#ignore my stupid trainer in the corner

[m4gg0t-s]

pokemas update good

[monsieurboyardee]

2ha legally blonde au where mo ran goes to harvard to chase after the love of his life shi mei, but ends up falling in love with his uptight law professor after he gets chosen as a student intern for a huge murder case.

Listen okay frat president mo ran who barely got into a state school. He falls head over heels for shi mei, the head of his uni's nhs and a pre-med major to boot. After shi mei rejects mo ran bc mo ran isn't "serious enough" mo ran decides to buckle down and get into harvard to convince shi mei otherwise.

Once he gets there though he's constantly looked down upon for being stupid and low class, but seeing shi mei's shocked expression in the hallway made it all worth it. That is, until mo ran walks into his first class with the absolutely gorgeous but notoriously uptight professor chu wanning, who promptly throws mo ran out of class for not having the assignment completed.

Mo ran is FURIOUS, and immediately resolves to ace chu wanning's class just to spite his uptight professor, who looks at mo ran and only sees him as this stupid, shallow frat boy, just like the rest of his classmates.

Mo ran tears into his schoolwork like mad, only taking breaks to head to the small, local gym to box with his trainer turned friend, ye wangxi. Ye wangxi has been in love with her childhood friend nangong Si, who owns the small gym. Unfortunately, nangong si is too blockheaded to see her feelings, and ye wangxi is too afraid of messing things up between them. So mo ran teaches her some tricks to seduce nangong si (insert the bend and snap here).

One night, mo ran gets an invite to a costume party. he shows up in a pair of bunny ears and dark blue booty shorts, his chest bare and member bulging through the fabric. When he shows up though, nobody else is in costume. He storms into the party and ignores the resounding laughter, managing to find shi mei in the corner with his glass of merlot. They get onto the topic of prof chu wanning's fall internship program, which is notoriously hard to get into.

"I was thinking of applying for it, actually,” mo ran says, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. Shi mei smiles at him, and tilts his head to the side slightly.

"Are you sure, A-Ran?" He asks, his eyes wide and his expression innocent. "It's just that...it's a super competitive internship, and well, I wouldn’t want you to feel hurt in the event that you don’t get in.”

Brightest."

Mo ran blinks. "Um, I mean, I got into harvard, didn't I? Got a 179 on my lsats, got into all of your classes too. That's gotta mean something, right?"

Shi mei sighs, genuinely looking sorry for mo ran. "Well, yes, but...you know what you're like, mo ran."

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Mo Ran growls. Shi Mei looks to the side, swirling his merlot. Mo Ran’s stomach sinks to the ground.

"Shi Mei...I'll never be enough for you, will I?"

He doesnt want to know the answer. But when shi mei bites his lips and sighs out a weary, "A-ran..." He already knows.

He leaves. Fighting back tears as the rain starts to pour down, mo ran stands under the rain in his stupid little shorts and his waterlogged bunny ears, wishing he'd never come to harvard.

Then, from behind him, a startled call of, "Mo Ran?!"

Mo ran turns. Professor Chu Wanning stands a lil ways behind him, holding a yellow, floral umbrella while he gapes at Mo ran.

"Don't ask." Mo ran growls, wiping a hand over his face. He misses the way his professor's eyes cling to the VERY prominent bulge in his rain-soaked shorts.

"I wasn't going to." Chu wanning snaps back.

Mo ran grits his teeth. He is having an awful day, he's soaked to the bone, and he does not want to stand here with his most hated professor staring down his nose at him. It surprises him then, when a yellow, floral-printed umbrella is shoved into his hands. "You're going to catch a cold in that shameless attire," Chu wanning snaps at him, sliding his coat off to wrap it around his briefcase.

Mo ran's eyes dart to his professor's ill-fitting white button down, now partly translucent as the rain begins to soak it through. He's never noticed how...tiny his professor's waist is. Like so tiny, mo ran's hands could probably almost wrap around it entirely.

He's an erotic sight in his now entirely see-through shirt, clinging to his body and leaving very little to the imagination.

"If you have time to party, then you have time to check the forecast." Chu wanning looks at mo ran once more, standing completely still under the yellow umbrella chu wanning had handed him, before hurriedly looking away. "Now get back to your dorm before I write you up for public indecency."

Then he's gone, tearing off with nothing but his briefcase, wrapped in his own coat for protection.

Mo ran stands there is shocked silence, watching chu wanning's figure disappear in the downpour.

Mo ran slowly climbs to the top of his classes, and the people around campus start to respect him. Mo ran's habit of jogging shirtless has certainly helped his reputation with the ladies. Shi mei has hardly looked his way, but now the spell he's had over mo ran has been absolutely shattered, so mo ran focuses on pouring himself into his studies instead.

When he comes into class, chu wanning makes no indication that he even remembers that rainy night, let alone wishes to discuss it. He pushes mo ran harder than before, but the memory of that night dilutes mo ran's hatred for the man.

It's still a surprise to him however, when the list of people handpicked by the prof himself for chu wanning's internship program come out and mo ran's name is on the list.

[girldewar]

hartzykirill #20 for the ask meme if u are so inclined ... 🤎

yes... hahaha... YES... you get something set in the world of my arranged marriage au where kirill & hartzy get married so kirill can have american citizenship and mats has all sorts of fucked up complicated feelings about it.

20. things you said that i wasn’t meant to hear

Ryan’s been gone for about twenty minutes now.

Kirill’s not usually the worrying sort, but Ryan does have the car keys, and he’d like to know he hasn’t been left behind at the rink. Kirill goes looking for him after he’s wasted as much time as he can packing up his bag, organizing his stall, and poking at his hair in the mirror.

The bowels of the X feel odd after games, busy but not enough, deserted in a way that belies privacy. The couple straggling reporters and trainers give him nods and disappear around corners, and Kirill is starting to feel a little lost by the time he comes across the door.

It’s just slightly ajar, almost discreet. Ryan’s messy like that, Kirill thinks, unwittingly fond. Of course he’d leave this little space where anyone could overhear —

“I just don’t get — what’s your angle, man? Why the fuck do you even care?” Ryan sounds angry. He almost never sounds angry off the ice. Kirill frowns.

“Don’t ask stupid questions.” And that’s — that’s Mats, which Kirill doesn’t —

“Oh, but you get to ask me —”

There’s a rustle, then the sound of an impact, not like a punch but a check. Someone lets out a shocked breath — Ryan, Kirill knows — and then Mats says, “Don’t fuck around. I’m asking because I —” for a moment, there’s just the sound of both of them breathing raggedly. Then, “It doesn’t matter why. It just matters that you’re not fucking around with him.”

“And if I was?” Ryan doesn’t sound serious, but he does sound mean. “Oh, right. You’d be jealous.”

Kirill blinks. He’s not stupid. He knows, very well, that he is not supposed to be hearing this. He holds his breath and ignores the greasy, squirming feeling in his stomach.

“I’m just trying to look after him,” says Mats. He is not doing a good job of hiding the hurt in his voice.

Ryan’s quiet for a long time, but Kirill knows this quiet. It’s the quiet where Ryan is so overwhelmed with hurt that he cannot think of where to begin. That he begins to think perhaps he deserves to take it. Kirill waits until he can’t anymore, until he has to step in, until — “You don’t get to act like I’m not,” Ryan says. He sounds thin, tired. “I turned my whole life upside down for him, and you don’t — you can’t seriously think I don’t care.”

Mats doesn’t reply. From the other side of the door, Kirill’s chest aches so keenly that he struggles to breathe. He can’t possibly fix this, he knows, but God, does he want to.

[selamat-linting]

if yall think that department store job is bad wait until you hear about the stock broker job i almost had.

so, i recently turned 19 at the time and was desperate for employment. there's this walk-in interview ad on the local job site. i went there, hand in my resume, and without looking at my file the HR told me im accepted for a three day training program. it should be a red flag, but i came in anyway.

our trainer is a man in a fancy suit. the first thing he said other than the over-excited greeting was thanks. thanks for not believing the naysayers who said this job is a scam.

i might be stupid, but im not stupid enough to ignore that. immediately i was hyper aware of everything this trainer was doing and saying. our first day was all motivational speeches and bombarding everyone who dared to question their scheme with noises and covert shaming so they'd get in line. the actual product we're selling, the daily operation, he either sidesteps the question or explain it in such a vague nothingburger way that you couldnt understand it. at least they gave us free lunch though.

when i get home, i began looking up the name of the company. theyre formally certified as a broker company, but its hard to find an actual job desc or the benefits. there's even accounts of costumers who felt theyre getting scammed out of the whole deal. i still came in the next day.

i dont know what i was thinking tbh. i guess there is a part of me who wished it was all a misunderstanding, or a part of me who thinks i can actually make a sale and get money despite the circumstances, and a part of me who wants to convince myself that im not a quitter. i was a mess. i went on my second day, and at least a quarter of people are gone. we did our training, this time we're taught how to trade stocks, using software we barely understand with principles we dont even get. and ofc when we get the job, the money we use for trading would be our customers' money.

during break time, they told us to get comfortable with the workers who have been there for months. i was friendly with them, but i realized they're the ones i could actually get a straight answer from. i basically cornered and made one of them to admit this is a job with no base pay, just a commission scheme. and some havent closed anything for months since the day they start working. i admit, i did it for myself, but i hope other people who enrolled in training with me heard it too.

it was then i made the decision to drop out. dont get me wrong, commission only jobs are a standard practice for a lot of sales industry, and i respect people who do the hustle. actually, i might even try it one day if (big IF here) im skilled and financially stable enough to weather the rough months. but its wrong for that company to avoid explaining that aspect especially when the job is convincing people to fund your trading business and you cant even educate your workers on the product properly! its predatory and scammy as fuck.

and for years after that sometimes i hear a story of a coworker who tried their luck. all of them failed. well, one girl i know manage to close a deal. except she got screwed by her seniors and she didnt get her earnings. one guy i know even end up drowning in debt because of that job. but then again, i dont feel sorry for him because i overheard him confessed to raping a girl at a party once so he deserved it lol!

anyway, the office of that trading company was soon shut down around 2020. i heard they got sued, or they cant pay the rent for the building, im not sure. they were closed though. and everyone who knows that place but doesnt work there, recognized they have a not so stellar reputation. however, they recently reopened under a new name. different company name, same business model. thats capitalism.

[yourethebeeskneez]

Thinking about Bart I guess 🥴

——————————————————————————

Legacy: something transmitted by or received from an ancestor or predecessor. 

It was a simple word. It had a simple meaning. Three syllables. It took the average person one second to read, say, or write. It didn't make sense that it felt so heavy. It felt heavy on his mind, pressing on his brain with great force. The word was so heavy on his tongue that he felt as though it were choking him. Hearing it caused a strange reaction of suffocation, all he had to do was hear the word and he couldn't breathe. The weight of the word was only increased as he stared up at the larger-than-life figures of everyone that had come before him.

He had somewhere to be, he didn't have time to be staring mindlessly at the figures in front of him, someone was going to come looking for him. It wouldn't be the first time, someone was always looking for him, he got too distracted, forgot what he was supposed to be doing, stopped to get a snack. He was known for doing anything but what he was supposed to. He was impulsive, distracted, rash, a goofball, a screw up, everyone knew it, everyone thought it, everyone except... 

"Max." The name slipped from his lips as he stared at the figure of Max Mercury. The Zen Master of Speed. His trainer. His mentor. His uncle? His... Max. 

Losing Max was a pain that he could never explain to anyone, even if he knew how to put it into words he would never be able to say it. People weren't interested in that, that's not why anyone talked to him. He wasn't stupid enough to think that anyone wanted to listen to or cared that he missed Max or how much it hurt that he was just gone. That Bart had been packed up and moved around without being asked what he wanted. No one wanted to hear that he didn't know how to process being Impulse, then Kid Flash, then Impluse, then Kid Flash, then Flash, and back to Impulse. No one wanted to hear about the fact that he remembered in vivid detail what it felt like to die. No one wanted to listen to him talk about how he was the fastest man alive but also maybe he wasn't and he didn't know what that meant anymore. 

Max would have wanted to know. 

Max would have known without Bart even having to say anything. 

Max always knew. 

Superboy was behind him. He was late again. He got distracted. He was everything that everyone expected him to be. That was fine. He spun around with a smile, putting a very intentional bounce in his step as he ignored Kon's weird look. "Kon! They updated the Impulse corner of the museum and it's even bigger now which is crazy because I didn't even realize I'd done some much stuff lately and when I went to go see it a bunch of people kept staring at me and then I realized it was because I'm already in my costume because I was supposed to be somewhere else but then people wanted to talk to me and I had to take some pictures and then I helped some families take family pictures because you know how it is and then I stopped to look at this statue of Max because he looks a little off em I right? Anyways I'm coming! I just need a snack unless you have some in your little pouch, I'm starving."

[jodiie-leighanne]

Authors Notes - Short one but possibility of a naughty part two.

“You will not associate with that boy any longer Penelope, do you hear me?”

“Oh, I hear you. I just don’t care” Scoffing at the absolute cheek, does he not realise I will do the exact opposite of his demands?

“Do you see what that scumbag has done to our flower Helen?” Dramatic as always father; a stocky, bald giant groans, pleading with my mother to back up his stupid drawl. 

“Gareth, it’s just puppy love. The lad is harmless” She smiles softly like the angel she is, My mum was a lot more accepting of my relationship than her husband. Partly because I was similar to her, she was into the bad boys with parental issues whilst a teenager. Yet, someone got saddled with this irrational lard arss twit.

“Harmless? Hardly” He heaved, rubbing a palm on the top of his head, whilst I perched on the dining table. Calves swinging as I toyed with my nail beds. “He is a Malfoy? What the hell would the son of a deceased gangster want with our daughter other than to corrupt and impregnate her '' Bold statement there. If he must know, which he mustn't, we are very safe whilst doing the naked tango. 

 “Excuse me? I am here you know” I hissed, sights not meeting theirs. You would think I was a child the way they drone on about me, I’m nineteen for god sakes. After summer break I’ll be leaving for college, its really time to cut the umbilical cord.

“Honey, your being a bit harsh don’t you think?” Placing  her manicured hand on his shoulder, trying to calm the situation. Even though I was very calm, this was a fairly normal interaction. 

“Hardly, your lucky she isn’t wearing a chastity belt”

“Father, Draco is not associated with the criminal world I can assure you” Rolling my hues, pushing off the wood, sauntering slowly to grab my leather coat as the weather was chillier than normal. 

“Is that so? A child from the South side would never be able to afford the garments he does” He isn’t lying, Draci is always adorning expensive labels. The latest trainers and never shy of flashing his jewellery. It’s unusual for the area he lived in, desolate and run down. Whilst we lived in a large ten bed, six bath mansion, slap bang in the middle of Beverly Hills  “Sweetie, I’m just protecting you. He is clearly after our wealth, or to trap you in the underground world” 

“I’m sorry, but you're wrong” Hissing as I stuff my limbs into my jacket. Struggling to haul it over my shoulder, untucking thick dark locks. A horn sounding out front brings a grin to my solemn face.

“Penelope Aldraz, if you take one step out that door..” Ignoring the calls, I skip to the front entrance swinging the door open, gliding down the steps hurriedly. Before the cavalry arrives. 

Stopping in my tracks just to take a moment to breath in his unfathomable beauty. Head to toe in leathers which hugged his body in the most flattering way showing me every-fucking-thing, each define muscles on his upper arms, the athleticism of his thighs. Not to mention what lay between them, my mouth salivates at the imprint.

Sheen of sweat thinly layering his forehead, strands of blonde stuck to the skin. His usual pale skin tinted pink from the bike helmet rested on the seat next to mine. 

