’re home!” she greeted, putting the book she had been reading aloud down. Eliora, no longer entertained by her mother’s storytelling, crawled over the quilt to grab one of her brightly colored toys. “I thought you were going to call me when you landed?”

“I did, Fireheart,” Rowan said. He lowered herself behind Aelin on the blanket, his wife situated between his legs, before wrapping his arms tightly around her and tugging her back into his chest securely. “You left your phone in our room.”

Rowan placed a lingering kiss on Aelin's shoulder, breathing in her scent deeply. She was safe, in his arms, Eliora happy as can be, sticking her toys in her mouth. Everything was fine.

Aelin turned in his arms slightly, brows knitted slightly. Rowan knew she could see right through him.

“What is it, Ro?”

“It’s nothing, love.”

Aelin narrowed her eyes at him, as if to say, Don’t you lie to me, Buzzard.

Rowan heaved a sigh, reaching out and brushing some of Aelin’s silky hair behind her ear. “It’s just… you didn’t answer me when I called, and I couldn’t find you and Eliora when I got back. I just couldn’t help but think…” His hand drifted until it rested on Aelin’s abdomen, right over the scar she bore from fighting her way to freedom. He saw understanding on his wife’s face.

“We’re here, Rowan. We’re safe.” She placed a gentle hand on Rowan’s cheek, bringing his gaze towards her.

“I know,” Rowan whispered, jaw clenched. “But sometimes, I just worry that when I open my eyes, this will all turn out to be a dream. And I’ll lose you all over again.”

Aelin took his hand, giving it a firm squeeze. “This is real, Rowan. We both fought for this life, for each other. And nothing, nothing, is going to take it away. Ever.”

Rowan saw the determination blazing in Aelin’s eyes. She was right, of course. This was their life now, they had built their happiness bit by bit, even when so much seemed to want to go wrong. But Aelin and Eliora… they were everything to him. He didn’t know if he would ever be able to banish his fears entirely, but he would treasure every moment he spent with them.

Rowan leaned in, kissing Aelin softly before murmuring against her lips, “I missed you.”

She smiled, kissing him again. “I missed you too, Ro.”

They indulged in a few more slow, sweet kisses before loud babbling sounded, tiny hands twisting into Rowan’s trouser. He looked down, finding Eliora’s wide eyes looking up at him, flashing a gummy smile.

Aelin laughed. “It looks like someone else missed you, too.”

Rowan grinned, reaching out and picking up his daughter. He held her up high, making her release the sweetest little laughs, little legs kicking in delight. He kissed Eliora all over her little face before tucking her in one arm, throwing the other around Aelin. Immense love and devotion flowed through him, holding his two girls close.

No wonder why he had been so impatient to get home.

#rowaelin #my writing #one night standards #its cute :)#love this au #what if i just changed the names and some details and turned it into a book

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fandom-blackhole · 3 years

Note

Fanfiction Trope MASH-UP

Din Djarin

53. Mutual pining, 41. First kiss, 6. Bookshop AU 👀

Hope this is enough of a distraction! ❤

First of all, how dare you make me think of how cute this little AU is, because now I'm yearning for modern Din and Grogu! Second, yes darling, this is going to distract me all night lmao

53. Mutual pining

41. First kiss

6. Bookshop AU

Din Djarin x Reader

Owning your own little bookshop had its pros and cons. Some of the cons, to name a few, was worrying about making enough to keep the store open, dealing with angry people when you shop didn't carry the book they wanted, the building you were in was old and leaked every time it rained, and just the entire business side of the bookstore bored you and made your anxiety raise just thinking about it. But the pros, those more then made up for the stress of counting each penny in order to order stock. And those pros came in the form of your two favorite customers, a young boy, always dressed in the cutest green frog sweater and his father who took your breath the first time he walked into you small store. Din Djarin was handsome in a way that was devastating. Not only was he physically handsome, with brown eyes that screamed of kindness, broad shoulders and a narrow waist, hands big enough to dwarf any book in your store, and scruff that was so patchy you couldn't help but find it cute, but Din was also handsome in the way that he acted, the way he would gently talk to his son as they picked out books or as he sat in the reading nook and read to Grogu, the way he would always ask about your day, how when he saw you struggling with boxes on more than one occasion he had stepped in and moved them for you not letting you lift another box. Din was sweet and kind to you, and with every small smile he gave you, you thought your heart would burst from your chest. And his son, Grogu, was obviously in the best hands. The boy was just as polite as his father, and just as devastatingly cute. The young boy, who you always joked about being your best customer, always ran into the store with an excites wave and a smile, and almost always ran and gave you the biggest hug he could. On occasion, the little cutie would bring you a present to add to a shelf you had cleared just for him. The presents were what you'd expect a kid to give, a dandelion, a colorful leaf, a shiny rock, and once a piece of candy that Din explained he had cried over for days after seeing it before Din went and bought it for him. You cared deeply for the two, and they brightened your weeks with each visit they made.

One week, it had been raining and storming every single day with no reprieve. You had all but written off seeing the two, knowing they always walked to your shop, but there you were shocked when a tiny frog rainbooted blur came dashing towards you and wrapped your legs in a hug, quickly followed by a hushed stern voice saying, "Stop it kid, you're gonna get them all wet!"

You could only giggle and lean down to give him a proper hug, looking over towards Din, saying, "If getting wet is the price I pay for my favorite and best customer's hug, then I'll gladly take it."

Din only shook his head and gave you his small smile, making you bite the inside of your lip feeling the rush of warmth in your chest and face. The two then disappeared into the children's section, you occasionally hearing Grogu's giggle, or Din's quiet rumbling voice, making you grin as you walked around organizing shelves. Eventually, you got lost in thought, humming quietly to yourself as you worked. You hadn't noticed the set of eyes watching you, and you barely caught the throat being cleared before you bumped into what you could have almost mistaken for a bookshelf with how solid it was. When you turned to look up, eyes wide and already apologizing, you found Din's soft eyes looking at you. Din took no time brushing your apology to the side, before furrowed his brows and saying, "There is a bucket full of water in the middle of the children's section."

You sighed painfully and nodded, before turning back to your work to both somewhat distract yourself from the way his eyes were boring into you, and to keep you hands busy from nervous fidgeting, as you said, "Yeah...it leaks back there whenever it rains super hard. I just... I havent been able to get it fixed yet."

Then Din shocked you completely, he grabbed your hand, stilling it and making you look into those soulful eyes before whispering, "I can fix that."

You had tried to argue with him, telling him you'd get to it eventually and making up reason why he shouldn't, but each time he shot you down, until he was paying for the stack of books Grogu had grabbed and he had set up a weekend day he could come over to do the job.

When the weekend finally came around, it was hot and muggy from all of the rain, and Din had shown up with everything he needed, and Grogu, who you agreed to watch while he worked, the least you could do considering he was trying to work without payment. But Din had also shown up in a white t-shirt that hugged his chest and showed off his softer middle, and jeans that fit right in all of the right places, and you couldn't help but feel your mouth go dry. You had closed the store for the day, and had made a lunch for the three of you the night before, so while Din made quick work with the roof, you and Grogu played games and read books in the little reading nook. Eventually, he got hungry so you let him eat, and shortly after he dozed off looking through a hidden images book. With a smile, you tucked him gently into a more comfortable position and draped a soft quilt around his shoulder. When you turned around though your heart stopped and you felt heat rush to your face. While you had been distraction, Din had snuck into the store and watched with an aching heart as you took care of his son, falling for the soft and loving smile that graced your features as you did. When you turned around completely, you took in his form, and felt a pang of guilt with how red his face was from working in the sun, but also a pang of something else entirely as your eyes soaked in the way Din's sweat shirt clung to his chest, leaving nothing to your imagination and how his hair curled so perfectly from the dampness of sweat and the humidity.

"I finished," his soft rumble broke you from you ogling, and the heat in your face spread to your chest as you cleared your throat. "Come sit down then, I made food last night and I imagine you're hungry so eat, and I will go get you some ice water to cool off."

You rushed away, as Din checked on Grogu before settling on the floor, and reaching for the plate that was on the coffee table. You appeared seconds later, setting a glass in front of him, before sitting beside him, grabbing your own plate.

"Sorry it isn't anything fancy, but I thought that the ravioli would be something Grogu and you both may like."

"It is perfect, thank you."

The two of you ate in silence after that, both of you stealing glances at the other while they weren't looking. When you finished, you took the plates and set them aside before shyly saying, "Thank you again, Din. You have helped me so much with this favor, and if I can repay you in anyway just tell me."

"It was nothing, and you owe me nothing, I promise."

You looked over at him, a soft and kind smile showing on your face, "I feel bad not doing anything for you or paying you. There has to be something?"

Din was quiet for a few minutes, his eyes taking in your earnest and open body language, taking in how your own eyes danced around his form, and before he could think twice about it, he said, "There is one thing..."

"Anything, you only have to ask."

Din took in how perked up you were, leaning towards him in the small space that separated the two of you. Taking a deep breath for courage, Din leaned in himself, and whispered, hot breath ghosting over your face, "A kiss?"

You swallowed thickly in shock, and met his gaze, finding no teasing look, only want so soft you thought you'd melt, so you replied by softly nodding and slowly drifting your eyes shut. Then you felt it, a soft brush of plush lips against your own, before they connected fully. The kiss was quick, and loving, and you followed his lips as he pulled away. Slowly, you both looked at eachother, taking in the other's reaction, before reaching out again. You buried one of your hands in Din's sinfully soft curls, as one of his broad palms cupped your cheek. This kiss was more passionate, but not pushing. The two of you finally just enjoying the feel of the other. The kiss expressed so much love and passion that it had you addicted and never wanting to pull away. But eventually the two of you needed to leave the other for air, and as your chests both heaved slightly, Din whispered while his forehead pressed against yours, "I also wouldn't say no to a date."

Send Me Tropes

#fanfic tropes ask game #din djarin x reader #din x reader #whoever points out the reference i made gets a big kiss and all of my love

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binniesthighs · 4 years

Text

hello stranger | reader x changbin |

WELP here it is, my totally self indulgent reader x binsung fic that has developed into so much more than I expected!! thank you lovelies for hyping me up to write more of this story ily!! hehe we are indeed in for a spicy, angsty, and fluffy time!! You can read part 1 here

Part 2

Paring: self insert, female reader x seo changbin, female reader x han jisung

Genre: strangers to lovers, fluff, smut, angst,

Tags: (of this part) college au, rapper!jisung, rapper!changbin, artist!reader, established fwb!jisung, explicit language, oral (f receiving), that good, good makin’ out, sub!reader, cockydom!jisung, on that note, jisung being horny as hellll, the cutest bestfriend!felix there is, changbin’s flirty ass, a sprinkling of angst, ro being in her fanfic writer element uwu

Word count: 3.1k

Chapters

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3

[00:19]

han jisung: you like the performance?

you looked stunning.

where did you go? i couldn’t find you. i even stayed after.

[00:28]

me: oh really? just for me?

han jisung: you left something at my place last time, I was going to give it back to you.

me: that’s why you wanted to see me? i don’t believe you.

[00:36]

han jisung: are you doing anything right now?

╚ ——————————————— ╝

Against the heat of your sweating body on the matted quilt, a winter chill seeped in through the wooden windowsill, dusty with age. Had you not been burning with heat, you would have been freezing. Fistfuls of the quilt filled up your hands, and your fingers dug into the fabric hard enough to make your nailbeds change color. You hadn’t even noticed that you had been slightly grinding into his mouth.

“you taste so good baby,” Jisung’s breath swirled into your swollen clit.

A tiny squeak escaped your lips at the sensation.

Both of his arms had curled under your legs to pull them farther apart, lending his nails to dig lightly into your skin. He chuckled out pridefully onto your sensitive bud, the vibrations heightening your arousal. Jisung kissed gently into you with the luxurious sounds of your excitement and his saliva mixing on his lips. His eyes held a mischievous green haze as he would look up at you with his big brown eyes, flattening out his tongue to lick at you in thick, agonizing lines. At last, he would suck and on your clit, flicking his tongue around it sporadically, as if he was giving every nerve ending his complete attention.

The way that he would suck on your clit was unreal.

As if to balance yourself, you raked one of your hands instinctually through his nearly black strands.

“Ji--” You choked out half of his name, too weak to summon the rest.

You were impossibly close. With eyes scrunched up a little, they rolled up from his taunting gaze to your ceiling.

On the shitty paint job up there, there was a crack. It was an ugly crack at that: the kind that was browning from water damage and segued into other tinier veins. Your apartment was old anyway. It wasn’t uncommon for old apartments like that to have cracks in the ceiling.

You hadn’t really recognized it before.

Why haven’t I noticed that before?

“fuck, you’re so wet for me, aren’t you?”

“Mmhm.” You focused back on his lapping tongue, feeling the tension build once more. “ ‘M close.”

Jisung quickened his pace, sucking harder and rubbing the tip of his tongue over your mound. You could even feel the little haughty smile on his mouth when your hips jerked up toward him.

As you neared your orgasm, memories fogged your eyes, you let them roll over and over, relishing in how good it had all felt. Suddenly you wanted nothing more than to feel filled up hopelessly deep inside.

“f-fingers” Your whispers begged.

Jisung obliged, sliding his index and ring in to pump in and out of your walls.

Perhaps you had made it up to feel better than it was in your head.

You came a couple minutes after, limbs shaking under his teasing while he helped you ride out your high, tongue still circling around your clit. Shallow inhales filled up your lungs as you calmed your body.

You didn’t remember it feeling like that...you remembered it being...unreal.

Jisung lead kisses up your stomach before giving a couple fleeting kisses to your breast, smug as he always was.

“-Felt good?”

Little aftershocks still tugged at your body. “...As always Ji.”

“Mm. Good.” He beamed widely with the pearly white grin that had drawn you to him in the first place. “I’ve been thinking about this all day.” Jisung tugged his boxers down, letting free his properly hardened member, veiny and tip dripping with his eager pre-cum. “I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

Jisung prowled over your body, stretching out your legs up in front of him.

Your thighs shook in his hands.

“Jisung, wait--”

“--What is it?” Worriedly, his eyes widened looking down at you.

“...can we give it a sec? Can you give me a sec?”

His puzzled expression gave you his answer.

“I just fucking came Ji, can’t you give me a damn minute to settle down before we go at it again?”

His mouth formed a little “oh” then he slid down to lay beside you, brows crossed slightly. “...you’ve never asked for this before.”

“just shut up and kiss me alright?”

Jisung nodded, bridging the gap between your faces and the mess of pillows under your heads.

When Jisung wasn’t trying to fuck you, he was actually a decent kisser. Against your better judgement, there had been times when you would let your mind linger over these kisses that you had wished he had given you more of. His mouth was warm, and tasted slightly of your arousal from before. Jisung’s tongue asked for permission on your bottom lip, which you granted entrance. He leaned himself further into you, moaning breathily into your mouth. Just because you liked how he would whine for you, you pulled at his lip with your teeth.

You don’t know why your eyes had opened, but there it was again. The crack.

How long had it been there?

╚ ——————————————— ╝

“I just can’t believe you, Y/n.”

Felix’s voiced echoed though the empty alley, your favored shortcut to campus. Dumpsters covered with snow lined the road riddled in potholes. In each hole, melted snow had leaked in to turn to ice once more. Felix had already slipped three times. Both of your arms linked together to make him feel better.

“How many times are you gonna make me apologize? It ended up being fine anyway.”

“When I say to text me when you get back, what are you supposed to do?”

“Text when I get ba-- “

“--Text when you get back!!!” The little puffball on Felix’s hat bounced in his frustration. “You couldn’t even text me to tell me that something had happened? Do you know how nervous I was?”

“Felix, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Does that do it?”

Your adorable companion grimaced at you, unamused. “I just think that I’m more astonished that you actually stayed over. What the hell did he offer to you? Food? Money?”

“Felix!!” You shoved him away from your body in your dramatic shock. “How dare you think that I would stoop that low!”

“...Well...”

“HEY!”

“You know how I feel about Jisung.”

“He’s not Jisung...that’s for sure.”

“You know about them Y/n. You yourself have said that they’re all the same.”

“Cocky, overzealous dickheads who know exactly what to do with their mouths?”

Felix rolled his eyes coupled with an annoyed groan under his breath. “You know that’s not what I mean.” He huffed out his breath into the freezing air. “His presence didn’t nauseate you?”

“I was tired. I honestly don’t remember falling asleep, I only remember waking up before the sun came up and leaving.”

“-Didn’t even say goodbye? See you again? Your phone number?”

“I don’t plan on seeing him again.”

“You don’t?”

“He...looked at me weird.”

Felix let out a flabbergasted pshhhh, which turned into a startled little gasp when his foot caught the ice. As always, you were there to catch his falls.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That he looked at me weird! What the hell else is it supposed to mean?”

“Care to expand?”

It had been four days. Four days that had felt much longer than four days. Four days since he had looked at you like you like you were the only person to ever live and breathe. You knew what was in his eyes. It was something you hadn’t truly felt on your body for a long time.

“You’re perfect.” He had said to you, barely knowing more than your name.

In your lusty haze that night, you had said something about being all his.

You barely knew more than his name.

In the days after when you recalled the whole night, searching for answers to why you had said what you had, no explaination pieced together. You hadn’t belonged to anyone in such a long time, and you certainly didn’t belong to him.

He had asked to know you better, but you kissed the words away on his lips before he could say any more.

Your body shivered placing the memory of his fingers tracing up and down your back as you had studied his features, the two of you still connected.

You turned to your friend, “No. Because there isn’t anything more to talk about. He looked at me weird, and I’d rather not see him again.”

“~Oookay then~” Felix nuzzled into your arm. “You working today? Can you make it Chan’s after? We’re gonna play some Smash and there’s a new DLC!”

“-Can’t make it, I’ve got some projects to work on.”

“School or the other kind?”

“Both. My new paper should be coming today.”

“Suit yourself...but we’ll miss youuuu.” The peppy blonde squeezed hard where he held onto you, only to have his feet fall out from under him on the ice.

You quickly softened his fall, holding his body up before his butt would hit the concrete. “I don’t think that I’m the one that you should be worrying about ‘lix.”

╚ ——————————————— ╝

From your favorite corner of the library, the sun would shine the brightest at sunset, and luckily, often your scheduling would let you see it. Sometimes you liked to think that you owned it in this little corner on the fourth floor. Better yet, it was situated near the stacks of old newspapers and periodicals so seldom did this corner see anyone else other than you.

The shelf was nestled near to one of the floor-length windows which overlooked the skyline. At this time of year nearest to the aftermath of Christmas, the city lights were still peppered with greens, reds, yellows and blues. You thought to yourself that there was nothing more magnificent than the way the sky would fade from the color of blood oranges to the depths of the ocean with the dawn. You had painted it nearly a hundred times, but each time you were left unsatisfied; it was impossible for your hands to recreate something so unique.

Standing this close to the glass, you could feel the winter cold emanating off of it.

“--Beautiful right?”

His voice had startled you, and for a moment you had thought that you had imagined him.

“‘Kinda thing makes me wanna write.”

He walked up right next to you, hands in his pant’s pockets. A billowy looking black hoodie wrapped around his body and his gaudy silver chain peeked from under his collar. You shouldn’t have expected him to look directly at you. He still wouldn’t give you the pleasure until you demanded it.

Silently the two of you stood watching the sun dissipate beyond the horizon for what seemed like hours. Just as you remembered, his massive aura was nearly suffocating. There was something new however: the scent of rosemary and cedarwood which hung around him.

At long last, he muttered, “You didn’t give me a chance to see you off.”

You swallowed dry. “What are you doing here?”

“You gonna answer my question first?” From the corner of his eyes, his stormy pupils teased you.

“You first.” You straightened yourself best you could.

“My roommate goes here. I was looking around for him. Your turn.”

Changbin took his hands out from his pockets to intentionally twist the silver rings around his fingers.

“I work here.” You answered, opting to finesse your way out of answering his question by answering yours.

“Huh. You’re a librarian?” He scoffed out a single laugh. “Why do I find this slightly ironic...considering where we met.”

“I just move stuff around. Ever heard of a part time job?” You clenched out the words between your teeth.

“Oh believe me, I have. Got a few myself. It’s what I get for choosing music over school.”

“How honorable.”

“I’m a man of honor...as you know.” His eyes finally cast down at you.

Frankly, your memory must’ve been shit, because he looked even more unreal than you remembered.

“Actually, I’m kind of glad that I ran into you here. What a coincidence, huh?”

“--Sure.” You quipped.

Changbin tilted his head with a growing smirk. “Knees feeling better?”

“They’re fine.”

“Good thing that I was there to help you.”

“You don’t have to pretend like you’re talking about my knees Changbin.”

You turned to walk away, only for him to twist himself around into your path.

“You’ve got me.” He rose his arms up in defeat. “Since I didn’t get your number, I didn’t get the chance to tell you--” Changbin’s body mass leaned ever so slightly closer to you, his dark eyes glossing over with that same confidence that he held so naturally. He breathed into your ear, “I really enjoyed our time together.”

His words send a shiver down your entire body that you prayed he didn’t see. You took a hand flat to his chest to remove him from your space.

“D-don’t you have a roommate that you should be finding?”

“Libraries are big places. Plenty of places for me to get lost...”

He advanced again, cupping a hand to the side of your face and rubbing his thumb into the soft of your cheek.

There he was, looking at you again like that. Had it not been addicting, you would have been terribly annoyed by it now.

Changbin tilted his face nearer, his lips just barely grazing over yours. Something about his scent made you feel like you were enchanted.

“Have you been thinking of me as much as I have of you?”

He sucked in a sharp inhale, then sealed your lips with his. He took both sides of your face in his hands, holding on you with such a dire grip it was as if he felt like you would melt into nothing in his hands. Every run of his lips over yours was different from the last; but the way in which he poured himself into it all was the exact same. He used his full weight to push the two of you into the metal shelf, bracing the back of your head so you wouldn’t get hurt. Changbin pressed his body into you fully, nearly engulfing you with his broad chest. There was nothing else in his kisses besides pure, unadulterated desire.

Four days since he had kissed you. Four days that had felt much longer than four days.

Hesitantly, your hands twitched at your sides, deciding to hold him back. You hadn’t noticed, but his own hands had fallen from your face to cascade down your arms to wrap them around him himself. Under the fabric of his hoodie, you could feel every single curved muscle. Before you could explain it, your fingers traversed all around the expanse, drawing in all the pieces that your brain hadn’t thought to commit to memory. The second that you did, he smiled into your mouth.

“So you have.” His husky tone spilled into your ear after he gently broke from your lips.

Changbin moved to kiss at your pulse at your neck, leaving you to tremble under his fluttering movements. Your teeth bit into your lip as to not produce a sound; your fear of someone walking round the corner only made you more anxious and thrilled. He pulled the collar of your sweater down to increase the pressure of his mouth, drawing little whimpers from your throat.

“Changbin, what are you--”

Before he could do any more damage, he pulled back, putting your collar right back in place. Between the two of you, your exasperated little gasps filled the air. Slowly, he run his thumb over your slightly swollen lips.

“I meant it, I’d like to get to know you more.” He swept your hair back with a couple fingers.

“I was planning on not seeing you again.” You gathered up your will again.

Changbin tsked, “That wasn’t how you kiss someone you don’t want to see again.”

You pulled his hands from off your face. “I should be going. And you should too.”

“You’re unbelievable.” He scoffed with disbelief.

You really were. Just from kissing him, you had felt how inexplicably wet you had become. Every part of your body ached for just a little more, and you could have it. But you wouldn’t let yourself. He didn’t own you.

“Need me to show you to the stairs?”

“No.” He spat out the word. “Don’t walk away from this.”

“Who are you to tell me what to do?”

“I thought that I just made myself pretty damn clear.”

“--As did I.”

“No, you didn’t.”

Changbin strode up to you, the little thin chain on his pants swaying.

“Give me your number.” He said in earnest. For once, you saw his confidence falter.

“I said, I don’t plan on seeing you again.”

“--Then I’ll give you mine. You don’t even have to use it and I can’t reach out to you, how’s that?”

“You’re acting like I’ll want to.”

He exhaled out cooly, “Why the hell else would you kiss me like that?”

Why did you kiss him like that?

You reached out from your back pocket to slide out your phone. “Don’t expect anything. I’ll probably just delete it after long.”

He typed in the numbers, then grinned, announcing, “I doubt that.” Once done, he pulled your collar back up just a little bit higher to fix how it had become askew on your frame.

He sighed with finality, toying with his rings once more. “I think that I’ve been lost in here long enough.”

╚ ——————————————— ╝

[01:47]

han jisung: are you doing anything right now?

Your pencil clicked down to your desk with a wooden little thunk. The state of your room was a mess; not like he would have cared. Back at your desk, you glanced down at your unfinished sketch and the scattering of watercolor paintbrushes and paints. During the late hours of the night, your brain would get hazy, and your inhibitions would likely smear like the little pools of blue watercolor accidently spilled on your desktop.

Your tired fingers typed out the word “no.”

Outside of your tiny window dusty with age, you could still see a bit of the twinkling of lights on the cityscape. During the night, they looked like a rainbow of stars reflected upon the night’s ocean.

Your tired fingers deleted the word “no”, then opened a new message. For a moment, you hovered over the keyboard.