Draco insisted on buying me one after a couple of trips on his bike, he wanted does to be safe and secure. I was all of that and more. 

Arms folded over a tight chest, legs crossed at the ankles whilst shifting his weight to not knock over his pride and joy - a Ducati 899 panigale. Not the most flashy but, oh boy did he love it. Only a quarter of the amount he loved me though. 

Finally meeting his shadow faded hues, watching a smirk lifted on the corners of his lips. 

“There’s my baby, sorry I was running late”

“Trust me, your timing couldn’t have been more perfect” I giggled, throwing my arms around his neck, making it crane down to meet my level being as I was five inches shorter.

“Is that so?” Draco smiled, capturing my lips in his with a sweet kiss. 

“PENELOPE” Fucking hell. Can't the man give me a moment. 

“That’s our cue to leave gorgeous, your chariot awaits”  Chuckling at the pout I wore from being interrupted, he shifted to let me climb on the bike.

“How chivalrous of you” My words muffled as he secures my helmet on, pecking my forehead. Climbing on in front of me reaching back to secure my hold on his waist. First time I did this was petrifying, now its thrilling. 

“PENELOPE, please just come back inside” Shifting my gaze to the left as father stood on the path, begging me with his eyes to obey. Mother just stood behind him beaming with joy that I got to experience the awe and complications of love. 

“I’m sorry Daddy, but you don’t own me” 

“Evening Mr and Mrs Aldraz, Helen that sundress looks wonderful on you” Chuckling lightly, feeling his chest vibrate with me, my mum waved her hand as a way of saying 'behave yourself' “I’ll have her back by curfew” Starting the engine as we pushed off disappearing it the the tunnel of trees above. 

As I sat there the world whizzing by, nothing could be better than having him pressed against my chest. One palm rested on my knee soothingly rubbing me through protective gloves. 

I wonder how it would feel to have those rough materialed digits pushed inside my pussy.. 

I will fight, defy and stand by him until the end of time. Or at least until the end of us.

My Draco Malfoy. 

[asultana]

Yes Kris Jenner is an an evil narcissist of a mom who made her children compete with each other for her love. However I really admire her way of teaching her kids that making money doesn't need to be so hard. She thought her kids to be all about the cash flow. Even if one business idea doesn't stick, onto the next, never let it go to heart if it doesn't pan out! And look at where they are now, they have climbed up to the top of the hills on the rubble of their failed business ventures. They explored so many realms and facets of business, literally throwing spaghetti on the wall. By her being her kids manager she got the best of both worlds, she would tell her kids in the delusional way a parent hypes up her kids you are the best at this, and if I think you are the best at this then others will think you are the best at this. At then the manager side will come out and go out in the real world and capitalize off whatever the "thing" was.

I really struggle to go out in the world with "my talents and interests" and make money off of them. I am thinking of starting a podcast, I even ordered the studio equipment. But I am scared... I am scared of so many things, like failure, or looking stupid. But I have to do this for my self. I a will start this as a hobby, and see where it goes. Now a days everyone and their brother has a podcast but that doesn't mean I can't be successful. I just have to find my niche or corner.

My parents can only get me so far, now it's my turn, I have to go out and figure out things for myself if I don't like what I do at their business. Independence is a hard for me, and I have to work on it.

This will be a thing I will do for myself, but anytime I have done things exclusively for myself I have found tremendous satisfaction and joy out of it.

When I have done things just for myself I figured out things about myself that would get ignored otherwise.

When I visited my friend in Europe for 3 weeks at Christmas, I came back and set out to find a trainer because I realized I needed help in that department, in a major major way.

Started take Spatone iron supplements.

Found myself a family doctor in a impossible to navigate system.

When despite working out for many years, three times a week I still felt dissatisfied with the way my body parts responded with each other I went overseas to visit my aunt who had also dealt with so many ailments. Went to a alternative medicine doctor she knew after my MRI and X ray tests came back negative for anything. That doctor then told me that my feet where the problem, along with some align issues in my spine and sold me inserts for my shoes, cervical support pillow and sandals from an English brand with arch and metatarsal arch supports.

Came back home, went to a podiatrist and got real custom made inserts made, got a Temperpedic brand version of my pillow, and continued to wear my sandals.

Started taking Vitamin D.

I start to wear my custom inserts with my a specific model of Asics (that model worked so well that I bought that model 6 times after that) so I that I can wear it for as long as possible. I figure out that I can't wear the English sandals at the same time as my custom insoles because they reinforce different parts of my foot. But it's okay because by now they have help with the mobility of my foot.

Last year I started doing classical reformer Pilates, I did it until the fall season when I started to feel sick and tired from the changes in weather and time.

This year I started my Pilates class again. And wow the amount of progress that I have made, I feel so proud myself. I sincerely say that I fee like a different person. My teacher is an amazing, she makes me do so much foot, spine and chest work, and it's been a tremendous transformation in quality of life.

She gave me a recommendation for a reflexologist and the reflexologist told me that the pain I feel on the outside of my foot is due to my ankles tightness (now I know!). And recommended I buy an elevation pillow for my legs to help with decompression (which I then went and did).

Went to a pelvic physio therapist and she was total game changer. I won't go to her again because too much tinkering in that area meant delayed period but she was instrumental in helping my uterus and hormones.

Diagnosed myself with PMDD, talked to my doctor about how to help symptoms, he prescribed Lexopro, and wasn't for me.

Staring taking Fish Oils

Bought myself good quality furniture and mattress because I despite living at home, I needed adult furniture that are to my tastes.

For the last two weeks I have been getting my hair washed and blow-dried by hairstyling students once a week and wow I am a different person all together.

I started taking magnesium at night before bed.

I have been improving in being alive, and it hasn't been easy but I had to find think that make life better for myself. I have made so much progress but I will continue to make so much more in order not to worry about myself in the long run.

[dp1nk]

aleks, zelda and the dying braincells

i didn't think i would be here to type this. no seriously. things have escalated to a very disturbing level since i started humorously chronicling my efforts to get neighbors evicted for fucking with my air.

once in a while, one must put their head into the space of someone who knows what they're doing wrong and can't take the inevitable consequences. what would you do if you were knowingly turning an innocent single lesbian's upstairs apartment into a literal gas chamber, then were being threatened with a court case that would make it difficult for you to rent apartments for a few years?

you'd probably be pissed right? you'd throw away all your fucks and blow your apartment up even more, right? of course. i'm not stupid, i expected that, and expected to hear yelling and arguing between my neighbor and her stay-at-home boyfriend, who hasn't had the balls to confront me about this and sends her to do it.

what i didn't expect was to be having some wine last night, eating my pesto, and suddenly having an overpowering smell of bleach in my flat at 10 pm. and it smelled like pure chlorine, to the point that i couldn't get it out of my flat fast enough, and it made me dizzy and gave me the worst feeling of being on the verge of a panic attack.

and for almost the entire night, those two were arguing *loud*. so i left my noisemaker up (at a volume that isn't meant to annoy them), but lena and i spent some time bonding by chatting on our phone, because high stress makes us dissociate to the point that we get really scrambled and it's how we maintain composure. (it's one of the features of our disorder but it works, and it's why i go from i to we sometimes - it's a sign i'm under so much stress that my crewmates are more active, because our jobs are to keep these experiences from our host's consciousness - and it works, but we've been switching non stop because of this situation like a trainer with fainted pokemon. just some context.)

and we chatted with another friend aware of our did on discord til 5 am as usual, because this tobacco smoke reliably floods our flat and makes it very difficult to get to sleep. and we're incredibly worried about zelda, but trying to stay in the corners of rooms like roaches trying to avoid fumigation chemicals.

around 3 am there was an explosion that shook the whole building so hard, i thought it was going to come down. i thought the neighbors had started physically fighting and were throwing each other and i was ready to dial for the police... but when there was no noise to come, i decided it must have been a gas heater malfunctioning. they don't really make explosive noises; more like a big dull POOF sound, but they can easily and suddenly decimate a building - and there's tornadoes around here right now. if that was enough to shake the entire building how it did, a hurricane or tornado will not have trouble knocking it over.

but i digress. lena suddenly realized that it didn't seem to make sense that they would clean their flat at such an hour with such strong chlorine, then start randomly arguing. she assumed they literally murdered someone and used it to clean the scene. but it was gone and we spent a good while coming up with reasons why this was happening last night - to us, and just in general.

but, in the end, we decided we might be acting paranoid and that it couldn't be possible that it was some kind of deliberate attempt to gas us dead. how? why? they know they won't get away with it. we just want to believe we're dealing with responsible, working-class neighbors who happen to be huge, potentially homophobic assholes. (but i refuse to believe it! it can't be over our flag, it truly just can't!)

and so we decided to ignore it, went to sleep. woke up in 6 hours, adding 2 more to our really big sleep debt again. i'm unfathomably tired; hurricane week is here for me, and i'm at the end of my wits with this, but i can't let it go now.

(and even if i wanted to, i have no way to move and nowhere to go, and if i did that they'd just get away with continuing to terrorize someone else who moves in, so i think the better option is patiently hoping that this property manager is moving as quickly as she can knowing how i can sue the owners of the complex of so much money at this point. and it could very well come to that because a lawyer would be one of the only things i can afford right now .)

if my post is rambly this time around, it's because i'm so dissociated and fried from this new chlorine-like smell. it actually resembles ammonia too, and i genuinely assumed that because it seemed to accompany or follow the tobacco smoke, they were just trying to cover their tracks.

then, as i was sobbing helplessly in bed from the stress... lena grabbed our phone out of nowhere and asked it, in her cute little accent, "HEY GOOGLE... what's meth smoke smell like?"

...........guess what it fucking smells like. i had no idea it smells like cleaning chemicals. did you?

now you do. you're welcome.

putting all the clues together, it all suddenly makes so much sense; denying the smoke came from them, the smell last night (wednesday being their day off from work) resembling cleaning chemicals, their incredibly loud, violent arguing, making us dizzy, causing us to panic, making it hard to sleep...

they haven't been cleaning. they've been cooking and smoking meth all this time.

god... jesus... the bear from the regency square mall... help me and see me through this, and don't let me or my cat come out of it with complications. because i am at a loss of what i can do now, knowing i've done everything in my power and all i can do is wait and hope.

okay i gotta throw up now. i sure hope this doesn't get worse though.

[the-dendrophile-bookdragon]

I Hate You (Affectionately) Part 9

I Hate You (Affectionately) Masterlist

Summary: Once you were friends. But everything changed one day… Pairing: Santiago ‘Pope’ Garcia x fem!reader Warnings: childhood friends to enemies to adult lovers, Laura returns, slow burn, hospitals, fluff

So many people were involved. FBI buzzed around the office. Checking every corner offline and online for clues. All agents and cops suspected a terrorist group. But not Olivia. She walked up to one of the FBI agents and tabbed on his shoulder, “Hey, I am sorry to interrupt but could it be possible that this attack wasn’t planed by a terrorist group. They would have claimed it for their own, wouldn’t they? You should investigate my daughter. She has been awfully quiet and I got a call from her bank that, although her bank account was frozen by me there were some weird transactions. God knows this girl can’t handle her finances. I think I will have to go to court and become her legal guardian. She nearly fell into the hands of a cult, twice.” Olivia shook her hand. The FBI agent nodded and gave the information’s to the analysts.

An hour later Laura was sitting in an interrogation room. She looked bored out of her mind. Two agents entered the room. Laura still looked unfazed. The agents began to interrogate the young women while her mother was watching. Laura shrugged or gave one-word answers. All to the frustration of everyone in and out of the interrogation room.

One of the agents asked about how Laura found the terrorist group. The women only shrugged, “I don’t know. I just googled a lot of thinks and then my laptop screen turned black. There were some weird symbols. Someone wrote to me. We met. I told him about that bitch and he told me he would take care.” Laura shrugged, popping her bubble. The agents asking her looked very frustrated but it was no surprise to Olivia. Her daughter had that affect on people. The younger agent leaned forwards, her elbows leaned on the surface of the table, “You talked about a second person. Did you mean her?” Agent Crown took out your company picture out of the case file.

Olivia holds her breath. Waiting what her daughter would say about this. “Laura looked down, her face blank, “Yeah. What about her? She is the reason I got kicked out of my company and have to live off my sugar daddy’s money.” Olivia closed her eyes and took a deep breath to calm herself down. The next comment made her blood boil, “But she isn’t dead, is she. This bitch has so much luck. Did you know-“ Olivia didn’t listen to her daughter anymore. Against the protest of the agents standing around her she stormed out of the room and into the interrogation room. “One of my best employees is fighting for her life because of you. But you have to be petty and ruin the company your father and I worked so hard for. We worked our asses off for years only for you to destroy it in the blink of an eye. Do you feel no shame, Laura?” Olivia nostrils flared. her rage visible through her eyes. “You met with a cybercriminal who bombs my company for what? Vengeance. Your last name isn’t Wayne. You are as stupid as the night sky is dark.”

The agent assigned to her ran through the door. He looked at the agents interrogating Laura and smiled at them sheepishly. “Mrs. Goodwin, you have to leave the room. Please come with me we have some news.” Olivia’s eyes widened. She nodded vigorously and went with the young FBI agent.

Benny nearly ran over a man and an old woman while driving to the hospital. The red lights he ignored may catch up to him in the form of tickets or another form of other payments. But he would gladly pay them if it meant being faster at your side. He was there when you were brought into the hospital and he waited till you came out of surgery. The only time he wasn’t there was during his training hours. His trainer called him in to go over his next match. Benny couldn’t listen to him and was plagued by pictures of your unconscious body.

He parked his car, nearly forgetting to lock the door. He ran to the stairs and skipped three or four at a time. He reached the front desk out of breath and wheezed your name out. The nurse pointed him to your room. Before she could tell you about your well being Benny sprinted to your room.

Your eyes were closed. Your body felt heavy. Every shallow breath you took was painful. Slowly you opened your eyes and tried to sit up. But the pain was unbearable. A nurse rushed in and helped you lay down again, “Oh sweety. Hold on the pain will be lesser in just a minute.” After five minutes the pain subsided a little. “Better?” You nodded. She reached for a water jug and filled a cup of water for you. The nurse helped you sit up and brought the cup to your lips. You emptied the cup in one go.

Fast steps approached your room. Benny burst into your room out of breath. “You are awake.” Benny stormed to your side before being stopped by the nurse, “Hold on a minute, mister. She is in a lot of pain. Don’t make it worse.” Benny nodded shyly at her. She was content about his silent answer and left the room, “See you later.” You tried to wave but gave up due to exhaustion.

“How are you, petal?” You turned your eyes to your best friend, “Everything hurts. My back, my rips, and my head the most. The painkillers help but not much. And I am so tired. I feel like I could sleep through the week.” Benny chuckled. He took your hand and caressed the back of it. You talked for a while till your eyes grew heavy. The nurse appointed to you entered the room. She smiled softly before stepping in front of Benny, “You have to go. She is tired and needs her rest. I let you stay long enough even past visiting hours.”

She turned to you and your flattering eyelids. The nurse pulled up the blanket higher, careful not to touch your injuries. She looked up to Benny, who stood up and was ready to go home, “I can call you if she wakes up. You just have to give me your number.” Benny nodded shyly. He searched for his phone in his pockets before handing it to the nurse. With quick fingers she typed in her number before calling herself. She turned Benny’s phone to him and grinned timidly at him. He looked at his phone and saw not only her number but also her name. He looked up in wonder, a wide grin on his lips, “Sif? What an unusual name.” She matched his grin, “Nickname actually. My name is or was Stefani but I hate it. So I took some letters and turned it to a name I like.” Benny smiled at her, “It’s beautiful. I will hear from you?” She nodded.