[01:49] CB

You really were unbelievable.

me: are you doing anything right now?

196 notes · View notes

peachy-inserts · 4 years

Text

𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘴𝘢𝘩𝘪

✉︎request: I'm in! 💍🎉 and since you mention decorating with him, could I ask you for some hcs about decorating for the holidays (or halloween or fall or anything, really) with Asahi, please? once you're back from your break, of course

✎a/n: i ended up writing not just decorating but ab the holidays over all :)

✰warnings: n/a

➳ ᴀꜱᴀʜɪ

Christmas is his favorite time of year for several reasons. He gets to stay home with you, give you things that make you happy, go home to see your family (they adore him), and best of all? It’s always cold. Now, that has several benefits to it

He’s always hot.

You’re always cold

He’s always hot no matter the weather and you’re freezing in the low temperatures, meaning he always has you tucked into his chest or nestled beneath his arms

Loves all things soft. Has at least 7 fleece blankets that he excitedly pulls out of storage on December first of every year, which he washes in copious amounts of fabric softener and leaves delicately arranged in every room of the house. You have three draped off the couch alone, and he fusses when they’re rustled or pulled onto the cushions, always coming back several times a day to neatly fold them.

Takes up knitting. Fails miserably. Tries his hand at crocheting. Fails miserably at that too. Does have a niche talent for sewing, though, he discovers. Spends the holiday season working on a massive quilt in simple colors, one that matches the comforter already on your bed so that it may be kept folded at the foot for extra cold nights. He had initially wanted to make individual squares on which he would embroider what resembled your favorite memories together, but after finishing 2 realized he’d never be able to finish in time for your gift exchange

“Please, don’t get me anything!” and then he gives you a truck load of heartfelt, incredibly thoughtful gifts, some he spent major bank on and others he made lovingly by hand, that he had likely been working on months beforehand

Asahi is a green and red Christmas rather than a blue and white Christmas, and prefers warm clear lights as opposed to colored ones. He says it brings out the best in your other decorations instead of drowning them out, and you trust him of course, given that he’s a designer

Insists on cutting your own tree down every year, except he can never really tell what size you need. One year, he got one too big, comically so, so the next year he overcompensated trying to avoid his last year’s mistake and got one way too small, and so it continued in a vicious cycle…

You opted to instead take a tape measure with you from now on out

Is panting and sweating through his parka, and yet he still refuses to let you help with dragging the tree out to the car ‘so you don’t ruin that nice coat he got you’, but a little piece of you thinks it’s for his own pride

Puts mistletoe in every corner of the house and then shyly tries to catch you under it as if he doesn’t already just kiss you whenever he feels like it

Puts such careful effort into what decorations go outside! Opts to make a lot of DIY decor, excessively adorned wreaths on every door, candles in each window in the exact same spot, and the inflatable reindeer placed in just the right location so that they are visible from the street, but not blinding. He even goes out of his way to manicure the snow covered lawn so that it’s free of leaves poking through that white blanket, and has just the right amount of snow under each window. How??? I don’t know. Magic touch.

Insists on doing the outdoor part by himself because he doesn’t want you to get cold. I think I’ve mentioned in at least two other posts before that Asahi is constantly concerned about your warmth, and that still applies here. Tells you he’s got it, don’t worry about a thing! And then later you see him slip off the ladder and land in a thankfully deep pile of snow through your living room window

You bring him hot chocolate since he won’t let you help out outside and he cries a little bit, tries to play it off as the cold weather messing with his allergies

112 notes · View notes

vidalinav · 4 years

Text

Cassian’s Love is Warm (4/4)

Summary: Nesta’s recovery in the Illyria and her developing relationship with Cassian or the part where it all comes full circle.

Links: AO3, Fanfic.net, Nesta’s Love is Quiet Chapter List, General Masterlist

All of you knew how this was going to end so don’t @ me.

Essay of an Author’s Note on the bottom (Please read)

Nesta comes home with three broken ribs and a sprained ankle and Cassian has to stop himself from adjusting her coat every time she breathes. Margery, it seems, makes a fine soldier.

“How did this even happen?” He asks, his voice a tightly wound string. He places a hand gently on her forearm guiding her past the living room and the pictures that wink and wave beyond their control. The glaze in her eyes saying too much.

“Training near the cliffs is not a good idea.”

That’s exactly what Margery tells him when he arrives in the med clinic hours earlier, his heart thumping loudly, a pounding in his head telling to hit everything in sight. She is lying on a cot, the near identical glazed look staring back at him.

It’s the tonic, Margery explains. A special mix of willow bark and poppy fluff that would make Nesta loopy for a while, but not feel a thing. When he asks her how she’s holding up, Nesta merely smiles, one-side of her lips raising while she leans her head against the wall. He takes it as a sign that the tonic is working

Cassian swallows the urge to grumble as the healer takes forever to appear, mumbling to the room that she should set her priorities straight and heal patients. But the healer, probably having her fair share of encounters with overbearing fae males, is quick to hold up her hands as she enters the tent, her voice assertive as she explains.

She needs to take this every few hours. Plenty of sleep, perhaps a warm bath, and absolutely no training. Cassian memorizes the list. He ignores the part where she says she’s fine, because only time will tell and the fact that she’s fae means nothing when she is sitting there in a daze, having obviously been hurt only hours before.

Nesta says he’s being dramatic.

Cassian can’t deny the claim. He only knows that as Nesta shuffles towards the chair in the dining room, she sits extra slowly, wincing as she twists in the seat. Even breathing seems to hurt her, and Cassian unconsciously holds his breath. Sympathy pains, he thinks, not some slight pull on a string they have barely acknowledged.

“Are you hungry?” He asks, anxious to do anything that is not standing their awkwardly, hoping that she will tell him where it hurts and what to do about it.

Nesta shakes her head. Cassian huffs in frustration.

“I can make you food.” He suggests, but Nesta merely lays her head on her arms and closes her eyes.

Cassian has to stop himself from touching her. He wants to run his hands through her hair, to pat her head until she leans against his palm, to hold her until she’s fast asleep and even then he swears he wouldn’t let her go.

He does none of this of course.

“Leave me alone.” He hears, the sound muffled by her sweater. Cassian taps his foot on the ground, the impatience getting the better of him.

“No.” He asserts. Nesta lifts her head, glaring at him with that look he’s seen a million and two times. If Cassian wasn’t so worried, he would have laughed outright. “Not until you’re better. After that you can kick me out of the house, toss me in the mud, throw me all the way back to Velaris. But not until then. Not until I know you’re okay.”

Nesta sighs and Cassian wants to continue arguing—listing all the ways she can dismiss him entirely, but she puts her arms out as if to say carry me and Cassian all too readily obliges.

He ends up setting her down on the cushioned mattress, pulling the duvet up and over. Her hair tangling with the silvery blue, but he doesn’t comb it like his fingers ache to do. Instead, he rushes to get her a glass of water and another drop of that healing tonic, which she swallows with a twist of her mouth.

Cassian waits until her eyes droop, until they close, until her hand goes slack on the glass, that he carefully unfolds and sets on the counter. He places her hand on her stomach and pretends that her skin doesn’t feel as soft as silk or that she doesn’t smell like aching dreams and heartache.

He wants to stay but he doesn’t.

Because it’s intrusive? He asks himself. Because it would mean too much, his heart answers back. Because there’s something about her that makes him want to be soft. To tuck away all the cares of the past, fluff every pillow, ridding them of the melancholy woes and the hopeless nights, gathering the quilts until they sit on top of both of them. Nothing but sweet dreams and lavender smiles.

But it is all a dream, he thinks. Nothing more than that… The two of them, just a collection of everything he has taken for granted, a mere reminder of everything he could possibly regret. There is no them, there is only her and him. Two separate beings tied by a war-tangled history and childhood sorrow.

Pain recognizes pain. Anger recognizes anger. That’s why he is pulled towards her, not some invisible string barely knotted. It is not because gazing at her is like waking up and finding he is young again. Not five hundred years filled with wars and scars too match, but the insatiable desire to learn and relearn and learn some more. Everything new and bright.

Every color of discovery is hidden behind her eyelids, and Cassian wants to wake her up. Wants to shake her, jumble her clothes, mess with her perfect hair and her perfect pin-straight spine, and ruffle the perfection out of her and strangely… Cassian wants her to yell at him for it, wants her to get so mad that she’ll explode like those distant stars behind him. He wants to see her purse her lips as if sharp teeth will shred him into two, wants those eyes of hers to pierce his soul, seven shades of grey and blue starlight.

Cassian wants her to tell him those things he hears in his dreams. Not the laughs or the breathy moans, but the trembling, fiery words that have his knees melting to the floor.

Bastard... Nobody… Weak. Coward. Not worth the time. Never good enough. It was all the same to him. He’d heard the words enough times to brush them off quickly, but not from Nesta. Not in the way that mattered.

Cassian wants to hear them from her now… wants to stop dreaming strange, improbable dreams.

He walks away to keep himself—to keep his hands—from causing such a raucous.

Cassian goes to stand in the living room and waits, past the loveseat and the cushions, past the pictures judging him as he paces. He huffs on his way to the kitchen, pulls out a pan and then puts it back into the cupboard. Opens the cabinet, takes out bread, makes a sandwich. It tastes like sawdust in his mouth and he plops it back down on the plate.

He starts moving the furniture as a last act of desperation. Cassian hates moving the furniture and Nesta is never satisfied. She says it’s because they’re missing something, and she can’t quite put her finger on what. And though it’s originally Cassian’s idea, he merely replies that he has better things to do than spend hours comparing how the couch looks against each wall.

Truthfully, perhaps it isn’t in him to make homes out of war zones or pretty things out of bones and blood. Scars don’t decorate the living room as easily as they do his body and the house was never really his home. Just a skeleton structure with tattering walls and worn wood. Never with a mat at the front door saying welcome, how have you been, stay a while. He has never been welcome here.

The house isn’t like that now, he thinks, a fact that makes Cassian smile as he tosses the throw pillows aside. He lays his head against the soft grey of the couch, looking out into that big picture window. Nesta could read there, he thinks. He imagines her feet tucked in, the light playing with the color of her hair, her eyes, the book open and wide as Nesta devours it. The dust of snow in the background. Maybe he’d be sitting across from her, watching her eyes scan the pages, or maybe he’d be in the kitchen, a savory fragrance drifting through the house like dawdling clouds.

Cassian shakes his head to stop the dreaming, his feet firmly planted on the burgundy carpet and not out in that burgeoning yellow sky dusted with powder blue. She won’t like it here, his mind keeps repeating, taunting and tantalizing all the ways Nesta can say I hate you in looks. She won’t need them when she can say it so well…

Though, Nesta’s never actually said the words. Good morning, yes. You idiot, most definitely. You brute, his favorite. But never, I hate you.

She could, though, and that scares him most of all. The idea that she can change her mind like he is merely a paint color or some bunched up fabric tossed aimlessly on the bed.

What if… what if he opens the door, lets her move in, change all the furniture, move it around, a plant here, a clock there, some pretty pictures on the wall, and she walks out no worse for wear, ready to leave it all behind? What if he is so easily left behind? Not even worth a memory. Not even called a mistake. Just a moment in an enduring lifespan, so long-lived that every choice could mean someone else. Something else that is not him.

And, maybe, that’s why Cassian doesn’t tell her that he misses her every time she leaves, that he stores conversations in his brain so he can recount them to her later, every part of his day filled with will Nesta laugh at this? What will Nesta think about that? Such joy in revealing himself like filling in lines, coloring in glass, until they all but gleam in the morning sun. Something holy and sacred in the fragments.

Something breakable.

Cassian once wishes for more time and here it is. He spends it wringing his hands and running his fingers through his hair, mulling over the thousand different shades of Nesta Archeron. Not yellow, because it doesn’t hurt to look at her. Not green because her age never correlates with that smart mouth of hers and the wit that keeps him roaring. She could be purple because his skin always aches after touching her. Possibly blue, but not the blue that hides pools of mystery, that pulls and lures and drowns, but the light blue that he looks up to every morning, the color his wings and heart yearn for. Baby blue like forget-me-nots and bright eyes.

Eyes that she could look down at him with, he thinks.

Cassian sighs frustrated, picking up a pillow that presses uncomfortably at his side. The room feeling small as his thoughts abound around him, leaping past like dancing shadows. He can’t sit still. Not when his soul feels as if it will jump out of his body and find someone more stable minded.

Cassian looks around him. So many fragile pieces, so many happenstances…

Nesta is right when she says something is missing. Cassian feels it too.

He stares out that window where the light filters through, imagines their lives in this house. Pictures the coy looks, the surprising smiles, the way they move around each other, some pull from the pit of his stomach to the bottom of her bodice that keeps them coming back for more. Never far from each other, his arms reaching for her. Always reaching— Their noses almost touching.

And maybe…

They knock into a bookshelf or two in their effort to get closer. Run into a coffee table on their way to the couch. Maybe they don’t even make it, maybe they just fall into the small chair in the corner, Cassian careful not to knock the book that is perched on the arm. He can imagine the sharp look Nesta gives him when she thinks he’s lost the page, his own answering smirk when he sets it carefully on the table.

Perhaps, the ice on the window makes them cold, but instead of pulling the blankets out where they rest on the back of the chair, they scramble to meet. Every inch of their skin touching the other, wanting to make each other warmer. Softer. Infinitely more pliant—

Cassian is almost afraid to blink as he sees it all. The room awake, the fire roaring and loud.

He knows what’s missing. He wants to laugh at how obvious it is.

When Cassian enters her room, Nesta is sleeping soundly. Her chest moving steadily up and down. Some part of his brain whispers creep, but Cassian can’t help but stare. Not because she’s beautiful—she’s always been too beautiful for words or quick glances—but because a possessive part of him, the part that’s buried in the middle of his chest, squeezes like a tight fist and says here she is, in our house, in our room, in our bed. She is not afraid of us.

She is not ashamed of us, it says, and Cassian breathes in the words. A deep inhale of possibility as he steps closer, pulling up the blankets she’s aimlessly pushed away.

But, Cassian is quick to step back as he catches his actions. His hands curling at his sides. He is not here to dream, he thinks. Not here to ponder on what might have been or what can be if he ever finds the guts to stop living in fantasies.

Instead, he zones in on the bookshelves tucked into the corner, framing the walls like studious soldiers standing proudly erect. They are tall, a little past his height. Cassian wonders how Nesta can reach the highest shelves for she has filled them all. He laughs under his breath as he sees her trying.

Nothing ever could stop an Archeron sister.

But, Cassian is careful as he collects each book, laying them down on the chair that sits beside it. He counts them as he goes. Twenty turning to thirty turning to fifty in mere moments. How she can read all of them and still want more, he cannot understand.

Once he is finished, he takes the edge of the shelf in his hands and shuffles it forward. Cassian hears a clink from behind.

A picture frame falls to the floor…

Cassian is quick to grasp it, cutting himself where the glass cracks in the corner, but he can pay no mind when he sees the image. The blood welling up in the space between stars.

It’s the two of them.

Her and him. Imagined with such soft smiles, and something in their eyes he doesn’t want to name.

Cassian wants to cradle the picture to his chest, hide it before Nesta can see. He spares a quick glance in her direction, but she is not standing over him ready to snatch it from his hands. He doesn’t think he could let it go now even if she demanded it.

Cassian traces his fingers along the image and wonders if it is possible to jump in the frame and ask the two of them a thousand different questions. All of them bordering on improbable. An impossible dream.

How do you love when you do not know how to love?

He swears he sees their mouths move, their voices loud and bright.

Love the best you can.

Nesta pads to the living room, her body aching as she makes each step. She rubs her eyes and yet when her hands move from her face, Cassian is undoubtedly there.

She can’t help the soft smile that appears. It has been easier to smile lately, and Nesta isn’t concerned about how foreign it might look across her face. He is there. He has always been there.

But, the living room is new.

And as Nesta uncovers all of it’s secrets, Cassian’s grin widens satisfied.

Her bookshelves frame the window and the armchair sits to the side. The couches mirror the fireplace, roaring and loud, and all of it works somehow. Like it never has before. Cassian moves around her as she moves along the walls, tracing her hand over the soft fabric and eventually over the books that sit unperturbed by the light of the sun.

Cassian doesn’t say anything, but he stands behind her as she peruses the living room, her gaze going up to the hanging lamp and the chandelier they picked out all those weeks ago. It glimmers blue and green and leaves triangles on the white oak coffee table as it sways.

Her presence is all over this place. She is in every pillow, and every book, and every candle that litter the tables. Every color, every sound, ever touch…

Cassian is there too.

Little accents of fur and Illyrian suede and weapons that hang neatly on the rack. He is there and she is there and together there is place for both of them. It makes her heart clench to think this is hers and her eyes start to burn as she clutches her chest.

She turns to face him, expecting warm looks and soft embraces.

She’s met with a frame instead…

Nesta wants to claw it out his hands. Like some secret buried and never forgotten, rising from beneath her feet.

Her eyes begin to water as she stares, Cassian watching for bolting signs or some feral vindictiveness ready to storm and rage out of her. Her hands scrunch into fists and she can feel herself reaching, ready to fight for her last instance of security. Danger going off in her head like loud cymbals.

The two of them blink back at her in the frame. Wide-eyed and innocent.

“Why do you have that?” She asks. Cassian hikes up the image, his eyes rolling over its structured planes as he contemplates her question. Her voice a soft drum compared to his roaring silence.

“I found it.”

“Were you sneaking through my things?” She can hear the shrill yell like an echo in her ears. Distant. As if she were holding onto the moment by bare hands as the anger threatens to pull her away. Some distant winds already grabbing hold of her feet.

His nostrils flare, ready to argue, but Nesta steps back, holding her hands up as she reaches for her neck, swallowing a whole universe of shame and hot, fiery words.

Cassian follows. Down a rabbit hole, an abyss of unsaid feelings, tripping over himself as he reaches for her.

“I want this too.” He vows. His eyes wide and shining. “I want this more than you know.”

Nesta shakes her head, her back and chest sore. The pain getting worse as she breathes deeply, as if she can’t breathe at all. Like she’s already drowning, and no more air can reach her lungs.

“You shouldn’t have seen it.” She croaks, trying to force out the words. “You weren’t supposed to see it.”

Cassian rushes forward, his hair floppily landing across his face. His arms outstretched as they stop near her, curling back like withering vines and roses that fall at their feet.

“I can’t take it back,” He admits. To her. To himself. To the quiet walls that hold their breath. To the sleeping books all around them. To the people in their picture who do nothing but smile as if nothing at all is wrong with the world.

Nesta doesn’t snatch the picture away, but she closes her eyes, places her palms where stars start to form behind her eyelids.

“I want this.” He repeats and the words do nothing to calm that restlessness she has learned to embody like a second skin.

“You’ve said that already.” Nesta huffs, her movements careful as she wraps her arms around her middle, her hands clutching her dress. All of it giving too much away.

But, Cassian moves gently, steadily, carefully as he places his hands on her shoulders, moves them until he cradles her neck, her head titling to look up at him.

She can see it in his eyes—the familiarity.

She doesn’t have to hide with him. He knows.

Cassian knows what it feels like to wear pain as a fur coat, to collect anger like sticks thrown in a fire that spits and glares. All of it to keep them warm when their hearts have been buried under rock and ice and rain. When they have no home to return to, no roof over their heads, no family to burrow into. Nothing but soft winter nights and harsh winter words.

Nesta still has to remind herself that it’s spring and she wonders if Cassian will put up with her bitter frost in spite of blooming May’s… if he will still want her in the sunny July’s.

“You and me,” Cassian says as he sets his forehead on hers. “I want this more than anything.”

Nesta shuts her eyes, bleeding stars erupting behind. A mixture of snow and petals sprinkling down. Down. Down.

“Do you want this too?” She hears him whisper.

The smell of firewood burning reminds her of February forests and she buries her face into his chest. Squeezing him tighter as she hears the distant crackling in her ears. Sticks thrown into the fire and readily forgotten.

It is time to do more than burn, Nesta thinks. It is time to be more than frost.

“Yes.”

Nesta is not proud that she can beat them. She is not proud that her fists can be made into flames and her mind into an undisputable weapon. She is not proud that her enemies can grovel at her feet, or that she is safe from all of them.

When the sword in her hand shines like a mirror, she sees who she is. It is not a little girl with bloody hands. Not a young woman scared and alone. It is not a fae who doesn’t know where she belongs. It is simply, Nesta.

For whatever it’s worth. Whatever it costs.

There is nothing truly special about her at the core. Reduced to the literal, she is merely a human heart in a fae body, but beyond that she is just a person. Someone who thinks and feels and cries and laughs and sometimes regrets her life and circumstances, but she is not the only one who dreams.

And just like the others, she is strong. Weak, but strong.. and willful, often. Arrogant and pathetic. Uninteresting… humorous… even disastrous at times. Sometimes beautiful.

She is capable, Nesta affirms.

She is lovable.

Even if that word has never been one to describe her, even if that is only one part of who she is. She is loved, and she loves, and she is not ashamed.

Even so…

Love is not enough she thinks, as she rips open the envelope and out comes her sisters’ letter. Because the worst sound she has ever heard is the voice of Feyre telling her to leave, and the worst words she sees are the ones perfumed on the paper. Her eyes trailing the contents on the way to the kitchens.

Love has never been enough.

It is not enough in that little cabin. It is not enough when Feyre hunts. It is not enough when her father carries ships across seas. It is not enough when he falls to his knees, his head twisted to the right. The blood pooling like spilt paint.

It is certainly not enough when they ask her to come home, because they do. Elain first and Feyre following. She sees it in their handwriting, a joint letter this time, and Nesta wonders why they keep trying. What about her is so appealing?

Love is certainly not enough, now.

Nesta contemplates this as she rushes to Emerie, whose unloading a bag of flour that is half her size. Nesta grabs one end, Emerie at the other, and they both lug it to the corner, the bag flattening on the dusty floors.

They exchange greetings as Margery walks in, a long sword attached to her side. It is their turn for chores and admittedly it is something that Nesta has learned to look forward to, if only because she gets to see them, twice a week.

“Do you plan on cutting carrots with that sword?” Emerie questions with a raise of her brow and a light tilt to her voice.

“And a nice rat, too, if we’re lucky enough to find one again.”

Emerie mockingly gags and Nesta smirks at her friend’s antics. She supposes it’s just the price they pay for living near a forest and being the easiest access to food.

Margery tilts her chin towards her, “How’s your back?”

Nesta raises both hands in assurance, seemingly touched by the subtle affection. “All healed.”

She means it, too. In fact, Nesta has never felt better. She awakes now with little more than a dream, not a wink of a nightmare, and yet… she thinks of her sisters’ letter weighing heavily in her pocket.

Is it love when they write her? She questions. Because Nesta thinks she knows what love is. This is love.

These females laugh with her, they talk with her, they value her opinion. She has never once felt belittled or uneasy and yet all she can think about is the fact that at any moment it can all disappear. Nesta is almost afraid to blink in fear that she has made them up in some half-intoxicated dream. That she’ll waken to her grungy apartment, the four locks clamped shut, pieces of glass shattered on the floor.

This is their fault, she rages. For leaving her in the middle of nowhere when she was falling a part at the seams.

“I’m surprised our illustrious commander didn’t gut me for the injury.”

“Cassian isn’t like that.” She answers, trying to swat away the feeling of betrayal as she focuses on her friends.

“Oh, it’s Cassian now.” Margery smirks, looking to Emerie as her eyes light up. “Not that one or him.”

Emerie adding, “or buffoon or that oversized bat.”

“Yes. Yes.” Nesta concedes, grabbing a ladle hanging from the wall, and giving them a dry look. “He’s all of those now.”

Margery huffs a laugh, going into her routine of ranting about her week. Nesta breathes a sigh of relief. She starts with Lord Devlon making her do drills to prove herself.

“If I have to do one more drill, my legs are going to fall off.”

“You’re still training?” Emerie asks and Margery sits in a chair at the table, leaning back as she places the sword and the harness all over the countertops. Nesta wants to roll her eyes. Margery has never been one to embody domesticity. Even the simplest of chores is somewhere in the range of pulling teeth and all she usually does is shine the steel until it gleams.

In typical fashion, Margery takes out a cloth and a bottle of polisher she’s conveniently stashed away. Emerie gives Nesta a look. Of course.

“The Rite is going to come up faster than you think, and there’s no way I’ll survive if I don’t get prepared.”

“You’re competing?” Emerie asks and Nesta supposes it would be surprising, given that Emerie never trains and straight up refuses when asked. She wonders if that’s also why they make good friends.

Margery merely shrugs, “If they let me.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Well,” Margery explains, her lips pursing, “then I guess I’m just going to have to go by Marco for a couple of weeks…”

Nesta blinks back in surprise.

“Or Jeremiah. Maybe Claud?” Margery jokes.

Emerie does not laugh and Nesta can’t tell if admiration is hidden in her eyes or something more akin to horror.

For Nesta, Margery is bold and Nesta has never been so bold as to demand what she wants. She wonders if she even can, if she has the ability to go against the choice people make for her—the life that people want for her and all of the roles that come with it. Mother knows, she’s never shown satisfaction, but Nesta has never spoken the words allowed. I don’t want this, she wants to say.