Next Chapter

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a mutual feeling

harry styles x reader. enemies (kind of) to lovers. 9.5k words. summary/warnings: boxing! boxer!harry x boxer!reader, harry's dad is your trainer, you kind of hate each other, not really, it's not even enemies to lovers they're both just brats, it's boxing so there's kind of a lot of violence and blood, there's nothing too explicit, alcohol consumption, you're a better fighter than he is and you fight and end up doing it, oops, friends w benefits type of deal, he doesn't do relationships but he likes you, oops again, and you like him, triple oops, it's quite the journey but you'll make it.

***

“You look like shit,” Harry greets you when you open the door.

“And you, my love,” you respond with a slight slur, “look handsome as always.” You lean in for a kiss, and Harry gently pushes you away, rolling his eyes as he walks into your apartment. You grimace at the contact, feeling the pain even through the fuzz of the whiskey you’re holding.

“My dad would kill you if he were here,” Harry says.

You giggle, shutting the door behind him. “Well, then, thank goodness he’s not!”

Harry glares at you from your refrigerator and makes a noncommittal grunt.

You frown, suddenly, your alcohol muddled mind working through something. “Wait a minute,” you say slowly, “he’s not here… but you are!” Harry glares even more and walks back over to you. You pout as he guides you to your couch.

Groaning through the pain, you allow him to nudge you onto your back on the couch. “What,” you manage to ask through gritted teeth, “are we gonna fuck now?” Harry sighs, softening the bag of frozen peas he’s holding with his fingers. “You wish.”

He kneels down beside the couch and lays the bag over your bruised nose and black eye. He’s biting on his lip, concentrating and wincing a little bit whenever he hits a sensitive spot and you grimace. He fiddles with the peas, trying to get the bag in exactly the right spot, and you watch his eyes. His green, green, worried eyes.

“He knows,” you murmur.

Harry’s jaw clenches, and that’s the only response you need.

You roll your head away from him, breaking eye contact and letting the bag of peas slide onto your black eye. “Fuck.” Suddenly you’re sober. Harry sighs again, going still for a moment, and then another, and then he stands up and walks away.

“What if I didn’t show up tomorrow?” you ask softly.

You hear him fumbling around in your cabinet.

After a moment, he says, “You will.”

You don’t say anything, because he’s right.

Silence falls over the room, and you’re just about to ask him what he’s doing over there when there’s a loud bang. You gasp, jolting upright, and watch Harry shake out his fist. Your cabinet door is ajar, papers and knick knacks misplaced.

“You promised him, goddammit!”

You exhale slowly, sharply, leaning back as the pain from your sudden movement sets in.

“You promised me!” Harry closes the distance between the cabinet and the couch, throwing your first aid kit onto the coffee table in front of you quite violently. “Christ, you said you’re done! No more fighting.”

You close your eyes. “I’m sorry.”

He breathes a second, and you can hear he’s panting. So angry. “I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do,” you go on softly when he doesn’t talk for a moment. “I get antsy, and it’s late, and, well…” You turn over a little bit, grimacing, and hold up the wad of cash.

“Train!” he bursts, ignoring the money. “You said training! Fight with my dad! It’s so easy. Fight with gloves! Spar! For fuck’s sake, you said no more of this - this underground - rubbish. You can’t be out there fighting random people just to get your rocks off.”

You frown. “It’s not -”

“You’re so fucking reckless it’s insane!” he interrupts, apparently on a rant. “I cannot believe how stupid you are. After all this, you won’t go pro, won’t stop, won’t - won’t do anything but keep fucking yourself up and leaving me to clean up after!”

That strikes a nerve, and you sit up, anger brewing in your stomach. It always seems to come to this with him. “What?” you scoff incredulously. “Leave you to clean up after?” Harry scowls at you. “What else would you call this?”

“I’d call this you getting into my business!” you exclaim. “I’d call this you coming to my house in the dead of night because you’re - you’re worried about me. That has nothing to do with me, Styles, and you fucking know it. I never asked for this. I’d be just fucking fine on my own, thank you very much.”

“Yeah?” Harry spits, grabbing the half empty bottle of whiskey and shaking it at you. “Just fine, huh? Bleeding out on your couch passed out from too much to drink, that’s fine? We have very different definitions of fine then, don’t we?”

You scowl at him, vision going red with anger, and you shout, “I’ll prove it! Leave!” You jump to your feet, getting riled up, but can only start, “There’s the -” before pain shoots through your body and you fall back down, struggling for breath.

“Shit,” Harry mutters. The bottle’s dropped and he’s at your side in a second, taking bandages and disinfectant out of your first aid kit. He pulls up your shirt, cleaning a bruise on your rib cage that broke skin before pressing a soft cloth against it. “There could be a broken rib in here,” he says under his breath. “You need to go to -”

“I’m fine,” you cut in.

He looks at you, concern in his gaze, and you have to shut your eyes.

“I can’t afford it,” you whisper. “Give it a few days. I’ll be able to tell. If it’s really bad… I’ll go.” He doesn’t reply, doesn’t say anything, but you can hear the worry in the silence. “Promise?” he says.

“Yeah.”

He grabs your hand, and you frown, and he says, “Look at me.”

You meet his eyes, lifting your hand just off the couch with your pinky extended.

He links his pinky with yours.

“Pinky swear,” you say.

***

You can tell Des is pissed from the moment you walk into the gym. You can’t even see him yet and you already know. There’s something in the air. Everybody turns to stare, eyes wide, faces shameless. They have a right, though - it’s not every day somebody comes in with fresh bruises and black eyes.

“He’s in back,” the receptionist tells you as soon as you walk up to the counter.

“Great,” you mutter. “Thanks.” You shift your bag further onto your back, heading for the back room where you train. And there he is, sitting on a bench, feet up on a yoga ball and eyes trained stubbornly on his phone.

“Hey, Mr. Styles,” you say cheerily, only a hint of sarcasm slipping into your tone.

“Don’t hey, Mr. Styles me.”

You clear your throat and shut up.

“What you did last night,” he begins, standing up and crossing his arms across his chest, “was reckless, uncalled for, and dangerous. Not to mention stupid.” You grit your teeth, letting your bag slide to the floor and leaning against the doorframe. You’re in for a long one.

“These fights aren’t only dangerous but illegal,” he goes on. “You could’ve gotten yourself jailed or worse. And you know that.” He steps forward. “The worst part is you know that. We’ve been over this so, so many times. And you still go and risk your life.”

You bite your lip and look at the floor.

“I train you because you’re good,” Des tells you. “You’re a damn good fighter, you know that? And it helps you, I can see that much. A right stupid bloody temper, that’s what you have, and if I can save some poor bloke on the street from getting his arse kicked, I will. But if you won’t go pro, won’t do it safely, and won’t stop with these bloody undergrounds I can’t do it anymore!”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“Damn right you’re sorry! You promised me! You swore! Said you’d never go out again! And I had to find out from my ex wife that you’re at a fight? What the hell?” You frown at this, confused suddenly, and ask, “Anne told you?”

Des scowls and turns away. “Her coworker’s daughter’s involved. I don’t bloody know. Don’t know how, why, when - but it doesn’t matter, does it?” He rounds on you, again, and you sigh quietly, exhausted from the lecture and the guilt and the pain.

He must clock it, because he softens, taking a breath and rubbing his fingers over his eyes. “Go home,” he says. “I can’t… I can’t look at you, and you can barely lift a muscle. A right mess, you are, about to fall apart just from standing so long.”

You start to complain, “But -!”

“No. Go home. Now, or else I’ll have Harry drive you.”

Frowning at the threat, and the fact that it worked, you pick up your bag and turn to go. Before you leave, though, you look at him once more. “I’m sorry,” you say. “I really am.” Des sighs. “I know,” he says.

You walk out. Stares, round two, and then you’re outside, and you take a breath of the cool air. It’s October, cold, but it feels good. Walking down the steps, you see Harry, leaned against a tree with a book.

You roll your eyes and ignore him, hoping he won’t notice you.

But he does. He calls your name, jumps up, walks over to you.

“Save it, Harry,” you say immediately. “I don’t need another lecture.”

You see him frown from the corner of your eye. “I don’t… I wasn’t gonna.”

“Save it anyway,” you mutter.

He says your name again and stops walking. You feel his hand brush against yours, like he wants to grab your hand. Against your better judgement, you stop walking too. “What?” you ask, a bit shortly.

“I just… I’m sorry,” he says.

Your brows furrow in confusion. “For what?”

Harry clears his throat. Looks at his hands. “Last night. I shouldn’t’ve said those things.”

“Oh,” you say.

“Yeah,” he says, half smiling as he looks up again. “Oh. I just - well, you’re right, that’s all. I’m just getting in your business.” You sigh, shaking your head and starting to apologize yourself, but he cuts you off. “No, no, you don’t have to - I just wanted to say that I’m…” He breathes a laugh. “I’m available. If you want to fight. When you get antsy. Even if it’s… late.”

You can’t help but smile a little bit. “Are you offering to get my rocks off for me?”

Harry barks a laugh and then says, “Yeah. Yeah, I guess I am.”

“Fuck yes.”

He doesn’t say anything, and your eyes lock, just for a second, and then you clear your throat, looking away. “Right, well, I’ll… I’ll see you around.” He nods. “Yeah,” he says, heading back to his tree. “See ya.”

***

Antsy.

The ceiling fan spins around above you, taunting you, pushing hot air around and around. It’s October and you’re somehow hot, cramped in your apartment. It’s a few weeks later, now, around midnight. You had a session with Des this morning, and you’re still antsy. Restless. You could probably go down the street, get your brains knocked out, earn a little cash.

Or you could call Harry.

Grotesque, just the idea of it. What a surrender. You roll out of bed, shove on pants and a sweatshirt for the cold air outside, and grab your car keys. You’re sweating by the time you get to the door, then freezing cold when you step outside.

The drive isn’t too long, a few minutes. The parking lot’s empty. It’s eerie. Des keeps a key above the door under the light. You’re surprised to see a dim light on in the back, and you’re even more surprised to see Harry hunched over a book.

“You’re in a gym, Styles, and you’re reading,” you say, breaking the silence. He jumps and looks up. His eyes are tired. “You’re in a gym,” he says back, “and it’s midnight.” His voice is raspy.

“Could say the same to you.”

“I live here.”

You raise a brow. “So?”

“You don’t.”

“Right.”

He holds your gaze. He likes to do that, likes to keep eye contact and make you think he’s staring into your soul. You’re the first one to look away. You always are. It’s unnerving. His eyes are so pretty, too. If you stare too long you start to admire him.

“You’re a bit early for a session,” he says as you put down your bag.

You pull on your gloves. The velcro is deafening. “I got antsy,” you reply.

“Did I miss a call?”

“No.”

“I’m a little offended.”

You crack your neck, bounce on your toes. “We’re not friends, Styles.”

“Right, I’m very offended.”

You step away from him, towards the punching bag. “Besides,” you say, “you’re too weak” - you throw a punch, the bag swings, creaks - “to spar with me.” Harry huffs, standing up and walking closer. “Christ, you’re just bullying me now.”

“I’m good at that.”

“Not really.”

Another punch, right hook, a combo, one, two, three, he’s standing against the wall, looking very cool with his arms across his chest. “Yeah?” you ask. “Should I try harder?” One, two, you’re starting to sweat. It feels good.

“Should stop trying at all.”

Three, four - one, one, four - “Go read your novel, Styles.”

He watches you for a second, and then sits down. He opens his book.

When you leave, an hour and a half later, he’s fallen asleep.

***

Another week and you’re wired again. The fan’s off, you’re sweating, but not in a good way. Soon you’re in the car, in the parking lot, in the gym. And… the light’s on again. For a second, you wonder if he ever sleeps.

“No wonder you’re so weak,” you start this time. “You never sleep.”

He doesn’t jump this time. “And neither, apparently, do you.”

“Least it doesn’t affect my fighting.”

“Affects your head, though. Explains the stupidity.”

You sigh. “You’re a prick.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“What are you, five?”

You look up and he’s smiling, the bastard, like it’s funny. Which it is, actually, but he’s being annoying about it. When you meet his gaze, he smiles more, just for a second, and then looks down at his book. “Won’t bother you this time,” he murmurs.

“Gee,” you say wryly, “I appreciate it.”

He doesn’t reply, just shrugs, and reads.

You frown, because you’re surprised. Not because you’re upset. Not because you wanted to talk to him. Or maybe you did. The anger is good fuel. You take it out on the punching bag.

You don’t stay as long this time. He’s still awake when you leave.

“See ya,” he says as you walk out.

These late night sessions don’t hold you over like a good fight does. Every week you’re going over there, and every week he’s there, too. The light doesn’t surprise you anymore, and to your embarrassment, you’ve begun to come up with your witty greetings on the way.

The conversations don’t last as long. It’s a back and forth, and then silence. It’s comfortable, the silence, and you don’t bring music. You should. You should block him out, forget he’s there, but you can’t.

It’s true, about the anger. It’s good fuel.

You feel him staring one night. He’s so intense. You think about his eyes, how much you hate them, how expressive they are, how you can tell exactly what he’s feeling, what he’s thinking…

The chain swings, creaks, you breathe in, out, one, two, three -

Harry catches the punching bag.

You pull your punch to keep from breaking his nose. “Shit, Styles, what the hell?”

He’s grinning at you, dimpling, you want to punch him, he says, “Let’s fight.”

“I told you,” you sigh, turning away, “you’re too weak for me.”

“The last time we sparred, I was sixteen.”

“And I’m sure you haven’t improved since.”

Harry raises his brows. “You think you’re better than me?”

“Yes,” you say, “yes I do.”

“Wanna prove it?”

You look at him, let your eyes drift over his body. He’s worked out, that’s for sure, and he’s so damn tall, too. He crosses his arms over his chest and watches you smugly, like you’re checking him out and not assessing his skill level. You kind of are checking him out. The sharp angle of his jaw line probably doesn’t affect the power of his punch.

You break the moment of silence. And then you say, “Fuck yes.”

It takes a second, a second of getting on gloves and drinking water and shedding layers, and then another second of bouncing on your toes, circling each other, watching his smile, his eyes, in the dim glow of the moon in the windows.

And then he makes the first move.

He throws a punch.

“Too easy,” you say as you duck.

“Just getting warmed up.”

“Lucky for you,” you start, moving closer, telegraphing left, “I’m already warm.” You go right. Right hook, for the jaw - he blocks it, of course, and you go under, for his stomach. He doesn’t dodge that one.

“Thought you’d give me a little more than that,” he says, but he’s a little breathless so the effect doesn’t carry. You just smile, watching his shoulders. Broad shoulders. His hips move left, you duck right, it’s too easy. His punch goes too far. The momentum carries him, you hold those broad shoulders and knee into his ribcage.

He coughs, stumbling a little, and you feel a twinge of guilt. Oops.

And then it’s all movement.

He lunges forward and -

One, two - hook left, dodge it, he’s sweating, eyes focused - one, two, another left jab, an uppercut that lands. He’s spinning, bouncing, now you’re the one that’s coughing. No more guilt. He doesn’t draw blood, though, going weak on you. Of course he is.

Amused, you laugh, “Shit, Styles,” and square your shoulders, crack your neck, draw closer, hands up. His brows jump, and he looks just as amused as you are. Bounce, bounce, eye contact, a teasing glint in his eyes.

Here we go, you think, and now it’s your turn.

One-two-three-four, bang bang bang, every punch lands, not hard, go gentle, a knee to his stomach, also gentle, pull him down, elbow to his back, so gentle, don’t hurt him, look at those back muscles, he swears under his breath, arm behind his back, don’t pull, don’t hurt him, he’s on the floor, on his stomach, arm bent, your knee on the small of his back -

He breathes a laugh, craning to look at you over his shoulder. “Alright, then. Point proved.” You grin, releasing him and falling back onto your hands. “I’m not one to say I told you so…”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, turning onto his back. He puts his cheek against the mat, looking at you. He’s still smiling. You look at his dimples, his cheek, and you lean forward, off your hands. He holds your gaze, no surprise there, and you hold his.

His smile fades, and you watch his eyes flick down and back up. You’re panting, chest rising, falling - it’s so quiet. You creep forward. He swallows, you see his throat work. He’s still sweating. So are you, probably.

You lean over him, watch his eyes widen, trail your finger over his cheek. “I hope I didn’t bruise you,” you murmur. He’s breathing just as heavily as you are, and even though he looks like he’s about to faint, his voice is cocky as he asks, “Oh, is that why you’re touching me?”

Closer, closer, your necklace hangs in the space between the two of you. Even closer, and it rests on his chest. “I don’t know,” you whisper. “Are we about to fuck?” He rolls over, suddenly, doesn’t reply, pulls you with him, and he’s on top of you and he’s kissing you and it feels so good, tastes so good, you close your eyes and grin and pull him closer, closer.

Turns out the answer’s yes.

***

A rude awakening. So rude. Borderline disrespectful.

Everything hurts. You groan, rolling over.

The bell on the door chimes again, and your eyes snap open.

You bolt upright. “Fuck,” you hiss.

“Such a dirty mouth,” Harry mumbles, still half asleep.

Scrambling for clothes, you mutter, “Your dad’s here, idiot.”

“Oh,” Harry says, blinking awake. “Fuck.”

You hurry to grab clothes and get decent and run out the door without another word to Harry. It’s cold outside, and you’re only half dressed. You get your car running, pull out of the parking lot, and hope Des doesn’t see you.

When you’re home, you take a cold shower. Icy cold. Your head’s still pounding, but you manage to muddle through what happened last night. Regret seeps through you with the water, and you’re thankful for the heat in your apartment when you step out.

You have a session with Des in a few hours.

Should be fun. Awkward.

And it is, when you eventually get there. A little of both. Mostly awkward. Des doesn’t suspect anything. He must not have seen your car in the morning. You trade smirks and scowls and glares and grins with Harry throughout the morning, but not a word.

Not a single word.

***

Antsy.

Antsy, antsy, restless, wired.

And guilty.

Because you’re not antsy for a fight. You’re antsy for a chat. Or a fuck. Whatever. You’re expecting a few words to turn into a few kisses, and then a few more, and then another rude awakening. You can’t tell if you’re excited about that or already guilty.

So much guilt. Can never get away from the guilt.

You’re thinking about it the whole ride over, through empty streets and hour long red lights and mocking stop signs. It’s so quiet. You can’t get over how quiet the world is when your head is so ridiculously loud.

Through all that, you can’t come up with a single thing to start with.

You used to pull into the parking lot and come up with a nice snarky comment to start the evening out with. Just like that. You’d walk in and mull it over and decide it was perfect then tweak it just so right before saying it.

And you’d get a rush of satisfaction from his reply and his smirk and his dimples.

Not tonight. Tonight you think the whole way over and can’t think of a single thing to say. Nothing to start with, nothing to end with, nothing to tell him or yell at him or sob at him. Nothing. Zero, zilch, nada.

He’s working out when you get there. Shimmering in the moonlight with his shirt off, throwing punches at the punching bag and bouncing around and panting breaths. It comes to you, then, what to say, and you say it.

“Oh, how the turntables…”

He stops and stills the punching bag with his hand and turns to look at you. He doesn’t look particularly uncomfortable. Maybe a little unsure. Mostly smug. His eyes are the only things giving away his uncertainty.

“Didn’t think you’d show up,” he says.

“No faith in me, huh?”

He smiles. “None at all.” He takes off his gloves and stretches, flexing for you, and you let your eyes rake over him shamelessly. “Didn’t bring a book with me,” you muse, setting your bag down. “Then we’d really be, uh… swapped…”

“Shame.”

Your eyes lock. There’s a beat of silence, and you let it linger for a while. His eyes are so expressive. Green, so green. Even greener up close. “So are we gonna talk about it?” you ask after a second.

“Talk about what?”

You debate punching him. Hard. You could break his nose. Get a little blood gushing. Maybe he’d talk to you then. “It’s rude to answer a question with a question, Styles.” He leans against the wall. “Is it?”

“It’s a sign of weakness, actually.”

He raises a brow. “You think I’m the one at a disadvantage here?”

“Aren’t we both?”

“Do you regret it?”

You’re playing along now. “Do you?”

“Would you do it again?”

You hold his gaze, walk closer. “Isn’t that the same question?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it. He grins.

And then he kisses you.

Dammit, you think through the euphoria, he somehow managed to win.

***

It’s not that you expected that it would happen again. It’s not like you were hoping for it to happen again, or even like you were dreading it would happen again. It was one of those hope for the best, prepare for the worst situations.

Three in the morning, and your watch buzzes against your wrist.

Groaning, you sit up and gather your clothes. You get dressed, slip out, and drive home. One icy cold shower later, you’re wishing you felt regret. You wish you were guilty, or upset, or embarrassed.

Instead, you picture those dimples and grin.

You ignore him when you go to the gym for your session with Des. You work out, get your heartrate up, push away all thoughts about Harry Styles, and leave. The ball is in his court, you decide, and you’re not one to steal. Or maybe you are. You’re just too stubborn at the moment.

It feels good to be rid of him, even if it’s just temporary. It takes a few days, a few days of you ignoring his more and more frequent glances, a few days of you leaving as soon as your session’s over, a few days of you parking around back so he can’t corner you out front where he reads.

Then he follows you. He does corner you, only at your car rather than at his tree. He’s leaned up against it when you walk out, and you sigh when you catch sight of him. A sigh of irritation. Because you’re annoyed. It’s not a sigh of relief, obviously, or a sigh of happiness.

“Waiting for me at my car?” you say, walking up to him. “I’m a little creeped out.”

Harry looks up at you, brows raised. “She speaks!”

You fiddle with your keys. “Yeah, she’s been known to, here and there.”

He bites his lip, looking at you thoughtfully. “You know, I don’t know where you live.”

“Wow, you managed to get even creepier.”

“I said I don’t know where you live,” he says, smiling a bit.

You open the door, lean against it. “I heard you.”

“I was gonna visit you. Bring flowers or summat.”

“Flowers!” you gasp. “A creep and a liar. How romantic.”

He smiles even more. “You didn’t show up for a while.”

“I’m glad you noticed.”

“I was getting worried.”

You cock a brow. “Is worried a synonym for horny now, or…?”

His smile curls into a smirk. “That too.”

You nod, mocking sympathy. “Right, right, you poor soul.” You clear your throat, sliding into the driver’s seat, and close the door as you turn the key in the ignition. “Well!” you exclaim, rolling down the window so he can hear you. “I’m gonna drive away now. Nice talking to you.”

He puts his palm on the door, leans against it, muscles flexing. “My mate’s coming into town,” he says. He’s looking at you. So intense. “Yeah?” you ask. “Are you into that?” His brows jump, teasingly, but then he’s shaking his head.

“Nah, I just… He’s a good lad, you know? And he needs a place to stay.”

“Your dad lives with you, Styles, and I don’t think he’d like to hear -”

“He’s not staying with us.”

You scoff slightly. “You think he’d wanna stay in my little -”

“No,” Harry interrupts, “he’s staying in a hotel.”

Your eyes narrow, wondering if you know where he’s going with this. You stay quiet.

“And, uh…” He breaks eye contact, which makes you suspicious, and looks out towards the gym behind your car. “I wanna make sure the place he’s staying is nice.” He looks back at you, just a hint of a smirk in his eyes.

“Styles,” you begin slowly, and then he clears his throat, cutting you off again, and leans back, off your car, standing up straight. He’s looking at the gym again. “I think you need to come with me to test out this hotel he’s staying at.”

You laugh. You laugh, throwing your head back, being dramatic about it, and say, “You did not just go through all that just to get me in a hotel room with you.” Harry meets your gaze, finally, and grins. “My back’s getting sore for all the wrong reasons.”

“Christ almighty, you absolute bastard.” You put on your seat belt, shaking your head with a huge smile on your face. “Fuck you, Styles,” you say, putting your foot on the pedal, “and call me when you figure out a date.”

***

Apparently, the date is a week later.

And a week later, it feels so nice to wake up on a bed. All the satisfaction of the night before and a perfectly comfortable bed to wake up in. You’re more content than you should be, and you have to hide your smile the next morning after round - four? Five? Whatever. The first of the morning. And last, apparently.

He’s pulling on his pants, fixing himself in the mirror, and you’re staring at him and thinking. Thinking about what to say, when to say it, how to say it, whether you’re a wimp for wanting to say it. “So we’re really not gonna talk about it, huh?” you finally say.

He hums a “Hm?” and meets your gaze in the mirror.

You glare. “Gonna make me spell it out?”

“Spell what out?”

“Again with the questions,” you mutter.

“Right, well, I wasn’t trying to be smart,” Harry starts, and you can’t help cutting in, “Are you ever?” He purses his lips at you and turns around. “Tell me.” You’re almost impressed, and then he adds, “Is that better?”

You breathe a sigh, clearing your throat and turning on the dramatics again. Sitting up, you sit on your calves and clutch the blanket to your chest. With your best puppy dog eyes, you gush, “What are we, Styles?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Mortal enemies,” he says under his breath, turning around again to put on his shirt. “Yeah?” you say. “All blood and guts?” He smirks at you in the mirror. “I think I felt your guts last night when -”

You laugh and cut him off. “Oh, alright.”

A second of silence, and he goes a little more serious. “I hope you know I don’t do relationships,” he says quietly. Your brows jump. “And I thought I was the dramatic one.” He sighs, turning around to face you. “I’m not being dramatic.”

“The hell you aren’t,” you say with a grin.

He frowns. “We’re not a thing.”

“Good,” you tell him. “I’d kill you.”

“You have to tell me if you ever get into a relationship,” he says.

You blink. “Huh?”

“We’re done if you start dating.”

You scoff a laugh. “Um? No shit?”

“And we can’t tell my dad.”

Shaking your head, you hold up a hand. “Hold on, back track. I’ll tell you if I ever start dating, and you tell me if you ever do.” He shrugs and replies, “That’s easy. I won’t date.” You frown. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You’re a prick,” you say, impulsively.

“Which is why I won’t date.”

“Some people are into that.”

“Are you?”

You bounce your eyebrows. “Clearly.”

“And yet you don’t wanna date me.”

“Fuck no.”

“Point proved.”

“Fuck you.”

He grins. “Fuck me yourself.”

You laugh, incredulously, and flop back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. “Alright. It’s off if either of us get into a relationship -” You hold up a finger when he starts to talk and push on, “And your dad can’t know.”

“I’m not paying for this hotel every time you get horny.”

You sit up and scoff, “Every time I get -”

“Every time we want to spend quality time together,” he amends, a sweet smile on his face. You grin and lay back again. “My apartment’s small,” you say. “But there’s a bed.” Harry hums, sitting on the bed, and you turn your head to watch him pull on his shoes.

“Anywhere that’s not the gym floor is fine with me.”

“Ooh, you’ll get to see where I live,” you say. “Should I be scared?”

“For your bed, maybe.”

You snicker and mutter, “You’re gross.”

“So are you.”

“A match made in heaven.”

Harry makes a noise of disagreement. “Hell.”

You smile, reaching over to fiddle with his shirt. “Purgatory.”

“You’re awful.”

“And you’re gross,” you reply with a shrug.

You can see him biting back a smile as he stands up. “Right. And - nobody can know.”

“Yeah, yeah, we won’t tell your dad.”

“No, I mean - other people, too.”

You raise a brow. “Who cares?”

He frowns, turning away to grab his coat. “They might get the wrong idea.”

You breathe a laugh and sit up, stretching a bit. “Yeah? And what’s the right idea?”

“Anything but whatever the hell’s happening here.”

“Wow, I’m offended.”

“Should be. Fuck you.”

Childishly, you stick your tongue out at him. “Fuck me yours-”

“And now we’re just going in circles,” Harry interrupts. He grabs his coat, and you realize he’s fully dressed, and you’re a bit startled. “Don’t be late for the gym,” he tells you. “My dad’ll get suspicious.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, well, heaven forbid your dad -”

“Just don’t be late.”

“Interrupt me one more time, Styles, I -”

He smirks, opens the door, and leaves.

You groan and fall back onto the bed again, then sigh happily.

This situation with Harry, you think, is absolutely terrible.

***

He is so cute.

Just the most adorable.

All smiles and big green eyes and soft curls you want to run your hands through.

“I think I love you,” you murmur drunkenly, and he laughs.

He’s got a nice laugh. Sounds like music. “Think I feel the same.”

You lean into him, pressing kisses against the column of his throat. “I really think I love you, Harry,” you whisper, and he clears his throat, going a bit stiff. “Jack,” he says. “It’s Jack.”

“Oh,” you giggle. You look up at him. “Your eyes are green,” you tell him.

He smiles again, and he doesn’t have dimples. “That they are,” he says.

You’re at some bar. Two weeks after the hotel meet up. Harry’s been to your apartment about a million times, but luckily, the bed’s still in one piece. Here, there’s music going, and you have a few drinks on the table in front of you.

A few guys bought you drinks. Jack did. He was nice about it, though. He’s such a gentleman. He offered to buy you food, brought you to a table and talked with you while you ate. He pulled the chair out for you.

He nudges at your cheek, pressing his lips to your skin. It’s all wrong. But he’s a gentleman, and boy, are his eyes green. You sway a little to the music playing. He kisses you more. It feels nice.

You turn so your back is to his chest, and he stops with the kissing. He holds your waist, not too low, so respectful. What a gentleman. With those green, green eyes. “I wanna make you feel good,” he whispers in your ear.

“Yeah?” you say, giggling a little.

He kisses your throat, so lightly, so nicely. “I wanna take you home.”

You pout at that and turn around, wiggling your hand at him. “Oh, Jack,” you say, “I’m married!” He frowns, pulling away a little bit. “What?” You show him the ring on your finger, only half processing that it’s on your middle finger and you’re essentially flipping him off.

Your gaze focuses. “Oh,” you say, outloud, lowering your hand and inspecting the ring. It’s Harry’s, you realize. He left it in your room last week, and you wore it so you wouldn’t forget to give it to him the next time you saw him. But you forgot.

“I forgot,” you murmur.

“You forgot you’re married?” Jack scoffs incredulously.

“No!” you exclaim, looking up. “No, no, I’m not - I’m not married. Not at all.”

He relaxes, but he still looks skeptical.

“I just - it’s complicated.”

“I didn’t know,” he says, backing away. “I don’t want to get in the middle of anything.”

“You wouldn’t be,” you say softly.

He laughs awkwardly. “Um… Yeah, well, it seems like I would be.”

You’re not sure what to say, and eventually settle on a weak, “I’m sorry.”

“Right.” He clears his throat. “Me too. Well, it was nice… it was nice meeting you.”

You look up, shaking your head. “Wait, you don’t have to…”

“I think I should,” he says. “Yeah, so - bye, I guess.”

“Bye,” you say softly. “Bye, bye…”

***

What a headache. So much pain.

You groan, rolling over onto your stomach, and look at the clock.

“Shit.”

You’re late. You’re so, so late. Des will be pissed. You haven’t been late for a session in almost two years. You scramble out of bed, downing a painkiller and stumbling around your apartment until you’re changed and about ready to go.