In fact, she admires both of her friends. One for running at the target headfirst and the other for refusing the target entirely. She could only wish to be half as brave as they are and though she is stubborn and angry and crass, Nesta always, always gives in.

“Personally,” Emerie starts, “I don’t understand the appeal of wreaking havoc in the mud.

“Why have the Rite anyways?” She questions, looking to Nesta.

She doesn’t voice her opinion and it’s a topic Emerie has been vocal about before.

Her lack of response doesn’t deter Emerie though, and Nesta thinks it’s because she finally has people to say it to. No one in their little group will judge her for it or kick her out into the snow and mud. No one except for Margery on occasion, whose will to fight sometimes outweighed her reasons.

“Why must fighting be the only things we’re known for like some war mongering peasants?”

“We live in a war camp.” Margery mentions casually, giving Nesta a look.

“Exactly, my point,” Emerie sifts, pointing her index to Margery who lounges and Nesta who tries to at least finish peeling the potatoes. “Why must we live in war camps, will we be at war for the rest of our lives? Will we be bearing sons just for them to die who knows where, for a cause that seems useless in comparison?”

“Do I have to mention that you make a living off selling weapons to these war mongering peasants or are you going to negate that in the next speech?”

“I could make a living doing anything,” Emerie scoffs. “I could quit right now and become a cobbler. You try and stop me.”

Margery snickers at the image, and Nesta can’t say she sees it either. But she refuses to mention how unlikely the possibility is, when just a year ago, Emerie is nothing but a daughter at the hands of her father, in search of some well-off husband. Just like her.

It’s just their life, she thinks. Is it so wrong to be the person people expect? Is it wrong to give in and get over it? All of their potential stored in their wombs and their breasts rather than the edge of their minds and their viperous tongues. Is it wrong to be a liar, when lying is taught at such a young age and rewarded with a wealthy life and six children? Did she want the wealthy life and six children? Is that the choice she gives up by becoming fae?

Is that choice she blames the world for?

“Who likes fighting anyways,” She exasperates, her voice rising as Emerie shifts to Nesta, her eyes bright and burning. “Do you like fighting?”

Nesta pauses at the words. Margery stopping her incessant need to see her knife shine like emerald seas and diamond-shaped skies.

She has been asked this question before. Nesta remembers it well.

It has been so many months… so many different Nesta’s before, each worn like a set of costumes and painted faces so that she could be tolerable. Easily chewed and swallowed.

Does she truly enjoy fighting?

Is the answer easy to digest?

Nesta takes a deep breath, looking towards the knife in her hands and the peelings littering the table like bodies in a battlefield.

“I like—I like that when I work hard, my muscles ache and it feels like proof that I did something. Does that make sense?” Nesta taps her fingers on the table, a nervous tick as Emerie nods. “I like that I get to spend time with people—with you all—when before I had no one.”

She clenches her fist around the hilt as she pauses. Her mouth having trouble finding the right words, or rather the ones that don’t yell at her to be said. Her throat burns and she gulps them down, but Nesta is tired of keeping her mouth shut, when all she needs to do is whisper.

“But, I don’t think I like fighting. The act…or the concept. I… sometimes, just… can only see the war.” She turns away, refusing to look at them, “I see the bodies and hear the screams… and I see it all. And I feel it all. And I just want to shut my eyes.” And Nesta does so as she speaks, the horror an echo in her memory, in her ears as it rings and rings and rings.

“I just want it to stop, but it’s the only thing keeping me awake. And I can’t lose myself again. I can’t.”

Emerie shifts towards her and Margery leans closer, setting down her sword on the bench. Nesta shakes her head, holding a hand to her throat, her body shaking.

“I’m afraid that if I stop, everything will go back to the way it was and I won’t be me anymore… and I won’t feel anymore… and I’ll be alone again.” Nesta hides face with her sleeves, “I don’t want to be alone.”

She trembles at the thought of them denying her for her weakness, but Emerie merely shuffles the potatoes away from her, placing the bowl on the counter. She comes to sit beside her, taking the knife from the table, sticking the tip into its wood. Nesta counts each twist.

“My father died in that war,” Emerie admits, looking to the floor even as she clenches her fists. “And I am happy that he did. I know I should be ashamed of such things, but I’m not. I couldn’t even cry.”

She drops the knife and places her hand on top of Nesta’s and her eyes widen in surprise.

“I don’t want to be alone either… So don’t fight if you don’t want to.”

Nesta sniffles, but nods, wiping her eyes where they’ve teared up without her permission. Emerie snaps her fingers and Nesta looks up quickly.

“In fact, come with me to the shop today. It’s not interesting work, and I can’t pay you much…or at all really,” Emerie trails, “but you could help me in the shop. I have to go to the blacksmiths today and I’ve been designing some of my own pieces if you’d like to see.”

Nesta agrees because it’s another choice she’s been granted, and Nesta can count on one hand how many she’s been offered over the years.

She stands to grab another bowl and get on with the chores that need to be completed before anything else can begin. This one is filled with cabbage; the green leaves dusted with mud. But, Margery grabs her arm, tugging lightly. A shadow passing over her face.

“My brother. He came home last spring and he still hasn’t looked any of us in the eyes. I like to imagine I know what he went through, but I know I never can. I want to learn to fight, so my brothers don’t have to…”

Margery stares, the conviction heavy in her eyes. “Never again will I let them go alone.”

She releases her hold, but Nesta can’t stop staring. Her gaze following as Margery moves to pick up the sword again, stepping to parry and swing in the small room. A true warrior, not because she can fight, but because she chooses to fight for the people she loves. The people who mean something to her.

It is enough to write her sisters.

They’re drunk on fairy wine, Nesta admits, as she stumbles out the doorway of the tavern and Cassian trips on the skirt of her dress.

“And that’s how I got banned from the Summer Court,” Cassian finishes, his cheeks red and his smile bright with intoxicated glee. “You see, it wasn’t my fault at all.”

Nesta gives him a look.

“It wasn’t!” He offers incredulously and she laughs at the face he makes, his cheeks flushed and bright red.

The air feels cool as they slow into a steady pace away from the tavern, the sky filled with specks of color. The mountains outlining constellations while all the stars are lit like a city in the clouds. She understands why this is the Night Court.

Cassian wraps her scarf around her shoulders as the wind picks up, and Nesta doesn’t tell him she doesn’t feel cold. Only clutches the fabric closer to her chest.

“Tell me something about your life before.” He says, his shoulders touching hers. In fact, there hasn’t been a moment where he hasn’t been touching her. Hands clasped, thighs brushing, fingers combing through her hair. Lips against lips are only one fraction of the ways the two of them can show affection, she learns.

“My stories are not as exciting as yours,” Nesta replies, settling into quiet contemplation. Too silent for a beautiful walk in the night.

Cassian glances at her, encouraging. “I want to hear them anyways.”

So, she tells him.

She tells him about the lessons. The governesses, the days her father wasn’t there. The brand-new piano he bought her when he missed her eighth birthday. How her mother was strict and frivolous and demanded perfection from her and how Nesta never was the daughter she wanted. She tells him about the sickness—that it took her mother quick and her father was never the same but that Nesta had never loved him the same after that too, because it was the first time he had failed her and it wasn’t the last.

She tells him how he lost everything and how the debt collectors came and broke his leg, Feyre watching while she ran upstairs with Elain. How after that, her father stopped being anything…stopped being alive. Her mother had died on the outside and her father had died on the inside and Nesta died with them because at some point she’d wanted to die…or felt like she was.

“I still love them now,” Nesta says, contemplating the lunacy, “even if they’re gone. I don’t know why. But I do.”

She shakes her head, her hand swiping over the side of her face, pushing the hair out of her eyes. “I remember hating them even as I loved them and now… I can’t even remember how. I can imagine it, but I can’t feel it.”

The stars flicker in specks of gold and silver and Nesta watches as they brush against the painted sky. How many do exist across the universe? She wants to know. That light up solely so someone can dream, and someone can wish, and another can fall in love. How many times does she herself, dream that things are different? How many times does she look up and wish?

“Do you think you’ll ever forgive them?”

Nesta turns her head, Cassian’s eyes never leaving the planes of her face.

“My parents?” She asks.

“Your sisters,” He clarifies, his face grimacing as he catches his breath, “Rhys… Amren… Azriel, Mor… me.” He finishes lamely.

“There’s nothing to forgive.” She lies.

Cassian scoffs. “I told you I didn’t understand why your sisters could love you and then played an accomplice—guiltless, I thought—and dragged you here without your consent.”

As if nothing has ever been taken from me without my consent, she wants to say.

“Thank you for the recap.” Nesta admonishes, walking ahead. Cassian steps forward, trailing behind.

“I say it because I know it’s going to end. This—” He stops to gesture around them, to each other, “being here. I know eventually we’re going to have to go back and it won’t be just us anymore.”

“It was never just us.”

“It’s different being here. You feel it, too, I know. It’s…easier.”

Nesta crosses her arms, “For you—it was never easy for me.”

“But that’s what I mean,” his voice stressing the words, “after all of this—after it’s done and we go back home—back to Velaris, I mean, will you forgive us? Will you forgive us when we’ve hurt you so badly?”

“You’ve hurt me?” She asks, a thrumming anger settling in her stomach. She almost forgets what it tastes like but as it bubbles up her throat, Nesta remembers.

There you are, she thinks.

“We didn’t help you—I didn’t help you after the war. I didn’t know what you needed,” Cassian explains desperately. “And I was certain what you needed wasn’t me.

“But if I was there—if I had pushed—things might have been different. It might not have taken so long.”

“Taken so long for what?” She spits, “For me to become someone I still don’t want to be.”

Nesta paces exasperated, her hands planted at her waist, her fingers itching to point and to prod at Cassian’s chest. You did this, she wants to say.

But that’s an excuse and Nesta is tired of excuses.

“All of you think you have so much control over me. That I yearn for all of you, and as soon as I don’t get your attention, I’m dying or angry or sad.”

She faces him. Her spine going rod straight, her chin raised high.

“My pain is my own. Only I can fix it.”

The words settle in her stomach and Nesta is strange to find relief instead of that regret gnawing and chewing through.

There is an end to her pain. It isn’t out of reach and unattainable, always loading over her head and heavy across her shoulders. It is in her grasp… to change how she feels, to actively work against what causes her shame and anger and horrifying despair. It is in her control to be who she wants, to say what she wants, to feel what she wants. All others be damned.

There is no one to please, and no one to be but herself.

Every day she can choose to fight and not with a sword or a bow or some knife strapped to her thigh, but with her mind, her attitude, her will to live. Against those false and very real memories and the lies she keeps telling herself to sleep at night. She doesn’t need magic to see things differently. Just a strong-will and an unrelenting hope for something better. To dream in a land of make-believe and to love in a world that was all but hopeless.

Nesta is capable. She is proud. She is loved and she feels…so many things. Her life is messy, sometimes regrettable, but not unforgettable. She could do something with it. Make something of it.

And who are they to fix her like some broken doll, tell her what to do like some little girl?

She is not a child and she cannot be broken.

Cassian gently grabs her hand and Nesta unclenches her fist in his palm. How easy it is for him to calm her as much as it is to light her aflame.

The quietness settles around them. The hot summer sun turning to cool summer nights.

“I’m sorry I wasted time.” He rattles, his lips loose from the alcohol and the night that hides them in pockets of intimate darkness. He reaches his hand out to tuck a stray hair behind her ear, but he pulls away fast, as if she burns him.

Cassian clenches his eyes shut and Nesta can see him questioning. All of the thoughts going through his brain and writing them across his face. But instead of denying her like she’s sure he will, he rushes to cradle her neck, tipping her head to meet his.

They’ve been in the position before.

Nesta remembers it well.

“You were worth the wait.” He says and Nesta’s eyes blinks at the admission, “not just these months… The 538 years. You were worth every minute and you’re worth every minute more.”

“You said you wanted time with me.” She says hazel meeting blue. Her eyes trailing to his lips without her permission.

“I meant every word.”

She glides her fingers along his and places her hands where they rest on her face and she leans into his palm as his thumb brushes against her cheek.

“Do you think we could start now?” She whispers.

Cassian grins. A bright look—one that she can see in the stars.

“I’m already yours.”

Their lips meet. They can’t help themselves. They sink into each other, arms entwined in arms. Crashing and pulling, like their hearts and their arguments—like their hearts are trying to argue if this is right. They plough into cabinets and walls, and distantly they can hear the shatter of glass and picture frames. The ones they chose together. It tumbles to the floor with the rest of their doubts. It is swallowed by the sound of their breathing. They don’t need to say anything; their tongues whisper all their secrets.

The door of her bedroom is both her friend and her companion, crossing its threshold seems matrimonial. Cassian gives her space, but she demands his body against hers, their figures making shadow puppet on the wall. Along with the rest of the house, the walls are decorated. The wood panels and cream-colored sheets protecting their attachment to skin and heartbeats.