The medicine kicks in on the way, and you’re almost sentient by the time you get to the gym. Harry gives you a weird look on the way, and a bit of a memory flashes through your head. Vaguely, you worry about having confessed your love to him.

You have a session though, and you already have enough on your plate dealing with an angry Des, so you force it out of your head. Des is upset. He gets over it. You throw punches and get your feelings out and set a ring on your finger to the side. You’re not sure how it got there, but it looks like Harry’s. Shit, you think, maybe there really was a declaration of love.

He’s reading against his tree, and you ambush him on the way out. “What did I say last night?” you ask, a bit breathlessly. He looks surprised and replies, “What do you mean?” You sit down next to him, getting your breath back.

“Be honest,” you say.

A smile tugs the corner of his lips. “Aren’t I always?”

“Never. But I didn’t - you’re not -” You huff. “Are we okay?”

The smile drops, and so does your heart. He looks down. Oh, no, you think miserably. You really did. You said you loved him, drunkenly, and ruined your entire relationship. Friendship. Situationship. You’re getting another headache just thinking about it.

“Well, actually… I was thinking… maybe we should take a break,” Harry says quietly.

Your heart drops even further, and you blurt, “I didn’t mean it.”

His brows furrow. He looks up again. “What?”

“I don’t love you.”

Harry blinks, dramatically, and actually laughs. “What?” he repeats.

“What I said last night. I didn’t mean it. I was drunk.”

His brows go down again. “I didn’t… I didn’t see you last night.”

You hold up the ring. “Are you sure?”

He grabs it from you, smiling a bit. “Yeah. Positive. I’ve been looking for this for about three days.” You bite your lip. “Oh,” you say. He looks at you, confused yet again. “If not me,” he says slowly, “who were you with?”

“I don’t know,” you say honestly. “I don’t remember.”

“You slept with somebody?”

“No. I woke up alone. Just a - an awful headache.”

He clears his throat, looking away. “Right, right. Well, you can. Obviously. I don’t - I don’t care. At all. But I was thinking…” He looks down at the ring, at his lap, frowning. “I think we should lay off it a bit.”

“Asking for some space?” you ask, and you’re half joking, but your voice is a little weak.

He looks up. Softly, he says, “Yeah.”

“Wow,” you laugh. “You’re breaking up with me and we’re not even together.”

“I’m not breaking up with you,” he says quickly. Too quickly. His face tinges red, just a bit, and his gaze falls to the ring. “I think… I think we should have another rule. We can only see each other once a week.”

You whistle lowly. “Wow,” you say again.

“Stop with the wows,” Harry mutters. “I get it. You’re impressed.”

“It’s hard not to be.”

“Right, yeah. I’m very impressive.” He’s still looking down. There’s a beat of silence.

“Alright!” you say after a minute. “Alright, well, I’ll see you around, then. I’ll get a calendar.” You stand up, dusting nonexistent grass from your legs. “I’ll doodle your name around each week. What do you say, Fridays? Wednesdays? When’re we doing this, huh?”

“I don’t know. Whenever.”

“Geez, try not to sound so excited.”

He doesn’t say anything.

“Alright!” you repeat. “Goodbye.”

You stand there for half a second, expecting something, anything, and then walk off.

***

He’s not at the gym.

Midnight, a little after, and he’s not at the gym. The lights are off. Ridiculously, you’re not really sure what to do. You give a few half hearted punches, and then leave, feeling like an absolute idiot.

He ignores you the next day during your session at the gym. He works out, parading his toned muscles around the gym and grinning at the instructor to flaunt his dimples. Then he walks out, so he’s gone by the time you’re done with Des.

A week, and he hasn’t said a word. The worst part is that you don’t even know what you did wrong. He’s just scared, you tell yourself. He’d been spending almost every night at your apartment. He’ll come crawling back. He’ll kiss you and tell you he loves you and then you’ll date and everything will be happily ever after.

It’s all lies, of course, because you don’t even know if you’d want a relationship, if you’re ready for that, if you could stand that with him, if you love him - but it’s kind of nice to fantasize about.

You go to a fight one night. You watch. You watch the money, the fighting, watch the happy, painful, bliss on the winners’ faces and hide in the crowd. People recognize you, ask when you’re going, and you say… You say you’re not.

You can’t.

Maybe tomorrow, you say.

But you don’t come the next day. You stare at your ceiling, hot, and watch the fan. Around and around it goes, and you don’t move. You think. You think, and sweat, and eventually get up and take a cold shower.

The next morning, Des isn’t in the back room. You ask the receptionist where he is, and she shrugs. Tells you she has no idea - call him. So you do. You call, and he sounds upset, and he says to come upstairs.

You’ve never been upstairs.

You know where the steps are, though, and you walk up and into the hallway and see Des leaned against a door. “What’s going on?” you ask immediately. “Are you okay?” Des nods, sighing heavily. “I’m fine, but Harry’s - he’s got into a fight.”

You almost laugh. “A fight?”

“Yeah, he…” He sighs again. “A client came in here earlier, hours ago. He was going on about some fight he’d gone to last night, talking about what happened, about… well, about you.” Your eyes widen. “What?”

“Said you wouldn’t fight,” Des goes on quietly. “Started going on about how you can’t… He said you can’t -” He shakes his head. “This is him, mind you, he said not only can you not fight, but you’re a wimp about it, too.”

You can only gape.

“I was gonna kick him out, I was, but Harry… Er - well, they started shoving each other, bloody idiots, and then there were punches and we pulled them apart but they still… Well, he’s got a bit of a shiner.”

“But he’s okay?”

“He’s fine. Mostly.” He eyes you up, looking curious. “Haven’t broken his heart yet, have you?” This time you do laugh. “Sorry?” you ask, and Des smiles a bit. “Boy’s been looney about you for ages, you know. Since the second you stepped in here.”

“I…” You’re not sure what to say. “Um… Why… why are you telling me this now?” you ask, and Des grins. “Wanted to see how guilty you’d be.” You frown, confused, and echo, “Guilty?” Des nods, looking almost smug. “Most people are guilty when their lie’s found out. They’re even guiltier when they realize the old man they’ve been lying to has known since the start.”

“We’re not… lying to you…” It sounds even lamer out loud than in your head.

Des hums. “Course you’re not.” He pats you on the back and clears his throat, turning away. “I’m going out, now. It’ll be for a while. Don’t hurt him anymore, thanks.” He disappears down the steps, and you squeeze your eyes shut. Guilty, yes, and embarrassed.

Whoops.

You open the door and see Harry on the bed, an ice pack on his face.

“You look like shit,” you say.

“So do you,” he replies without looking at you. “At least I have an excuse.”

“Ooh, wasn’t expecting that one,” you tell him, walking closer. “None of the ‘you should see the other guy,’ huh?” He turns to glare at you, and you grimace at the black and blue around his eye. “Ouch,” you murmur.

“Yeah.”

“I’m supposed to be the one getting beat up,” you say softly, and you’re pushing a curl out of his face before you can stop yourself. “You’re too pretty to get your face smashed in.” Harry rolls his eyes and turns away again.

You lean down, impulsively - you’re not thinking today, apparently - and start to kiss his hand, resting on his stomach. He winces, pulling away, and you see his knuckles are bruised. “That hurts,” he says.

“Sorry, sorry,” you say, and go for his cheek -

He hisses your name and bites out, “That hurts too.”

“Well, Christ, Styles,” you scoff, “where doesn’t it hurt?”

He glances at you, a flicker in those green eyes, and points to his temple. “There’s not too bad,” he mumbles. You have to bite back a grin. “Alright,” you say, and you press your lips to his skin. His eyes flutter shut.

“And… and here’s not awful.” He points to his jaw almost grudgingly, and a bit of a laugh slips out of your lips as you pepper a kiss across his jaw, over his chin, and then pull away. He opens his eyes at the loss of contact, pouting a bit.

“How ‘bout here,” he whispers, and he points to his lips.

“You’re a bastard,” you whisper back, and then you kiss him.

Suddenly he’s better, because he’s smiling and reaching up behind your neck to gently pull you closer. Then he’s sitting up, onto his elbow, his hand nudging you as if he wants you to get on top of him.

“Thought everything hurt,” you murmur, complying anyway.

Harry shrugs, smiling more, and says,“The medicine just set in.”

“I hate you,” you tell him.

He sighs, sounding happy, and kisses you deeper. “The feeling,” he says, “is mutual.”

***

His name is Charlie. The bartender. It says it right on his little gold name tag, which blinds you every few seconds when the light hits it just right. He’s pretty nice. You’re getting drinks for yourself and for Harry, who’s supposed to meet you in a few minutes. He’ll probably be late.

“Come here often?” Charlie asks, breaking you out of your thoughts.

You raise a brow. “Yeah. Yet somehow I’m still surprised at how unoriginal you are.”

Charlie laughs, sliding your drink across the counter and getting started on Harry’s. “Oh, no, no, I just meant… I feel like I’ve seen you around.” You give a neutral hum in reply, swirling the ice in your drink around.

And then you hear your name called from behind you, and you feel yourself smile as you turn around and see Harry walking in, waving at you. He’s not late. How nice. “Hey, you’re with Harry?” Charlie asks, sounding surprised, and your smile drops to a frown as you remember he’s still there.

“Yup.”

“Wow,” Charlie says under his breath, his back to you as he mixes Harry’s drink, “he sure goes through dates fast…” Your brows jump. “Excuse me?” Charlie turns around. He looks stunned. Slowly, he hands the drink to you. “Um… Nothing. Sorry.”

“Did you see him here with someone else?” you ask, regretting it immediately.

“Yeah, just last week,” Charlie replies. He makes a face. “They were all over each other.” And from the next expression that floods his features, he, too, regrets his words immediately after they leave his lips. “But, uh - that’s not my business!” he says hurriedly. “That has nothing to do with me. Okay! Well, enjoy your drinks.”

He walks away just as Harry comes up behind you.

“Well, hello,” he says softly, lips feathering against your ear.

“Hey,” you say, handing him his drink.

Your tone is a bit sharp, and Harry pulls away a bit. “Thanks,” he says. “Er… you alright?”

“I’m fine. So is, uh, Charlie here.” You point at Charlie’s receding figure.

“Yeah?” Harry says, an amused smile curving his mouth as he takes a sip of his drink.

You clear your throat, fiddling with your glass. “We were just talking about you.”

His smirk is so handsome. And irritating. Right on the line between the choices of kiss him and smack him. “Oh?” he says. “All good things, I hope?” You shrug, letting your gaze drift around the room. “Not necessarily. He, uh… he said you came here last week with someone else.”

The smirk disappears. He looks down, coughs slightly. “Said that, did he?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, patting him on the chest. “Yeah, yeah he did say that. And now, I’m saying that, uh… that you’re drinking alone. I’ll see you around, Styles.” You walk away, just the slightest bit of anger seeping through your skin.

***

Antsy. Antsy, antsy, antsy.

The fan is spinning.

That damn fan.

You can’t look at it anymore. You roll out of bed, put on some clothes. No sweatshirt, no pants, just shorts and an athletic top. It is freezing fucking cold outside, you realize with a grimace, which isn’t new information but somehow still surprises you.

Soon you’re running, slowly, jogging, and already you feel better.

Really, you shouldn’t be upset. That’s what keeps spinning around your head. You shouldn’t be upset. You should’ve expected this. You did expect this. Obviously he was sleeping with other people. He’d been honest about it from the start.

Regret, anger, misery. Turn it into money. A little cash, a little pain, a little gain. You’re filled with regret as soon as you step inside. People notice you and look startled, and then expectant. They seem to close in on you.

You’ll fight tonight, right? Give it a good show? There’s a new kid in town, better show ‘em who’s boss - don’t lose your throne, rookie - c’mon, prove Des doesn’t train losers - does he? Does he? Are you? A loser? Gone soft, have you? Are you ready? Ready to go?

And brrrring, you’re off.

It feels so good. You’re so numb it doesn’t even hurt. It’ll probably hurt later, though, and you’ll probably regret it, but not now. Now you’re just happy, grinning through the blood, probably looking psychotic.

It’s unmatched, this adrenaline rush. Can’t get it anywhere else.

Well, maybe -

Bang. Right to the nose. Damn, that hurts, but losing hurts more - one, two, three, around the back, pull, pull, make it hurt, like they hurt you, like he hurt you, fuck it hurts so bad, and…

And we have a winner!

Outside, it is so, so cold.

***

Cleaning yourself up is therapeutic.

It doesn’t happen until the next morning, but it’s pleasant.

You miss your session with Des.

***

You spend a lot of time at the park. At the library. Anywhere but your apartment, where he can find you. You ignore his calls. You change his ringtone so you can bop along to the song while you let it ring out.

When you go to the gym at one in the morning, about a week later, you actually look a little worse than you first did. Less bloody, less fresh, less swelling but more black and blue around your eye and cheek.

Harry bolts up when he sees you. He starts to step forward, then hesitates. He hovers by the alcove where he reads, glowing like an angel from the light behind him. He looks so nervous.

“You look awful,” he says softly.

You clear your throat. “Thanks.”

“I was worried. We were both worried.”

“Yeah. Sorry about that.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Harry sets his book down. The nervousness fades away, and he leans against the wall next to him, leveling your gaze as he crosses his arms across his chest.

“You fought again,” he says.

“I did.”

“Because of me?”

You look at him, sensing a shift in the air. “What am I supposed to say?”

“The truth.”

“You’ve got quite the head if you expect me to say yes.”

“And you’ve got quite the nerve if you expect me to believe no.”

“You just think the sun revolves around you, don’t you, Styles?” you ask with a scowl.

“Who’s to say it doesn’t?”

“Christ,” you mutter. You huff a sigh, breaking eye contact and turning away.

He lets the quiet loom for a moment, probably basking in it, and then says, “You’re upset about the bar, aren’t you.” He doesn’t even phrase it like a question. “I’m not upset,” you reply under your breath. “I’m not even surprised.”

“Good.”

“Yeah?” you say tersely, meeting his eyes again. “You’re pleased by that?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. You know why?” Finally, a bit of venom creeps into his words. Part of you is relieved to hear some sort of feeling in what he’s saying. “Because I’m allowed to do that, to go on a date. This isn’t a relationship. I can fuck other people, you can fuck whoever the hell you want.”

“Have you?”

Harry frowns some more. “I just told you I did.”

“Before that.”

He opens his mouth - and then closes it. “Have you?”

You can’t help but smirk a little bit. “No.”

“Well, you could’ve. You can. It’s not a rule.”

“Maybe it should be.”

Your words hang in the air for a second, and you can see Harry turning them over in his head. His eyes bounce between yours, mouth set in a hard line. “We’re not dating,” he says lowly. “I hope you get that. We’re not together.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because I don’t date.”

“Except for the one last week.”

His jaw clenches, and he turns away from you. “That doesn’t count.”

“How come?”

“Because -” He huffs a sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Christ. I don’t know.”

“Wrong answer, Styles.”

“I don’t know,” he repeats irritatedly.

“Er,” you say, imitating a buzzer. “Still wrong.”

“Fine,” he practically growls, turning on you. “Because I was only getting over you.”

You smile coolly, ignoring your racing heartbeat. “Ding, ding, ding.”

Harry shakes his head, turning away again. “I can’t do this.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Yes,” he sighs, “I do.”

You raise a brow. “And, uh, Harry,” you say, “why’s that?”

He glances at you. A million different emotions flash across his face, echoing in his eyes, in your heart. And then, suddenly, his features soften. “You know why,” he murmurs, and your brows jump.

You blink at him, startled. “What?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, biting his lip as he takes a small step towards you. “You know why.”