Her hands grasp the bed sheets and he leans into her, breathes her in. She figures they’ve already become a part of each other, as sure as the fusion of metals and the weapons he pulls from his belt. They clash to the floor.

He pulls at her shirt and she tears the button off his, and their lips never leave the others, except to map the planes of their existence. They only separate long enough for their clothes to end up on the floor, nothing between them. Even their souls say it isn’t close enough.

Nesta bares her neck to him, Cassian looks at dip of her neck to her shoulder, the gravitational pull of her skin and her smell calling to him. She expects him to leave little bites and love marks, like that first time in another world across the wall, expects the roughness of his teeth and the scratch of his stubble. Instead, he leans in gently and presses a kiss where her heartbeat meets her skin. It is loud and tumultuous; it echoes his own.

She clasps their fingers together, and he places their entwined hands above her head, as he kisses down her body, until she is gasping and flying, her eyes trailing to the wings that expand above him. The deepest shade of black they shine indigo from the light of the moon.

Her distraction is his leverage and he kisses his way down her body. She gasps, and he pushes. He groans, and she pulls. They move together, slow at first, steady, turning into the untamable flames they knew thrived and burned long before they each existed.

Their lips only part to call out their names. Prayers in the darkest night.

Her nightmares sound like the voice of her sisters. Sometimes it the harmony of their demands—telling her she needs to leave. Sometimes, it’s their voices never even reaching her ears. Sometimes, it’s not her sisters at all. It’s her own. Her own sweet words that rupture and tear.

But in the morning, when her head is on his chest and he is tracing stars on her arms, she shuts out the voice in her head that tells her she doesn’t deserve this. That she will undoubtfully make a mess out of the love she cherishes and protects.

If her soul is a fire, she will burn their house to the ground. Their love turning to ash even before she can count the ways Cassian silently says, “I love you,” into her skin. A part of her is already burning.

“You’re sisters miss you; you know.”

She picks at the thread of the purple duvet and gulps the urge to roll her eyes.

“They’ll live.”

Cassian says nothing at her indignant response and Nesta helps him with little conversation. Instead, she chooses to indulge him between pattered sheets and fur. Distraction as much as a weapon as her mind and his sword.

Nesta doesn’t tell him of all the times she wishes her sisters are near, that she could talk to them and bundle into that one bed across the wall in a cabin she doesn’t want to remember. She doesn’t tell him either, that for many years she’s loved them more than herself, and even after all this time Nesta still never shows it well enough.

She loves them still, but she loves herself, too. Enough to know they are all better off and she wonders if this is what love means, to give up or to give in, and if any of those options are palatable. Easily swallowed.

They are not right in sending her off, and she is not right for letting herself get carried away. By both, her grief and her past. They’ve done wrong and she’s done wrong and they’ve altogether done so much wrong that she thinks they all must be monsters. Grotesque and inhumane and unfeeling. They all look like monsters anyways, down to every fae bone.

But it’s a small price to pay and Nesta prefers being called a monster over the fraudulency of her life.

So when Cassian pushes and pulls, Nesta would rather let go. Let her remain the witch, the bitch, the thorn in their side. Let them remain happily ensconced in Velaris allure with twinkling lights all about.

It makes no difference to her.

How are you, we miss you, we wish you were here. It’s not the same without you.

“Do you hate them for sending you here?”

You were killing yourself and we couldn’t watch. We’re doing this for you.

“I could never hate my sisters.”

Go on a date with me.

Why? We already slept together.

Does sleeping together mean I can’t take you on dates?

No. I just think it’s a little backwards.

We are backwards.

Yes, but a dates going to end up in the same place we started with.

Is that a no?

I didn’t say that.

Then, you will?

Ask me nicely.

Nesta Archeron, regardless of how much I will probably regret this, will you go on a date with me?

That wasn’t nice—don’t roll your eyes.

Say yes, please.

Fine.

So tomorrow then?

I said yes.

I know but I wanted you to say it again.

Your face is going to get stuck like that if you keep smiling so much.

Your eyes are going to fall out if you keep rolling them like that.

~~~

Nesta can’t escape the darkness. Like a lover, he grabs her hair seductively. Like a lover, he pulls strands out with his grip. Like a lover, he nibbles sweetly on her ear. Like a lover, his teeth sink into her flesh. Like a lover, he leaves a scar she can never get rid of.

~~~

Cassian holds her hand, gives her a rose. She chooses a dress made of fresh snow. The color reminds her of blood.

~~~

Sometimes, Nesta dreams of wars. Sometimes, she lives them.

There is no color on the battlefield. No death that floats above their heads. No face is familiar, but she thinks she sees her friends. All of them people she has met before.

Their banners mean nothing. Their weapons mean less. Death does not laugh, and they do not scream. She only hears grunts and shallow breathing. It isn’t just Illyrian men who serve. It’s Illyrian men and women and her, standing beside each other to protect their home.

In her dreams, Death is a villain. He is cruel and mean and arrogant. On the battlefield, Death is each and every one of them fighting for the chance to survive, to kiss their children good night, to build their homes, to wrap their lovers in their arms. Tightly. Softly. Locked in an embrace that not even death can sever.

Death does not mock her. It does not smile cruelly or kiss up her spine. There is nothing seductive in its kiss. It lives inside of her—disguises itself like a fae in wolf’s clothing, like lies in sweet words. It is dressed in her armor, with her sword in her hand, with sweat down her back. Like magic under her skin. Death, like magic disguised as fire.

It explodes like the rage she keeps inside of herself.

Explodes before it can even tell her its name.