You shake your head, backing up slightly. “I - I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“C’mon,” he murmurs, closing the distance. “Gonna make me say it? Gonna make me spell it out?” You watch him, hold his gaze, look into his eyes, and your breath catches in your throat as you start to understand.

“Yeah,” you tell him a bit breathlessly. “Yeah, I’m gonna make you spell it out.”

“I,” he starts, and now you’re taking a half step towards him, “l… i… k… e… y… o… u…”

You can’t help the smile that breaks across your face. “You’re a good speller.”

“A lot,” he adds.

“And now, uh… Now put it all together for me,” you say, milking it.

“I like you,” he whispers, so close now. “I like you a lot.”

“I like you, too,” you admit.

He traces his finger against your cheek, so, so gently. Your eyes close at the contact.

“You’ll break my heart,” he says, leaning in.

“Not if -” You’re having trouble speaking. “Not if you don’t let me.”

He’s speaking almost against your lips now. “As if I’ll have any say in the matter.”

You open your eyes, smiling just barely. “I’ll be nice.”

“You could never.”

His eyes are so, so green. “You’d be surprised.”

His finger slides under your chin and he gently presses up. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Your eyelids flutter shut. “I’m anything but predictable,” you whisper.

He doesn’t reply, just kisses you, and you smile against his lips.

Maybe things will work out after all.

***

la fin 💜

i wrote this FAST haha like in a day or two but lemme tell you i've never felt this way about anything else i've written... like obvi i don't post things i hate slkdfj but like i LOVE this fic. not to sound narcissistic lmao but i'm so in love w this fic it's insane. that being said some feedback would literally make my entire day!!! week!!! life!!!!

anyway thank you for reading ily <3

masterlist | ask

[afeb]

Fred Weasley - Lover

“Why do I have to go this?” I asked again, wincing down at the small bottle of pink liquid in front of me.

“Because you owe us a favour for not ratting you out to Snape for cheating on your test last week.” George said. “And we need someone to test our Love Potion.”

“Now remember you’ll be obsessed with the next person you look at for twenty-four hours, so look at me.” Fred said.

I rolled my eyes. “It won’t kill me, will it?” I warily asked, bringing it to my nose and sniffing.

“Don’t worry, I was very careful.” George said. “Now bottoms up.”

I groaned and pinched my eyes closed, bringing to the rim of the bottle to my lips and quickly gulping the liquid. It tasted incredibly sweet, so much so it made my jaw twinge in pain. I pulled back and groaned, rubbing my jaw.

“You okay?” I heard Fred ask.

“Yeah I’m...” I opened my eyes and looked at him. “Fine.”

“Has it worked?” He asked.

“Yeah...” I whispered.

I’d never noticed how utterly handsome he was. His cheekbones were sculpted into his face, his nose strong, his jawline so sharp it could cut. His eyes were a deep blue, long hair sweeping in the most beautiful shade of red. He was tall, and built, presumably from all the Quidditch he played. Not only that but he was smart, and funny. Why hadn’t I noticed him before?

“Looks like you’ve got an admirer there.” George joked, pushing his brother lightly.

“You’re so good-looking.” I gasped, falling into Fred chest as I peered up at him. “And so funny and smart and kind.”

“Woah there.” Fred caught me, smiling down at me. “Easy Tiger.”

I giggled. “I never noticed you before, why?” I wondered aloud.

“No clue.” Fred replied.

“Come on, let’s get her to bed.” George said, gathering up my school books.

I practically hung off Fred’s arm on the way to the dormitory. “You smell so good.” I sighed, pressing my cheek against his shoulder.

“Jesus Georgie, how strong did you make this thing?” Fred asked.

George stifled a laugh. “I’ll dampen it a bit.”

I dreamily gazed up at Fred as he muttered the password to the Common Room, leading me inside. Everyone turned to look at us with an odd expression as Fred led me through the busy room. George broke off to go talk to some friends, whilst Fred took care of me.

Once inside my dorm, he sat me on the bed and stood before me. “I didn’t think it would work this well.”

I grabbed his hand. “Your hands are so big! God, you look so strong.” I complimented.

“What’s wrong with her?” Hermione asked, sitting up from her slouched position.

“Love Potion, George and I were testing it.” Fred chuckled down at me. “Tomorrow you won’t feel the same way.”

“But I love you!” I screeched, standing up and immediately wrapping my arms around him. “I could never fall out of love with you, Freddie!”

He laughed loudly and placed me back on the bed. “Keep an eye on her would you?” He said to Hermione who nodded along. “Night Y/N.”

“Night Freddie.” I sighed, smiling up at him brightly. I watched him leave before I collapsed onto the bed. “Hermione, I’m in love!”

She giggled a little. “It’s a Love Potion.”

I sat up quickly. “Is not! You know I had a huge crush on him before this.” I sighed.

I got ready for bed, babbling on about Fred and how wonderful he was. It was nearing midnight and all the girls were tucked away in bed, while my mind was still racing.

“Do you think he loves me back?” I asked out loud.

A chorus of groans filled the room. “Would you be quiet! You’ve been talking about him for hours.” Lavender said.

I sat up. “He’s so amazing though! Him and George have this great idea to open up a jokes shop and I really believe that he can make it and-“

“That’s it!” Hermione jumped out of bed, pulling the covers off my body. “We’re going to see Fred.”

I immediately jumped out. “You’re such a good friend, taking me to see the man I’m in love with!”

I wrapped my arm around my shoulder as Hermione quickly walked to the boys dorm. She banged loudly, for a long time.

“Fred Weasley, you get out here this instant!” She yelled.

Fred swung open the door with just pyjama bottoms on, rubbing his eyes and looking down at us. “It’s midnight, what the hell are you doing?”

Hermione stepped aside and Fred and I looked at one another. “Hi Freddie.” I dreamily sighed.

“She won’t shut up about you, so you’re going to deal with her for the night.” Hermione crossed her arms.

“She can’t sleep in here!” He defended.

“Not my problem.” Hermione grabbed my arm and pushed me into Fred’s chest, storming away.

“I guess we’re roomies for the night.” I winked.

“Oh god...” Fred sighed. “Stay here.”

I did as I was told and waited patiently for him to come back. He soon did, with a thick jumper and white trainers on, grabbing my hand.

“Where are we going?” I asked as I was tugged through the Common Room.

“The library,” he said. “There’s got to be something in there about breaking this damn spell.”

I followed after him, hand still clutched in mine. “I love you Fred, have I told you that? You’re just the best guy I’ve ever met and-“

Suddenly a hand came over my mouth and I was pushed against the wall, Fred craning his neck to peer behind the corner. Seconds later Feltch passed us, frowning before shrugging and going back in the direction he came.

Fred looked down at me. “Promise you’ll be quiet.” He whispered.

I nodded and Fred removed his hand. “I’d do anything for you, Fred.”

He rolled his eyes and tugged me behind him again. Once we successfully snuck into the library, Fred led us through the winding bookcases, picking up various books as we walked.

“Can I talk now?” I whispered.

“Quietly.” He whispered back, skimming over the pages.

“Do you love me back?” I asked, propping myself up on the side table next to Fred.

“Of course I do.” He mumbled, flicking to the next page.

“No, like are you in love with me.” I giggled.

He looked at me. “Y/N, you aren’t in love with me.” He said.

I frowned and pouted my lips. “Yes I am!” I squeaked.

“Shh!” He hissed.

I blushed. “I am in love with you, I was before this stupid potion.”

He stopped reading and snapped his eyes to me. “What?”

I snorted. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know, I have a huge crush on you!”

“You do?” I nodded. “Why?”

“Because you’re smart and funny, and handsome, and you smell amazing and you’re so strong and-“

“Forget I asked.” He said, turning back to the book.

I looked down at my hands. “You’d never go for a girl like me.” I muttered.

“Why would you say that?” He asked, grabbing another book and quickly reading.

I sighed heavily. “Because I’m awkward and you’re so cool. I’m not nearly as smart as you, I feel like you get bored when I speak to you. I’m not very pretty, not compared to some of the girls in your year.”

Fred had stopped reading by now and was intently watching me as I made my points. “Don’t say those things about yourself.” He murmured.

I shrugged. “It’s true though. I’m frumpy and my hair is always a mess, I try and do make up but somehow makes me look worse. I’m not terribly skinny and god I eat my feelings.”

“Hey,” he moved to stand in front of me and cupped my cheeks. “You’re the funniest, smartest, most beautiful girl I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

I beamed up at him. “Really?”

“Really.” He smiled. “How an earth could you think I’d never date you?”

“I never thought you saw me in that way.” I confessed.

“I never saw you in any other way, I thought it was you who wouldn’t be interested in me.” He chuckled lowly.

I sighed. “Oh Freddie...”

His eyes flicked down to my lips for a moment, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip. His hands still cupping my cheeks, he slowly moved forward. He pressed a kiss delicately against mine, pressing a little harder as a small whimper escaped my lips.

He pulled back. “Better?”

“Marry me.”

He laughed loudly, clamping a hand over his mouth once he realised we were meant to be hidden. “One day.” He winked. “I can’t find anything to break this spell...”

“I don’t want it broken.” I said.

He rolled his eyes and helped me off the desk. “Come on, Lover.”

Fred and I spent most of the night talking in the Common Room, learning new and wonderful things about each other that only made me fall harder for him. I spent the rest of the morning gushing to the girls about my night with Fred, all of them rolling their eyes and trying to get on with school work.

I sat next to Fred in the Great Hall, arm looped through his as I rest my head against his shoulder and listened to him talk to the other boys about the upcoming Quidditch match.

Wait...what was I doing? I slowly moved my arm from his and sat up, Fred curiously looking down at me.

“You okay?” He asked.

“Uh oh, I think it’s wearing off.” George said from across the table.

I looked at Fred. “Oh god...” I blushed as I remember everything I said last night.

“Hey there Lover.” He smirked, right eye dropping in a wink.

“Oh god!” I screeched as I scrambled off the bench and immediately started running away, ignoring the howls of laughter as I scurried off into my own personal hell.

Safe to say the Love Potion worked.

[weasleylangs]

lightweight - g.w

Pairing: George x Fem!Reader Summary: Y/N’s never been the best at holding her alcohol. Luckily, George is always there to help her. Warnings: Alcohol, a drunk confession, fluff, brief mentions of underage drinking, one line about throwing up. Word Count: 1.9k

A/N: Short Georgie fic today! I have work so I didn’t want to commit to any of my super long ideas but I still want to keep writing! Also, I’m not promoting excessive drinking whatsoever. As always, constructive criticism is appreciated and requests are open!

This is also being posted while I’m asleep because I’m stuck on the other side of the world to the rest of you. Any asks will be replied too when I’m up!

-------------------------------------------------------------

George stands in a corner of the Leaky Cauldron, firewhiskey in hand as he looks at the crowd. Their yearly reunion has been going on for a few hours now, and George has finally started to feel the alcohol buzzing around his head. Despite having already downed quite a few whiskeys, he’s barely been feeling it all night considering he’s always been a heavyweight, given his large stature.

The same can’t be said for the girl George’s eyes are trained on. Y/N Y/L/N. She’s currently dancing with Angelina Johnson, the rosiness in her cheeks evident from both the exertion from dancing for hours on end and the alcohol in her system. George has fond memories of Gryffindor parties, when Fred, Lee and himself would flirt their way into buying alcohol from Madam Rosmerta to sneak into parties that would eventually end with the girl he’s watching dancing her heart out.

“Babysitting already, mate?” Lee asks as he takes a swig of his beer and George chuckles, shaking his head. “No, not quite yet. I probably will be in, say…” He checks his watch and the time reads 1am, “... half an hour.” 

George developed a habit when they were sixteen, of looking after Y/N at parties. The girl never seemed to learn her own limits and more often than not, drank herself stupid at parties. Y/N was one of George’s best friends, and he’d never forgive himself if he ever let her get hurt at a party, so he happily settled for basking in the party atmosphere while keeping a close eye on Y/N. And then, in the morning he’d tease her while she threw up the contents of her stomach and she’d apologise profusely before they’d walk to breakfast together.

It’s been 10 years and they’re still dancing and drinking and George is still looking after her, but instead of walking her up to her dorm, George drags her back to his apartment above Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes and tucks her into his bed while he takes the couch. Granted, Y/N’s has developed some better limits than when she was sixteen years old, but it’s a force of habit at this point, and besides, George rather looks forward to it nowadays and his night would feel incomplete without knowing Y/N is 100% safe and sound 100 meters away from him. 

Fred approaches them, and they aimlessly stand around and chat. Mostly about quidditch, very rarely about work. These days, the hot topic of conversation is about how Lee’s been splitting his time between London helping the twins out with the shop and Romania, where his dragon trainer girlfriend lives. Sometimes, a few people approach them and ask the question if they’re the ‘famous Ginny Weasley’s twin brothers’ which always causes them to laugh and their chests swell in pride for their little sister. 

It’s probably only twenty minutes later when he hears a squeal come from the dance floor as some muggle band’s song comes on. George thinks Y/N probably convinced Tom to let her hijack the music and he vaguely recognises the song as one she’s played before. He searches the dance floor for her, and when their eyes meet she winks at him and quickly spins around to dance with Angelina again.

“I can’t believe she’s not even your girlfriend and you practically babysit her, mate. We’re 26, when are you making a move?” Fred teases but George ignores him. He notices Y/N catch his eye again and when she goes to wave him over, he sees her wobble slightly and her eyes widen out of fear of losing her balance. 

Truthfully, George is too scared to admit his feelings for Y/N. While he knows their friendship entails more than what a normal one does, George has never been the best at reading signs when people are romantically interested in him so he well and truly does not know where he stands with Y/N. He never wants to make people feel uncomfortable, so he lives blissfully unaware until someone yells in his face they’re interested in him. 

“Piss off, Fred. Like you can talk about me not making a move. You’ve liked Angelina since what? Sixth year?” He pushes Fred slightly at the shoulders as he scowls and slowly makes his way over the tiny girl in his sights. 

“Hi Georgie,” she slurs as he finally makes his way over to her and she’s quick to slot herself into his side. George is well aware Y/N is both a sleepy and clumsy drunk the second she stops dancing, and as George checks the time on his watch again, it now reads 1:30am and it’s well past intoxicated Y/N’s bedtime. 

“Hi, love,” he can’t help but use the nickname for her, especially when her cheeks flush an even deeper shade of red when he uses it, “time to get you to bed?” 

She pretends to think for a second but George knows she’s all danced out when she sighs and tucks her head into his neck. He spots Lee and Fred, who are now imitating whips at him, and shakes his head as he waves goodbye. He makes sure to tell Angelina, Katie and Alicia they’re leaving as well so they don’t worry, and George pretends to miss the giggles and winks they give Y/N as he holds onto her. 

Thankfully, the Leaky Cauldron isn’t far from 93 Diagon Alley and soon enough George is placing Y/N in his bed and finding a change of clothes for her. It’s the middle of November, so he grabs a random old sweater his mum knitted him a few years back and while he looks for the pair of leggings she left here last time, he hears her soft gasp. 

When he turns to look at her, her eyes are fixated on the sweater in his hand. “That one’s my favourite.” 

George has a million sweaters, enough to fill a whole drawer full of them all in different colours, so he’s confused how Y/N knows which one this even is. 

“It’s the one with the frayed hand-holes, right?” George laughs at her usage of ‘hand-holes’ and unfolds the sweater to take a look at the sleeves, and sure enough, right where your hands pop out, the sleeves is fraying. 

“Why is this one your favourite, darling?” He questions, passing her the sweater. He turns his back to her, giving her some privacy as she takes her top off and she hums happily as the scent of George engulfs her senses. “It’s one of your oldest ones. So the Georgie-scent is the strongest.” 