~~~

Cassian holds her body. She chooses a dress made of roses. It reminds her of blood.

~~~

Cassian's love is as soft as rose petals and as dangerous as a wound. She hears his voice. Feels his hands, his soft breath against her forehead. Where she once feels nothing a pain blooms... and burns... and takes. Like hatred and anger in a once-human turned fae and the love between them both that leaves no survivors.

She thinks his love is something akin to fire, their love something that burns them both in the end... But perhaps it is sweeter and softer and more fragile than matches. Because, Nesta remembers. Nesta never forgets. And as she feels the subtle softness of his trailing fingers, the rough edge of his palms, Nesta thinks of all the ways that lead her back to him.

Cassian’s love is the books left outside her door. The pump of her heartbeat, the feel of skin on his, the hills filled with daisies and the flavor of life in every piece of pie. The color of strawberries and chandeliers and the people who laugh and smile and grimace and cry.

His love is the blood on her hands, the sun she sees outside, and the stars that wink and wave beyond their control.

Cassian’s love is the home wedged between mountains, where the fire is always lit.

Cassian’s love is a small flame.

It isn’t so difficult to choose the light.

The light is warm.

Tags: @dreaming-of-bohemian-nights , @missing-merlin, @strangeenemy, @saltydreamcollector, @midnightbluhm, @my-fan-side, @queenofillea1, @tswaney17, @gloriousinlove, @ekaterinakostrova, @thebluemartini, @anishake, @lord-douglas-the-third, @soitsgorgeous, @lolasjournal

(PLEASE LMK if you want to be tagged or you want to be not tagged or if you asked and I forgot)

AN:

Good enough (shrugs) I can’t fix it anymore than this.

I feel like I made this part complicated, but it was necessary. I wanted to tie in so many voices and ideas that came up in the beginning and I still didn’t want Nesta fully healed because there’s no such thing and I wanted Cassian’s POV and his to seem just as complex. SO it ended up being so long and so full. I hope it wasn’t so confusing to follow. But...

I have to say all of the comments I have gotten from this fic whether it was on tumblr or Ao3 or fanfic.net have been incredible and have made me feel so amazing, especially since writing on a regular basis is very, very hard to me. Sometimes, it feels like physical torture which is unfortunate because I absolutely love to write and to you know perfect the craft so to speak. Believe me when I say that this fic would have stopped after Nesta’s Love is Quiet without all of your encouragement. It means the world to me. <3 I am glad to belong to such a wonderful fandom who really likes to analyze these characters.

“Love is Bright Red, Hope is Dark Blue” the last part of this series, won’t be done for a while, if it happens at all. I have so many fics I have stopped writing on, but this is one of the longest goes I’ve had, so it’s going to be all about the timing, I suppose and the ideas that come up when I start really writing for it. I’m writing Queen of Monsters now and it’s a lot of the same ideas but with more plot and more characters and places and so on and I really want to get on that one.

Even my AN are long, so I’ll just stop here, but please like, reblog, kudos, or favorite for which ever platform you choose to read on, but mostly comment because again I just like talking to y’all and I want to know what you think and how these characters come across to you. Message me even, I’m lonely most days and I need more book friends.

#nessian #nessian fanfiction #nesta archeron #cassian #acotar #acofas #acosf #acowar #nesta x cassian #cliw #vidalinav

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bernadineisreborn · 4 years

Text

Reality VII

Draco Malfoy x Reader

Author’s note: Hellooooo and welcome back. In this chapter, things get figured out. You probably knew all along, but now reader knows too, so that’s good. UMMM okay that’s it, hope you all enjoy! Please please please like or comment or (gold-tier) reblog!! But, I appreciate you just for reading! Love you! –Bernadine

Warnings: swearing/vulgarity, me not knowing wtf I’m doing

Word count: 1883

CATCH UP HERE: Series Masterlist

Draco did not consider himself weak. He was resilient, he was intimidating, he was a Malfoy, for fuck’s sake.

He hadn’t allowed himself to feel emotion since the school year had started. His Aunt Bellatrix’s advice rang in his mind almost constantly: any emotion would allow Snape, or worse, Dumbledore, to read him with ease.

He sat in the Slytherin Common Room, his metaphorical muscles tired from the weight on his shoulders. Draco had been back at Hogwarts for three months, and hadn’t made much progress with the Vanishing Cabinet. He needed to do something else.

Of course, he had other plans. None of them were as good as the Cabinet, but they could work.

Draco thought of the package he had hidden in the Room of Requirement. It was a last resort, he reminded himself, to use the cursed necklace that laid inside in attempts to kill his headmaster. Dumbledore, Draco was sure, would somehow manage to evade the curse it gave those who touched it. He had to find a way to fix the Vanishing Cabinet and allow other Death Eaters to do the pillaging around Hogwarts.

It was a Saturday, which meant a few things. First, Draco had time to himself. He could work on his task, mostly unbothered. Second, there was a Quidditch match.

Draco watched longingly as Crabbe and Goyle lazed out of the dorms, clad in green and silver uniforms, nodding to him as they went by. Draco grunted and repressed the intense desire to follow them. A Quidditch match sounded perfect right about now.

Emotion, thought Draco numbly, is the hamartia of mankind.

----

You squinted as you woke up, sunlight streaming in through the tall windows of Ravenclaw Tower. There had been no dreaming last night; no furred or feathered creatures had patrolled your subconscious at all.

You weren’t sure whether to be grateful or suspicious. This was the second morning you had woken up without having had the dream since you’d spoken to Trelawney.

The Great Hall was filled with excitement, as the Slytherin and Hufflepuff teams prepared for today’s Quidditch match. You usually would have attended with Marcus, but as things were now, you weren’t really in the mood.

Instead, you explained to Sue and Mandy, who were dressed in yellow and black Hufflepuff scarves, “I’ll get to catch up on homework that I haven’t been able to do. You know, since I’ve been in detention.”

They seemed content with this answer, and maybe even a bit sympathetic. You waved to them as they headed off to the Quidditch pitch.

You’d brought Trelawney’s loan, The Dream Oracle’s Sequel: More Dreams, More Divination, with you, and you started reading as you sipped on your morning tea.

An hour later, you knew breakfast was officially over because the leftover food, plates, and your still half-full teacup vanished from the table. However, you had made it to the section titled “Dream. Interrupted: How to finish your dream experience,” and were eager to try the book’s recommendations.

You dashed to the seventh floor, and found the blank wall you needed to utilize. You started pacing, desperately thinking, I need a place to sleep to fall asleep without interruption.

After your third pacing in front of the wall, a small door appeared.

The Room of Requirement was a bit less of a secret location that it had been last year. Harry Potter had made the place legend when he’d started the D.A., and you’d visited a few times, curious about the place’s magic.

Now, it was more useful than ever. Through the doorway was a very cozy room. There were windows that let in fresh sunlight, framed with heavy-looking velvet drapes, and there was a bed bigger than any you had seen before, covered with fluffy quilts and throw pillows. There was also a pot of tea, and you realized delightedly that it was chamomile from it’s smell.

On top of the bed were a pair of silk pajamas, in exactly your size and favorite color. You changed quickly, and drew the drapes over the windows. Hazy midday sunlight trickled in from behind the curtains, giving the room the appearance of a faint golden glow.

You poured yourself a cup of tea and settled in the bed, skimming the chapter of The Dream Oracle’s Sequel again, for good measure. According to the book, you needed to do a short incantation, and then you’d be able to sleep until the dream had finished.

You readied you wand, setting your tea on the bed stand, and spoke, “Somnum Integrum.”

Almost immediately, you started to feel drowsy. The bed’s blankets were so comfortable, you wondered whether you were in heaven.

And you wondered if the rabbit would ever move, damnit! It lazed in the emerald grass, without a worry. The sun was shining brightly, and as you watched, you understood why the bunny wasn’t afraid. No one would hurt her here, she was somehow completely safe. The snake approached first, cautious, stalking. It’s blue eyes, you realized, were actually closer to a gunmetal grey. The hawk swooped in then, graceful and feathered. Its talons were outstretched, and you noticed that they were scarred with small, almost invisible, winding lines. The rabbit was oblivious to the mini-knifes plunging at her through the sky.

Just as you thought the hawk would strike, the snake propelled himself up and met it, deflecting the blow from the bunny and taking it himself.

The rabbit, now, was clued in. She watched, eyes wide as the snake and the hawk struggled. Their fight showed no signs of ending, and you got the impression that the rabbit was afraid for the fate of both parties involved.

In a flash, the snake broke free and winded himself around the rabbit in the grass. At first you thought he would squeeze her to death, and the rabbit seemed to think so too. Then, the snake faced the hawk again and hissed. You realized, with a bit of surprise, that the snake’s stance around the rabbit was protective.

The dream fizzed and faded away, and you were catapulted into a memory: a lonely, sad hallway at midnight. But… a different perspective.

This time, you were the one huddled against the wall, weeping into yourself.

A tentative hand touched your shoulder. You opened your dream eyes. The hand was long and pale and connected to an equally long and pale face: Draco. The moonlight shone through the window and hit his white hair at an irritatingly perfect angle.

“Y/N,” he asked, grey eyes full of concern, “Are you alright?”

You jolted awake, back into reality, back into the Room of Requirement.

Around you, the large bed was still unbearably comfortable. Through the windows, afternoon light streamed, and you realized that you must have been sleeping for a few hours. You threw the comforter off yourself, and padded across the cool stone floor barefooted. Drawing a heavy velvet curtain back, you looked outside. The Quidditch stands were still full of people, and streaks of yellow and green warred in the air above the field.

You remembered the dream, then, looking out at the sunny November day. You weren’t entirely sure how to feel. It almost felt like the snake and the hawk were other people. It would make sense, wouldn’t it? If the rabbit was you, then maybe the snake and hawk were people you knew.

Your mind drifted curiously to the second dream. Why the hell had your subconscious conjured that? Draco hated you, or so you were rather sure. But his expression in the dream had been so caring… so conscious of your feelings. There was something you were missing.

You gathered your things, still pondering the dream’s revelations. In the hallway, a figure stood to meet you. It was Draco, and he looked angry. His wand was raised in a rather threatening position. When he met your gaze, his expression relented slightly.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said lamely, lowering his wand.

You scoffed and stepped back, a bit surprised to see him standing there, especially after the dreams you’d just had. “Yes, it’s me. Who’d you think it was going to be?”

“Someone else,” he stated, his eyes wandering over you. His brows quirked up, “Do you ever put on real clothes when you’re not in class?”

You looked down, and noticed with a jolt that you were still wearing the Room’s gift: the perfect silk pajamas. “Yes, obviously. Erm, what are you doing here?”

His expression shifted, eyes narrowed, “I need to get into the Room of Requirement.”

“Oh. Right,” you crossed your arms in front of your chest in an attempt at a defensive pose, “What for?”

Draco sneered, “None of your business.” His eyes softened then, and he opened his mouth to speak, “I—”

But your hand had flown to your mouth in recognition, the things you were carrying falling from your arms in the process. His expression, his eyes. Even though the expression of the Draco in front of you was nowhere near as sympathetic as the Draco in your dream, it was enough. You knew: Draco was the snake.

He stared at you, brows pinched together, his face somewhere between annoyance and confusion, “Merlin, get a grip.”

You weren’t paying attention. You quickly scooped the things from the floor, Draco making no attempts at helping you, and started walking away. Over your shoulder, you called, “See you in detention.”

Draco watched you walk away, then turned back toward the now-blank wall in front of him. He exhaled, and allowed his expression to neutralize, as if he was slipping on an ice-cold, skin-thin mask. Pacing quietly, he thought. I need the Vanishing Cabinet. I need the Vanishing Cabinet. I need the Vanishing Cabinet.

The Room of Requirement was both a great comfort and a great stress to Draco. He walked into the room carefully, the fixing of Cabinet was not going well.

He tried for an hour or so, working on the Cabinet, following instructions from every book on Vanishing Cabinets in order to fix it.

As he worked, he wondered what you’d been doing in here, in pajamas, no less. Draco recalled the night you’d caught him in a rather…unfortunate position. He had expected to hear rumors the next day about what you’d seen, he’s expected you to tell everyone, he’d expected his reputation to need repairing. But, you’d stayed quiet, and he had no idea why.

That night, he considered, she was wandering the halls alone too. Awake at an ungodly hour. Maybe she… Draco stopped himself. He didn’t care why you’d been out of bed. You meant nothing to him. You were a nuisance, you were…

Well, he was a little grateful that you hadn’t given him the additional stress of telling people that The Draco Malfoy was crying and alone and hopeless.

Draco lazed around the Room of Requirement. In this form, there were lost objects everywhere. Objects people had come to store somewhere—anywhere: old broomsticks, he assumed these were faulty; random books; broken desks and chairs; an ancient looking teapot and teacup set, even with tea still in it. The tea wasn’t even cold yet. Draco wondered briefly if the pot was charmed to never cool. He sniffed. Hmm, chamomile.

---

Tag List: @drawlfoy @buckys-hoeee @silversslytherin @acciodracoo @afootnoteinyourhappiness @a-hopeless-fan @ilkaeliseb @accio-rogers @laurarestrepo98 @ellewoods2b @naomi02hook @ohitsmai (tumblr won’t let me tag you, it might be a setting you can fix) Did I miss anyone?? If I did, just let me know!!

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aprilblizzards · 4 years

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towards the start of season 7, when dean is laid up in the safe house with a broken leg for a few weeks, he starts to knit. he find a few dusty balls of yarn and some old wooden needles lying in one of the piles of stuff rufus left there, and he watches instruction videos on his laptop as he sits on the couch. he thinks it’s stupid, but he likes being able to do stuff with his hands since he can’t go anywhere. it makes him feel less restless. less useless. he starts out by making the ugliest goddamn scarf you’ve ever seen in your life. the stitches are uneven and the colors are hideous and it’s barely even rectangular, but he spent days hunched over it, and when he finishes he’s so proud of it that he wears the scarf to sleep that night, though he hides it under the couch cushions when he wakes up so that bobby and sam won’t see. after the scarf, he watches more videos and starts making other things – hats and socks and mittens – and they still suck but they’re slowly getting better. one day sam walks past him while dean is on pinterest trying to find patterns and dean slams the laptop shut with the guiltiest face sam has ever seen and sam asks him what it was and dean replies “porn” and sam drops it. by the time dean’s leg has healed, he’s got a sizable collection of shitty knitted creations, and he’s used up almost all of rufus’ old yarn. he stows the remaining stuff in his bag when they hit the road, and one night when they’re settling in at a motel, dean heads out and tells sam he’s going on a beer run, but before he goes to the liquor store, he stops in at the craft store next door to pick up supplies. he buys yarn in different sizes and textures and colors, and some smooth wooden knitting needles to go with it.

he knits in the car sometimes. after a long hunt, he’ll toss sammy the keys and stretch out in the back seat, feigning sleep, but really he’s fumbling with wool and cotton. he spends weeks working on a sweater the same color as sammy’s favorite green shirt, and presents it gravely to him on his birthday, with a face that very clearly communicates “if you make fun of this i will not hesitate to gut you,” and sam just swallows and shrugs on the sweater. it’s itchy and lumpy and makes him sweat uncomfortably, but sam tugs just once at the too-tight collar before saying “it’s great dean. thanks.” and dean grins and starts on his next project.

later, when cas comes back, dean knits him an ugly vest, because cas seems like the type of nerd who’d wear a vest.

when he’s a bit better at knitting, dean makes claire a dress for her birthday. it’s surprisingly beautiful and it’s so sweet she has to force back tears when he hands it to her. instead, she teases him. “didn’t realize you’d hit menopause, but i guess crocheting is just the kind of mid-life crisis you’d go through, old man.” and he narrows his eyes at her, tells her, “crocheting is for grandmas. knitting is manly as hell.”

and a few years down the line, when he’s settled down with cas, he keeps buckets of yarn in their bedroom. he sits jack down one night on the couch in the bunker and starts teaching him how to hold the needles and weave the yarn between them, and together they knit sweaters and hats and quilts for cas and claire and sam and eileen and jody and the girls every year.

#i need to project all my interests on dean winchester i'm sorry #but i really love the idea of him knitting and using gift-giving as a love language #spn

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fnniganthomas · 4 years

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❝ in my mind I am eloquent; I can climb intricate scaffolds of words. but when I open my mouth, everything collapses. ❞

{ cis man, he/him } ❝ icarus is forever deemed the boy who flew too close to the sun and got burned. to me, he is just a boy too enthralled by beauty to care whether or not it could hurt him. ❞ huh, who’s TAYLOR ZAKHAR PEREZ? no, you’re mistaken, that’s actually LEANDER FINNIGAN-THOMAS. he is a 23 year old HALF-BLOOD wizard who is a TATTOO ARTIST. he is known for being RETICENT, SELF-CONSCIOUS, STUBBORN, INARTICULATE, and PERSUADABLE but also TRUSTING, SYMPATHETIC, EARNEST, PERCEPTIVE, and QUICK-THINKING, so that must be why he always reminds me of the song EPITAPH BY HIPPO CAMPUS and THE SMELL OF HOMEMADE BROWNIES BAKING; TECHNICOLOR PAINT STAINS ON EVERYTHING YOU OWN; A SKY GONE GREEN WITH PROMISED RAIN; WORN FLANNELS YOU’RE HAPPY TO LET OTHERS BORROW; A LUMP IN YOUR THROAT FROM THE WORDS YOU SWALLOW. i hear he is aligned with THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX, so be sure to keep an eye on him. { zoe, 22, cst, she/her } [ leander is adopted. ]

ADDITIONAL MATERIALS: leander’s playlist, stats page, & pinterest board CHARACTER PARALLELS: jason mendoza (the good place), chidi anagonye (the good place), ty lee (atla), finn (star wars), troy barnes (community), brittany pierce (glee), ponyboy curtis (the outsiders), aang (atla)

one.

there was no real doubt in anyone’s mind that leander was his fathers’ son. even the two of them had no trouble seeing bits of the other in him.

dean could be heard calling leander seamus’ son when he ran into the side table holding lit candles and set several wooden picture frames ablaze. seamus returned the favor and referred to leander as dean’s son when he walked into leander’s room and saw he’d upended several jars of paint on the floor. to this day, none of them could really say if he’d upended the jars on purpose or not.

leander liked to think it was on purpose, even as he proclaimed his innocence every time the family told the story over laughter-filled dinners. proclaiming his innocence was just part of the way that story got told and he couldn’t go breaking tradition. really, he liked the way the rainbow of colors was still burrowed into the grooves of the wood and the slats between floorboards, even after countless attempts at cleaning the last of it. a part of him wondered if that hadn’t been an early sign of magic; he knew that that paint washed easily out of his hair and off his closes, but it stuck stubbornly to the floor right where he liked it.

the colors on the floor nearly matched the technicolor quilt that lay on top of his bed year-round. he liked when things matched like that, almost by accident; like the world liked when things looked pretty as much as he did. he kinda hoped that was one of his first bits of magic; it felt fitting. he said as much to his gran once and had his hair ruffled for his trouble.

two.

when he was a child, he was always elbow deep in some messy thing. it wasn’t that he had a knack for causing trouble — he just had such a hard time saying no to trouble when it came calling. he had a hard time saying no to anything that came calling.

that was probably why trouble was always calling him. it knew he was an easy mark.

he made friends easily as a child, when things were easier and no one seemed to mind or care that he had such a hard time finding the words for things. leander was too polite to voice the blame out loud, but he was convinced that his friends growing up were at least half behind all the messes he got into.

the other kids around him might’ve been better at causing messes, but leander made up for it by being a mess. he was always having a crisis as a kid — his stuffed dragons were just ravaging the block city, dad, but what about the finger puppet people formerly houses in that block tower? do they even sell dinosaur insurance?? why didn’t I think of the implications here …

he and his sister played knights a lot, with toy swords and helmets modeled after the suits of armor in hogwarts (dean asked seamus if that wasn’t a little much, when they bought them; they were a few years out from school, after all, they didn’t care that the helmets were accurate — ) and leander always wondered about the ramifications of two knights fighting each other. shouldn’t they be friends, he thought? she always took his ensuing rambling full of hypothetical knight-schisms as opportunity to knock him flat backwards.

he was a needy kid — he always had questions at his lips, a thousand things he wanted to say. it took him forever to find the way to say them, though; leander hated feeling any negative thing, but he was used to frustration turned inward. it was his least favorite feeling, and one he was all too accustomed to. even now, leander was never quite sure what to do with his words. his mind was an easy enough place for him to navigate, and he loved being there for others when they needed someone to listen.

but whenever he tried talking himself wires got crossed and nothing came out how he wanted it to.

three.

he’d always been more quiet than he’d have liked to be, because he did actually have a lot to say. by the time he was nearly hogwarts-aged, he’d mostly forced himself to get over his hang-ups around his family. they poked good-natured fun at him, but he knew they’d always give him as much time as he needed to phrase a sentence or find a word. he could be assured that some of the other kids he’d grown up around would know that he just took a while to say what he really meant, too.

it was the thought of the castle, so full of strangers and professors he didn’t know, that scared him. getting sorted into ravenclaw scared him even more. he knew he didn’t always sound smart, and it worried him that others would listen to him and decide that he wasn’t, actually, smart enough to be a ravenclaw. he knew that he was smart, that he had things of value to offer to conversations. he was just so bad at getting them out the way he wanted to.

he stayed quiet for a while, even knowing he didn’t actually want to be quiet.

whenever he tried to articulate that point to other people though, it tended not to go as well as it did in his head — only proving his point. one of the prefects his first year rolled her eyes, said, ‘if you want to be less quiet, just say more, leander.’ but it wasn’t that easy, for him. he had a lot to say but had trouble finding the words for all those things. he could usually carry polite conversation just fine; fool people into thinking he knew what he was doing. but anything more than that required his total focus, and still was rarely quite right.

he bit down on half-formed questions because he thought it was better to not know some things if it meant he didn’t have to see people grow annoyed at his fumbling words. then that made him feel even more like he was some sort of fraud-ravenclaw — what ravenclaw thought they were better off not knowing things?

just like he forced himself to get over his worries to talk to his family and old friends, he forced himself to accept that words were never going to be his specialty. then he forced himself to be fine with that. he worked hard to focus on the things he was good at, that didn’t require him to talk too much — he always felt at home in the air on his broom, or with a sketchbook in his lap, or in the kitchen whipping up something that’d make other people happy. those things weren’t nothing.

four.

leander was smart, actually; he excelled in herbology and charms and worked hard enough everywhere else to not be singled out during class. he never caused as many explosions as his dad did from simple transfiguration. and he was great with people, for all that he got so in his head sometimes that he felt clumsy with even his dearest friends. but being smart never stopped anyone from being a fool.

when leander looked back on his childhood, it was as if all of his roiling anxieties melted away. it was like looking in on a world encased in the sun — he imagined his memories as some sort of weird, reverse snow globe, where everything shimmered at the edges and only got brighter as you shook it up.

hindsight made even mundane or negative memories seem golden, to leander. his biggest fault was that he always liked to think things were kinder than they actually were.

leander trusted people to be better than they were and was bad at saying what he meant, which was, at times an awful combination for him. he trusted the world to treat him better than it did.

if someone ever tries to convince him that, no, really, that harsh person from a historically bigoted family is not a good person, his stubbornness really came out and saw leander dig his feet in. he never wanted to believe that people had to be truly black or white — he was stubbornly convinced that there was good in every person, even when he was told he shouldn’t try so hard to look for it.

leander knew what was it like to feel you stood on the fringes of everybody else’s lives; no amount of forcing himself to be comfortable with the way he was ever took that anxiety away. he tried his hardest to be accommodating and friendly and understanding to everyone he came into contact with, even the people who maybe didn’t deserve his kindness. especially them, sometimes. he didn’t want anyone feeling like he was someone to be wary around. leander was steadfast in his beliefs and knew he wouldn’t change them, but all the same — that shouldn’t be a reason for someone to look at him and expect anything less than he gave everyone else.

four.

home never stopped being the most comforting place for leander. not even once he was older, a little more settled, and no longer had such stress over belonging in ravenclaw tower. not even once he had plenty of friends, a spot on the quidditch roster, a place in the castle. he adored not feeling so lost at school the older he got, but it couldn’t compete with home.

the golden gleam of his memories made everything feel well-worn and well-loved in his head, but home was the biggest victim, and the most deserving of such treatment. leander was stubbornly adamant that there was no better place in the world than the finnigan-thomas’ home in kenmare. holidays at home with his family, extended and sprawling and filled with family friends as much as blood relatives, were leander’s favorite thing.

he loved his dads so much — even as he couldn’t help but wonder, privately, if they wouldn’t have preferred a son who wasn’t such a fuck up sometimes. he’d certainly caused several dinner parties to grind to a halt with a poorly-phrased question directed at the aunt he forgot he wasn’t supposed to sit next to, after the incident over christmas dinner when he was ten.

leander wondered if his dads wouldn’t want a son who was better at words, because leander always thought there were ways for him to be better. he wondered, privately, because he couldn’t help but worry. but the logical part of his brain knew that there wasn’t a need to worry over them. they loved him, he knew, and didn’t even need his memory to gloss everything over for that to be true.

five.

there was always a level of creativity in the house growing up, and leander took to it like a fish to water. he never really let up on his fascination with color and the physicality of paint clinging to his skin and the paintbrush and whatever canvas was in front of him. the permanently-painted floorboards in his room weren’t the only casualty in the house, but that was alright. no one ever gave leander too much grief over tracking paint everywhere.

it was easier for him to take a pencil to page than to find the words, sometimes, and he was so happy his family understood that about him, and let it grow.

leander couldn’t keep track of how many drawings his dads pinned up to the fridge when he was a kid, or how excited dean had been to lead leander around museums growing up. he cherished every minute seamus spent nodding along as leander rambled about some era in art history seamus knew nothing about. it didn’t matter that leander grew into being comfortable at hogwarts, and around strangers, and people who weren’t so understanding with his fumbled words; it was work, with all of them, even as the work got easier on him.

nothing about being near his family and feeling that love felt like work.

leander, even grown out a childhood-self that worried over the ethics of stuffed dragons knocking over block towers, couldn’t help but be dragged down the whirlpool of hypothetical thoughts. he wondered if there was some alternate-universe leander who wasn’t as lucky as he was, who didn’t have his dads and his sister and his friends. maybe there was a leander who had those things but still lived in a world that was altogether harsher than his was. he thanked the universe as often as he remembered to that he was who he was, and that he was where he was.

leander was bowled over by stress and anxiety and worries more often than he existed in a state of honest chill, but he was still so happy to have the life he did. he didn’t always feel like he deserved it, but he was glad it was his.

six.

when leander was sixteen, he dicked around enough on the internet to teach himself how to give magical tattoos and muggle tattoos both. he really thought that it shouldn’t have been so easy to order all the necessary equipment and have it delivered to his house; he really, really thought that the owl that came bearing his enchanted ink should’ve asked for, like, ID or something. it felt like getting away with something, how easy it was.

leander was well-versed in courting trouble at this point and knew he shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. he just thought it was important to note that he worried at it being so easy for people without training to get all that stuff.

he practiced on himself and his sister, with a little needling and an iron-clad pinkie swear that they’d keep the tattoos a secret from their dads. in hindsight, it was a very stupid decision on leander’s part to start practicing in the summer, when they went to the beach often enough that the two finnigan-thomas kids had to order some fancy witch-owned brand of waterproof concealer to cover the evidence. their dads didn’t notice the tattoos until they came home that winter break and forgot to start hiding them again, though, so leander would take the win.

he offered tattoos to people at school, and really hoped that some of them also forgot to hide them when they went home for winter hols. it felt only fitting that his not-thought-out plan brought some other people a bit of trouble. he’d call it payback for all that time in their childhoods when he’d been the one getting dragged into problems, but the thought of payback as a concept made leander a little sad, so, whatever.

seven.

it felt only fitting that he looked into doing tattoos as a professional once he was out of hogwarts. dean certainly insinuated, when leander mused over the option, that it would make the shock he’d given his dads over the tattoos worth it. leander kind of agreed; he didn’t think the tattoos weren’t worth it, already, but there could be layers to worth. on principle, he loved the idea of practice. he liked to think that everything in life was practice for something to come — that nothing happened to you that couldn’t have a use later down the line.

it had a nice symmetry to it, a circular-ness. it was the sort of lofty thought he’d have an absolute monster of a time voicing out loud, but he felt it, and sometimes that was enough for leander. it was like the paint worn into his floorboards that matched the quilt on his bed; unintentional but fitting anyway.

leander wondered if maybe he shouldn’t look into going to muggle university to study art, or at least take an apprenticeship under a wizarding artist so he could learn how to paint portraits and landscapes that could move and all. there was still a career in that, people looking to have themselves or their relatives or their homes immortalized in oils even as moving photographs were so much easier these days.

he was — definitely, he was interested in learning that sort of thing. it just felt like too big a goal to have for his life right after school was over. he hadn’t been suspended in a state of constant stress during his time at hogwarts, or anything, but h still felt a strong sort of relief when it was over.

there were things he’d miss; how easy it was, having so many of his friends all living in the same place, all doing the same things and living such parallel lives. he’d miss quidditch practice now that he knew he’d never make it as a professional — and never want to, besides. he’d miss the community of it all, even as he recalled how hard it had been for him to settle into it. he knew that it would only take a year or two, maybe less than that, for him to start romanticizing his time there like nothing had ever hurt in the castle’s walls.

but the sigh of relief, that was bigger than anything he missed, and it made him sure he wanted to take a step back from school and any formal training or education. he already knew enough about tattooing now that he felt assured it wouldn’t feel so much like starting over to make a job of it.

eight.

leander was always far better at thinking on his feet than most people would guess from knowing him. it sometimes surprised leander himself, even — he knew he had a propensity towards worry, and it seemed like maybe he shouldn’t actually be good in an emergency. maybe it was just that he had an overactive fight or flight instinct that he’d long trained over the years to fight through whatever it could. he might not be the person people in his life wanted around when they were going through a crisis, but he knew how to handle himself in all manner of unexpected situations. leander liked to think he rarely made things worse.

does he make good choices whilst thinking on his feet? not all the time. but then, who could be relied on to make the perfect decision during every high stress situation they found themselves tossed into? leander made choices, and knew better than to stand idle; leander was of the belief that second guessing things had no value, even as he couldn’t help himself sometimes. he tried his best to face every consequence of every action head on.

he dug his feet in over stupid, foolish decisions often enough. it was fitting that sometimes when he dug his feet in, it was for a purpose. the best way out is through, and all that — maybe he’d get that adage tattooed on him someday, too.

sometimes it still felt like things happened to him, like he was a less active participant in his life than others were in theirs. he’d always pick fight over flight but not every situation asked that choice of him. it was less because he had a genuine go-with-the-flow personality, and more that he had such a hard time saying no.

nine.

when the world around him started turning itself upside down with awfulness and inside out with tragedy, leander knew it wouldn’t do him any good to freeze now. he joined up with the order because he knew there really wasn’t any other option he could take and still look at himself in the mirror. he wasn’t an auror or a healer or anyone that he thought had, like, much of value to offer the cause. but he was asked, and he said yes, because leander always, always said yes when trouble came calling for him. it was instinctive at this point.

leander liked to think he didn’t hate a lot of things. his heart was too open, to full of potential love, for him to like feeling anything harsher than annoyance, frustration. he forced bursts of hurt to come and go in a count of ten, because dwelling on the negative made him feel hollowed out.

but he stopped laying in bed at night so often, thanking his lucky stars that he was leander in this world over any others; he started, instead, wondering if any generation in this world of theirs would get to be untouched by even the threat of war. he wondered if it was too naive to wish this darkness would fade as quickly as it did when his dads were kids.

he turned things over in his memory now that some of the worst had come to pass; normally he let everything be painted in shades of gold, but he wondered if that wasn’t part of the problem. maybe too many people had worked too hard to push prison breaks and strange disappearances to the side — maybe too many people had had wanted to remember things only as happy and bright. it was such an ingrained part of himself now that leander knew he’d never be able to stop thinking things were better than they were.

maybe it would be the end of him one day. but at least he’d be himself, at the end.

#potterintro #( ⊱ ━━ 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒔𝒑𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 ┊ intro. )#yes all his character parallels are directly from charactour #or that statistical character quiz #yes the sheer range of his results killed me #yes brittany was his number one match YES i'm still not over how funny that is

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