George feels his cheeks heat up as Y/N slips the leggings up under her skirt and then struggles to undo her buttons. “Georgie-scent?” 

She hums in agreement as she finally gets the skirt off and drops it on the floor next to her. She’s curling herself up under the blankets when she looks at George and before her sober thoughts can catch them, drunk words are tumbling out of her mouth, “Reminds me the most of my Amortentia.” 

George pauses and stares at her, processing the words she just said. George only received three O.W.L’s during his time at Hogwarts and none of them were potions, but of course, he’s well aware what Amortentia is. He sells them at work, after all.

The most powerful love potion in the world.

“Firework smoke, Molly’s home-cooked meals and… Alcohol.” She mumbles when George doesn’t speak and she looks like she’s fallen asleep but George knows she isn’t. 

“Sure it isn’t Fred, love?” He laughs as he asks but his insecurities are there, shoved way down into the pit of his stomach, threatening to spill out. Firework smoke and his mum’s home-cooked meals scream both of them without a doubt, and George can’t help but convince himself that Fred could definitely have an explanation for the alcohol. 

Now she’s realised what she’s said, and she takes one look at George and she shoves her head into the pillow. “God, this isn’t how I was planning to tell you.” She’d actually never planned on telling him, convinced someone as perfect as George Weasley would ever love her back, but her brain had other plans.

“Tell me that you like my brother?” He jokingly questions, the insecurities fading but still feeling the need to tease her. When she laughs and rolls her eyes, George knows he’s calmed her down from a perch she didn’t realise she was on. She sits up quickly and her face looks a little green at first for how quick she moves. “Who looks after me when I’m drunk, George? I don’t see Fred anywhere.” She’s smirking now and George has to resist the urge to crawl into bed with her and kiss her senseless. 

“My Amortentia smells like you as well, by the way.” The smile Y/N gives him is bright enough it could light up the City of London. “Really?” she questions, and the way she sways in bed George can tell she’s still intoxicated and he can only hope she remembers this conversation in the morning because he knows he won’t be brave enough to initiate it again. 

“Really. Sunflowers, chocolate and…” He hesitates, laughing at how dumb they both are, “Firewhiskey.”

She screeches in embarrassment and before he knows it, Y/N’s dragging him into his bed and she’s giggling. “That’s so embarrassing!” she exclaims, “But so expected.” 

They roll around in the sheets for a few seconds, trying to grab at each other and laughing at the coincidences before George gets up and changes. Y/N watches him intently, trying her best not to objectify him in her mind but he’s just so damn gorgeous she can’t help it. She wants to kiss every inch of his skin and let everyone know the wonderful man standing in front of her is her's.

And when he goes to slip out of the room, thinking she’s fallen asleep, she pouts and clears her throat, causing him to turn and face her.

“You. Me. Bed. Cuddling. Now.” She says, nay demands and he has no choice. He slips into bed beside her and once again, for the second time that night, she’s slotted herself next to him. 

“I really do love you, you know.” She mutters against his neck and she feels his breath hitch. “I’m not just saying it because I was drunk. I mean, like I said it because I was drunk, but it’s true.”

George pauses, not wanting to upset her with what he says next, “Are you going to remember in the morning?” He’s trying not to let his fear be known, but with how close Y/N is, he knows she felt his body react subconsciously. Y/N’s had nights when she doesn’t remember anything she’s said- not because she’s drunk too much, but she’s naturally a forgetful person and the alcohol doesn’t help. 

“Of course, and if I don’t because I don’t remember tonight… I’d hope you’d tell me.” She reassures him, looking up at him and pressing a soft kiss to his chin from her position in his arms. 

George lets out a breath and looks at the girl in his arms and decides that he can’t keep it to himself anymore and that he’d shout it from every rooftop that he’s in love with Y/N Y/L/N. So he presses a kiss to her forehead, next, her nose, then her cheeks and lastly, a soft kiss on her lips.

“I promise I will. You and me forever.” 

[sintreaties]

ririsaya possessive love please

So far, you're the only anon who said "please" and for that, I will kiss your forehead and I will hold your hand in the bread aisle at Walmart.

Also, today I did not realize it was Christmas Eve. Merry Christmas, ig.

As I don't feel that comfortable writing this kind of topic, I hope you won't mind the fact that I made it a bit more light-hearted. Thank you for giving me a chance to write some RiriSaya!

Being in a relationship is a bit like marketing: gaining a new customer is harder and more expensive than maintaining the contacts you already have. Capitalism, am I right, but as a marketing assistant, Sayaka was insightful enough to acknowledge the syllogism. Try being in a relationship for five years with your high-school sweetheart. Find the night in which you're both on your couch, watching a movie like your parents used to do right after dinner. See if you get to the same conclusion.

In Sayaka’s case, that was something to celebrate. And she would have celebrated, if it wasn’t that her partner’s eyes had been stuck on that screen for far too long. Ririka had even stopped caressing her legs — legs that Sayaka was still keeping in excellent shape, thank you very much. Her personal trainer would have waged his life to prove it.

Sayaka didn’t even know what movie they were watching. Being on that couch was never about the movies. Her parents knew that too. Albeit in their case, it led to a divorce.

A building exploded. Well, cliché. Lots of nice, shiny cars. That guy’s abs were 80% dehydration and 20% CGI. But the protagonist…

Sayaka watched Ririka with the corner of her eye: she was focused.

At first, it made Sayaka smile. Ririka was still as quiet as she used to be back in Hyakkaou. She was also much, much sharper. To the point that Sayaka failed to keep up sometimes. Fearing this might be the case — or rather, fearing what the case itself would entail — Sayaka kept smiling. She nuzzled against her neck. Then she placed a kiss as soft as kindness itself on her jaw.

Ririka looked at her. The corner of her lips quirked up — for like half a second.

Why. I didn’t know you were a cinephile.

Ririka was back at looking at the screen. Or rather: at the very blonde, very athletic and well-endowed heroine. She didn’t miss a scene.

So, Sayaka being Sayaka, did a very rational and logical thing: she gave Ririka what that stupid movie character could never give her. Ririka had this soft spot behind her ear. Only Sayaka knew about it, because only Sayaka had had the chance to discover it. Sayaka kissed it. She kissed the length of Ririka’s neck, her throat, her jaw, peppering her skin with kisses.

Ririka smiled. She caressed her knee.

Then she went back to the screen.

Then, Sayaka sunk her teeth into her lobe.

“Ah-Ow! Sayaka!” came the immediate protest.

“Are you done?” asked Sayaka. Artist’s rendition: her nostrils were flaring. Steam might or might not have been puffing out from her ears.

Perplexed, Ririka looked at her — finally — massaging her lobe. “What?”

“Why do you keep staring at her?” Sayaka crossed her arms. “Is she really that pretty?”

Moving her eyes from her partner to the screen, Ririka took much, much longer than expected to understand.

“That’s Sumika,” she said. “My cousin. We met her last time we had dinner at Terano’s.”

“She is very pretty. And she’s blonde.” Ugh.

“That’s a wig. Also, I think that’s mostly CGI?” To Sayaka’s annoyance, Ririka stared once again at the screen.

“Okay,” said Sayaka. “And why have you been looking at her like that?”

“Like what?” Ririka frowned. “She was bragging about how she won an Oscar for her performance in this movie. I was curious to see if it was really that good.”

“Good enough to ignore me?”

At once, Sayaka regretted saying it. She bit her bottom lip. She wouldn’t have had the courage to look at Ririka’s face then, not even if somebody aimed a gun at her head.

Ririka lowered the volume of the movie. She kissed Sayaka: her jaw, her throat, her neck. The words bubbled behind Sayaka’s tight lips: stop. You didn’t earn this.

Ririka’s soft spot was behind her ear. For the past five years, Sayaka’s soft spot had been Ririka. And Ririka knew just the right way to kiss her. Soft and careful, almost fearful of the skin she touched.

Sayaka melted under her lips. Just a few more kisses: she was already smiling.

“Wanna bring this to the bedroom?” murmured Ririka.

“As long as you don’t lift the sofa like last time.”

Ririka turned off the tv. Sayaka shifted sideways. She had all the strength to lift Ririka in her arms and carry her to their bedroom.

There was a reason, after all, if she was her personal trainer’s favorite client.

[ickle-ronniekins]

break me like a promise

desc: he wanted to tell you how he felt. he wanted to let himself love you. he wanted to do all of these things, but first he made a promise that nobody would get hurt. but when fred was busy looking out for your heart, who was looking out for his?

word count: 3.8k

pairing: WELL THERE ISN’T ANY PAIRING IS THERE???? because unrequited love sucks and i’m feeling real sad and wanted to make fred feel sad too (sry i’m mad at myself too it’s alright you can hate me)

warning(s): angst/sadness/pure heartbreak/i hate everything

A/N: i’d like to personally apologize to fred weasley/people who love fred weasley. might i suggest listening to the piano version of all too well by taylor swift whilst reading this. feel free to cry with me, thanks. PS: i do NOT give consent for my work to be reposted on any other platform.

Just how many times had he heard the words, “Best friends always fall for one another”?

He’d very much like to tell the people that had told him that to kindly piss off, thank you very much.

He’d been hurt many times before. Of course he had. Fred was used to it at this point, he reckoned his body had adapted easily to the constant blows to the shins or knees and things. As a brother, he was always getting ragged on and wrestled with by his other siblings. He’d ended up with black eyes, split lips, knees to the stomach more times than he could count on two hands. As an athlete, he’d taken countless bludgers to the body, either on the Quidditch pitch or in the comfort of his own backyard. George had been prone to getting hurt, too. Of course, Fred had always jumped at the chance to help George feel better, whenever he needed it. Fred loved being the older of the two. He always took his job as “big brother” very seriously, and it only got stronger once Ron and Ginny were born. He wanted to be somebody they could need.

But there was something different about this type of hurt. He couldn’t control it. He couldn’t make sense of it, and nobody could fix it, not even his own twin.

On the outside, Fred had always put forth an aura of confidence. Nothing could get him down, could it? He’d be dammed if he ever let anyone see him with nothing but a huge grin on his face, that usual mischievous glint in his eye. But on the inside, he was just like everyone else.

As a hoarse cry escaped him, he clamped his hand over his mouth, desperate to not let the sounds of his broken heart echo their way down into the common room, to where his friends were indulging in hot cups of butterbeer, cheering for Harry’s tumultuous win versus the others in the tournament, all the while unaware of Fred, unable to control his emotions and crumpling to the ground like a pit of scrap parchment thrown into the bin.

It was his own fault really. He shouldn’t have been so bloody stupid in the first place. He had this coming from the start. He felt a painful, unfamiliar burn in the back of his throat before his vision turned blurry yet again. He didn’t want to replay the sound of you saying I’m so sorry over and over in his head, like a broken record. He muffled some sort of expletive under his breath, and though he’d never admit it, all he yearned for was nothing more than a tight embrace from his brother.

He shouldn’t have let himself say yes.

He could have said no,

but he would’ve hated himself if he had.

“D’you reckon I’d be able to punch that smirk right off of his ugly little rat face?” you’d asked one day, brows threaded together in annoyance. The two of you were sitting in the middle of a Charms lesson, and you were glancing over toward a Ravenclaw who was busy charming his way through every single female student surrounding him with nothing but the batting of his eyelashes. 

You turned back toward Fred and your features twisted into a grin. “I mean, just look at him, would you? What an arrogant little git. Thinks he can just woo his way through a lesson. Ridiculous.”

“That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?” Fred asked you. Playfully, he elbowed you in the ribs, causing you to recoil a bit, and he continued, “wasn’t it just a few weeks ago that he’d been wooing you? Besides, Y/N, pretty sure I’d heard you ramble on about how he’s the best looking bloke in school,” he flipped his long hair dramatically in an attempt to make fun of you and earned himself a nice punch to the arm.

You frowned and folded your arms across your chest. Sneering a bit, you said, “Yeah, that is until he opened his mouth,” You huffed and narrowed your eyes, “He really is a git, you know.”

“So you’re telling me,” Fred started, “that if he came up to you right this moment and asked you to go to the Yule Ball, you’d reject him?”

You nodded and widened your eyes, as if it were obvious. “Well, of course I would!” Flitwick dismissed you all, and you and Fred and the other students filtered out into the corridors to head to the next lessons. Fred gently guided you through the massive sea of students, and you two found a semi-empty spot near the Great Hall. “Sure, he’s good looking and all, but I don’t quite fancy spending the evening with a bloke who’s going to chat my ear off about the origins of his last name and how his parents are basically royalty, and all that.”

“He does not do that.” Fred laughed.

“Swear to Merlin, he does, Fred.” you replied, folding your hand across your heart. Then your eyes brightened. “Besides, why would I want to go with him when I’m going with you?”

That wasn’t the first time Fred had ever felt his heart soar. He’d been mad for you for years, hadn’t he? Yet, each and every time it took him by surprise, because what the hell was that going on inside of his chest? He never wanted to admit to himself how he felt about you, but it got to the point where he couldn’t deny it anymore; not to himself, at least. But nevertheless, he painted a look of confidence across his face so you wouldn’t be able to tell what he was feeling on the inside. He smirked at you, and watched a bit of panic sweep itself across your features. Your eyes widened. “Shit. I mean, you will go with me, won’t you?”

“Oh, was that the plan? Glad to have been a part of it,” he chuckled, hoping his voice didn’t sound too wobbly. He then poked you in the hips and said, “Of course I will. As long as you promise to not hurt me.”

You peered at him with a confused expression and he laughed. “Relax, Y/N. I mean just don’t step on my bloody feet all night.”

You sucked in a deep breath and then rolled your eyes and slinked your arm with his. “Thank Merlin. You didn’t really think I’d go with anyone else, did you? Come on, Weasley. I expected more of you. Now let’s go -- I reckon we’re in for quite the adventure, aren’t we? Can’t wait to see all these Gryffindors fall flat on their feet when McGonagall begins dance training today!”

You tugged on his hand to lead him into the Great Hall, but he merely floated through the air like a leaf being pushed and gently guided by the wind.

-- -

He shouldn’t have let himself get swept away.

He could have let himself go with someone else,

but he still would’ve been thinking about you.

George and Ron had told him to make a move after the Yule Ball. “Just go for it, mate, what could possibly go wrong? It’s obvious how she feels, isn’t it?” Fred wished he knew then just how wrong it could possibly go.

Fred resisted, though. He didn’t want to ruin a good thing. You two had danced the entire night away, you in your pale pink dress and white trainers. You two had been the last on the floor, and only left merely because Professor McGonagall had tapped you both on the shoulders to let you know that the evening was winding down. The band had stopped playing, anyway. And Fred, keen on wanting to make this a night to remember, kept everything exactly as it was. He gave you a small embrace in the common room at the end of the night before heading up to your respective dormitories. He didn’t want to mess anything up, and so he ignored his brothers’ advice and kept his lips shut.

He then began to panic, just as he always did. He began to pretend as though his feelings were fleeting, if only to fool himself. These feelings for you, they weren’t real, right? The way he wanted to hold you close and dance with you forever, the way he felt his heart constrict at the way your lashes fluttered when you looked down nervously toward your feet when he’d complimented you, the way he wanted desperately to lean in and kiss you at the end of the night. They couldn’t be real, because you two were just friends. Perhaps, he reckoned, maybe it was the excitement of the ball. The decorations. The dresses. He’d decided late that evening, still swimming in his high from the Yule Ball, that it had been exactly that -- the ball. It wasn’t you making him go all romantic, it was merely the excitement of the evening, and the tournament, and everyone being paired off in dates and things. He didn’t really fancy you.

He was proved very, very wrong the next morning when he waltzed into the Great Hall and saw you sitting at the table sipping your tea, back in your everyday clothes, back to normal -- just friends, as it had always been. And yet when you turned toward him and smiled, the sunlight highlighting your features in a way that made his heart jump, he knew that he was in over his head, because of course he was! He was mad for you and always had been, no matter how many times he’d tried to convince himself otherwise.

“Freddie!”

He nervously walked over to the table, suddenly feeling ridiculously self conscious for the first time in his life, and you tugged on his arm so he’d sit himself down next to you.

“Was just telling George here how McGonagall had to basically pull us off of the dance floor last night, eh?” your eyes scrunched near the corners when you smiled so deeply. To George, you continued, “He’s quite the dancer, your brother.”

George sipped his coffee casually. “Oh yeah?” he raised an eyebrow up in surprise and smirked, but not for long, because Fred kicked him inconspicuously underneath the table and he groaned in pain.

This went unnoticed by you, Fred gathered, because you kept on talking without so much as a batted eyelash at the twins’ little rift. “Of course! Wildly talented, he is.” To Fred, you said, “We had a lot of fun, didn’t we?”

Fred couldn’t help the immediate grin that spread across his face. “Yeah, we did.” His voice was soft as ever in his own ears, and everything around you both froze, until he heard George cough a bit on his piece of toast. Fred hated nothing more than being so vulnerable, so he attempted a joke, “Except for all the times you stepped on my feet. Blimey, woman, thought I wasn’t going to be able to walk at the end of the night.”

George started to laugh, and you kicked him under the table and swatted Fred with the sleeve of your sweater. “Hey! It’s real bloody hard to dance gracefully in trainers, alright? It’s too bad this doesn’t happen every year, or I’d be able to prove to you how good I actually am.”

“You mean to tell me you’d go with this git to the Yule Ball every single year if we had one?” George asked, throwing Fred a smirk.

“Why not?” you shrugged. “We make a good team. Why, you jealous, Georgie?” you giggled, reaching across the table and snatching his piece of toast and biting into it. The younger twin just glanced at you, unamused, all while Fred could hardly keep the loud pounding in his heart from growing.

You and George became fully immersed in conversation, but Fred was barely paying attention. He was too busy peering at you, indulging his feelings, because he’d have to be an idiot not too, right? He just keep watching you with a new type of admiration in his eyes, and he admitted to himself right then and there, when you glanced back at him mid-laugh as George made some stupid joke, that he was completely and utterly and irrevocably in love with you.

-- -

He shouldn’t have kissed you.

He could’ve just embraced you like normal,

but he would’ve been yearning to feel your lips on his anyway.

It was the one and only time he got to, and now of course he wished that he hadn’t, because all he could remember of it was the surprise of you and the salt from his own tears as they fell down his cheeks and onto his own lips as he rushed toward the Gryffindor tower.

“Oh, Freddie! You’ll never guess what I’ve just heard,” you’d called to him in a sing-song sort of voice down the corridors. You skipped toward him, bag slung over your shoulder as you made your way through students, only to come face to face with the ginger boy in front of the empty Transfiguration classroom you’d both end up in for lessons later.

“Well you going to keep me waiting, or what?” he asked, a bashful smile on his lips, and he couldn’t quite get over how adorable you looked with that cheeky grin on your face.

“Just had a little chat with Alicia,” you started. You grabbed his arm and shook him, “she needs someone to fill in for her in the upcoming match since Madam Pomfrey still won’t let her play, right? So take a gander, Freddie, at who she picked to replace her?!”

“If the answer isn’t you, then this is a terrible story.” he winked.

You cocked your head to the side and folded your arms across your chest. “Lucky it is me, then, yeah?”

For a moment, he thought you were joking until he noticed the evident sparkle in your eye that could only come from being told you’d be able to play in an upcoming Quidditch match. You didn’t even try and hide your excitement; a huge smile split your face and Fred picked you up in his arms and whirled you around, all while shouting how proud he was of you and how he couldn’t wait to take to the Qudditch pitch with you. “Bloody hell, you’re brilliant! No wonder I’m so mad for you.” You didn’t seem to notice his voice of words, because you just giggled like a little kid in his arms and were breathless when he set you down.

He shouldn’t have done it. He knew that. But with all of the excitement and adrenaline were surging between you both, he just had too. How could he not when you peered at him, eyes filled with wonder? How could he not, when he’d been hiding his feelings for so long? How could he not, when you were mere inches from him, and all he wanted to do was know the taste of you?

He shouldn’t have kissed you, but he did anyway. He placed you down gently and you began rambling on about how the entire Quidditch thing had unfolded a few moments before, and he was so filled with overwhelming love for you that he leant in and slowly pressed his lips to yours. At first he thought your shock was a good thing. Perhaps he’d taken you by surprise in the best way, and you’d melt into him and breathe that you’d been waiting for him to do that forever. You’d tell him that you’ve been crazy for him this entire time too, haven’t you? You’d smile and laugh like a little schoolgirl and tug him into a nearby empty classroom to make up for all the time you two had missed together.

But then you pulled back and pure panic took him over. He searched your nervous eyes and furrowed brows for some sort of answer, but all you seemed to be doing was collecting your thoughts. He watched as you tugged anxiously on the strap of your bag and your face flushed a deep, crimson red. He watched you for answers, but the more he searched, the more he felt like he was caught in a rip tide pulling him further and further from the shoreline.

He opened his trembling mouth to speak, but all that escaped him were nervous “um’s” and you kept on shaking your head. “Fred,” you said hoarsely, and he hated how terribly different and foreign his name sounded on your lips. “What.. what are you doing?”

“I --” he stammered, and he felt like a complete idiot for not being able to get the words out. Since when had Fred Weasley ever been tongue tied? Since when had he ever lost his confidence? Since when had he ever let anyone see him so open.. and bare.. and painfully, heartbreakingly vulnerable?

He couldn’t help but notice just how heavy you were breathing. From nerves, surely, because he was doing the exact same thing. In fact, as deep as he breathed in, he still felt as though he couldn’t fully catch his breath.

“I thought you, erm..” you started, and Fred could see the tears trying to push past your eyelashes, “Fred, we --”

He finally found his voice, because he stupidly blurted out, “I’m mad for you,” and he wished he hadn’t. Your face dropped and you peered at him with a longing he’d never seen before.

Your voice was painfully soft as you looked toward the ground. “You’re -- you’re my best friend, Fred.”

His questions must’ve been written across his face plain as day, because you grabbed his hand and began pleading. “I mean, the Yule Ball, we’d gone as mates, hadn’t we? We’re friends, Fred. We’ve always been friends.”

Bloody hell, how many times could you say the word friends? Felt quite like a dagger straight to his heart.

He wanted to ask, You’ve never felt the same way, have you?

And he knew you’d respond, I love you like a friend, Freddie.

“Fred,” you breathed, and squeezed his hand, but he couldn’t seem to say anything. “Fred, please, I-I’m so sorry,”

With every ounce of strength he had, he swallowed his tears and sadness and vulnerability and painted a smirk onto his face. It didn’t stop the tears from welling up in his eyes though. “No, listen, don’t.. be sorry, Y/N -- I-I just.. read things wrong, I s’pose. I'm the one who should be sorry.”

By the look in your eye, he knew you didn’t believe him, and he didn’t really believe himself either. How could he possibly be alright when he felt as if he were being thrown from a cliff? You ignored everything he’d just said, and instead opted to try again. “Fred, you’re my best friend -- please, I’m so sorry, I can’t take it if you’re mad at me,”

He hated seeing you cry. He hated seeing you so upset. He cupped your face in his hands and forced out a laugh that could almost pass as real. “Y/N, stop. I’m not mad at you. How could I be mad at you? You’re my best mate! I just.. it’s fine. Let’s forget all about it, alright?” He hoped his voice sounded firm, because he wanted you both to do just that. Forget. Just then, the bell rang and students began pouring out of classrooms and filtering into the corridor. Fred let go of you and looked toward his feet before backing away and meeting your gaze again. “Have got to get to Dark Arts. I’ll see you later, yeah?” he grinned, though his heart was not in it.

Before you could say anything more, or before Fred fell to the ground in pure agony, he walked swiftly passed you in the complete opposite direction of Defense Against the Dark Arts and picked up speed, because he just needed to get to his dormitory. What the hell was this pain he felt in the back of his throat? He didn’t look back -- he couldn’t. He didn’t look back as his vision became blurry, and he didn’t look back to see you standing there in the place he’d left you, a hand clamped over your mouth and tears streaming down your face at the thought of breaking your best friend’s heart.

-- -

He shouldn’t have let himself fall for you.

He could’ve tried seeing someone else,

but he would’ve been fooling himself if he pretended to be in love with anyone but you.

There was no way he’d be able to face you now. He’d stealthily snuck through the crowd in the common room and had ignored the faint sounds of your voice calling his name. Nobody had noticed, really, for they were too busy celebrating Harry’s victorious second place win in the second task and eagerly discussing the third.

He wasn’t hiding it anymore. It was written plain as day on his face, he reckoned, his eyes wet with heartbreak and his cheeks flushed red from all of the crying he’d been doing. How could he have been so stupid? Of course you didn’t feel the same way. You’d said it yourself, hadn’t you? Friends. Always been friends. And that’s all you two would ever be.

Sometime later on, after he’d been lying in bed for upwards of an hour staring at the ceiling, the tears started again. And this time it was worse. This time, they were big, fat, heart-wrenching tears and hoarse cries he couldn’t stop. They were involuntary. Someone quietly made their way into the dormitory. Fred looked up through his blurry vision. It was George.

Being the elder of the two, Fred had always cared a little bit extra about George. How many times had he comforted the younger twin? When George had scraped his knee running around their yard, Fred had cleaned him up. When George had fallen off of his broom and broken his arm, after Molly had warned them not to fly that way, Fred had patched him up. When George had to wear his glasses to lessons one day during their first year and had been made fun of by some annoying, rude Ravenclaw, Fred held George when he cried in their dormitory. So now, when George peered at his older brother biting back tears, he merely bit down on his lip to fight back his own, and opened his arms.

Maybe it was the vulnerability of the moment. Maybe it was because George knew without Fred needing to even tell him. Maybe it was the way that George knew, deep down, just how broken Fred felt. Broken like a promise. Maybe it was a mixture of lots of things that made Fred collapse into his younger brother and not hold back his tears.

Maybe it was the way George had said, “I know, mate,” that made Fred hold onto him a little bit tighter and a little bit longer.

All Fred knew was that, in that moment, his brother was the only thing keeping him from collapsing.

He shouldn’t have fallen in love with you.

He could’ve stopped it, if he’d tried hard enough,

but he would’ve just fallen even harder.

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[carnationcreation]

Hey there, I love you and your work so so much!!

I was wondering if you could write a Mighty Ducks imagine, about your favorite duck-i just low key wanna know who your favorite is- that is set in the second movie where the reader is new to the team and it kinda starts off as them not liking each other to them kissing? If you need any more ideas I’d be happy to help!!

 TITLE: Pride (Adam Banks x reader)

✌🏻Masterlist Taglist, Requests, and Works in progress!

Request: Hey there, I love you and your work so so much!!I was wondering if you could write a Mighty Ducks imagine, about your favorite duck-i just low key wanna know who your favorite is- that is set in the second movie where the reader is new to the team and it kinda starts off as them not liking each other to them kissing? If you need any more ideas I’d be happy to help!!

Prompt/summary:  Adam finally has to admit to his pride after he’s injured.

Word Count: 1,298

Authors note: Set in D2! Also I had such a hard time picking cause I love Charlie, Adam, and Luis but I decided to go with my first boy crush from the films! For the vibes listen to Take Yours by Matthew Mole it’s so cute!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My laces were tied so tight I could feel the pressure right on top of my foot as I charged Julie in the goal, she barely caught the puck from my slapshot to the top right corner.

“Ugh, almost had it,” I groaned.

“Maybe one day (Y/l/n),” Julie said. I couldn’t see her face because of the goalie mask but I’m sure she had a shit-eating grin on.

I never thought I would make it here, representing my state for the US youth hockey team for the Junior Olympics. The day I got the call I almost passed out from the excitement and anxiety, and today I almost puked getting out of bed as I thought about how I needed to be on my best game if I wanted to make a good impression on the team I would be joining. 

I saw the whole team walk in, the green jersey was almost a threat. Something I could join but never truly be a part of. I felt that anxiety build up again when I saw they were watching me as I skated down the ice.

Tibbles began to introduce each of us giving us a chance to show off our best skill.

Julie went first, her speed and accuracy in goal made her a vital member to the team. If we were going to stand a chance against Iceland then we needed her.

“And that’s (Y/n) (Y/l/n), everyone calls her Sharpshooter though.”

“Why’s that?” Bombay asked.

“Just watch,” Tibbles nodded, “She’s the only person that’s been able to score on Gaffney.”

My heart raced as I skated quickly up to the goal, aiming on Julie’s stick side, right in the corner I knew she was weakest on.

“Cheap shot (Y/l/n)!” she yelled causing me to laugh as I threw my arms up in victory.

Tibbles waved me over.

“So what makes you so important?” Bombay asked me, “We have about 3 sharpshooters on my team. Why do we need you?”

I stood there in shock, not able to respond as I racked my brain for an answer, “I- well have any of your boys managed to score on Gaffney yet?”

“No, but they will be able to.”

“After how long? I’ve known Gaffney for maybe 30 minutes and I’m already scoring. From what I can tell your boys rely mostly on strength, put anyone up against me and I can show you how accurate I am.”

Bombay smirked, “I like this kid.”

I couldn’t help but smile as Tibbles let me skate back over to Gaffney.

“Look at the boys,” she smirked.

I gave her a confused look.

“Attractive, presumably single hockey players? Might be able to get ourselves a date.”

“Oh shut up,” I shoved her shoulder, “We should be thinking about Hockey, not getting some stupid guys to go out with us. Besides, dating a teammate would just be... weird.”

Julie rolled her eyes, “Oh whatever.”

I laughed and gave the team one final look. My eyes fell on two boys standing near the edge of the group, I assumed one, if not both, was the captain.

“Who’re those boys? Near the edge?”

Julie smirked, “Conway and Banks. The two star players.”

“Oh.”

“Who do you think is cuter?” 

I swallowed hard, “Honestly hard to tell. They both give off different vibes.”

“I thought you said dating a teammate would be ‘weird’“ Julie laughed.

“Listen,” I smiled, “I can look at the menu, I just won’t order.”

Julie let out a cackle and skated away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The tension between the groups finally bubbled over and I was swept in by someone insulting Julie.

“She’s a lot better than you bus boy!” I yelled in the other goalies face.

“I’d block any of your shots any day (Y/l/n)!” he said.

“Wanna test that theory?” I said, apparently I had this fiery look in my eyes cause when Julie pulled me back I saw how terrified the goalie looked causing me to laugh.

Banks skated over, “You really think you’re hot shit huh?”

“Oh please,” I scoffed, “I know I’m hot shit. How many state titles have you one pretty boy?”

I mentally slapped myself. Pretty boy? Really? Best you could come up with?

Adam smirked, “I’d take you on anytime princess.”

“Bring it on.”

Eventually Bombay broke us all apart.

“Now we didn’t come here to fight! We came to play Hockey. We’re team USA. You represent your country!”

Julie and I giggled at the looks on the players faces. 

Adam turned to me, “SHH!”

I rolled my eyes in return.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After the first practice we all seemed to get along better. The girls all went out shopping together on the weekends leading to us getting close quick. Adam and I had a competition going of who could make the best trick shot, which Julie kept saying was ‘tension’. 

We finally made it to our game against Germany. The summer had seemed to go by in an instant and I knew after the championship I would have to be bussed right back home to Boringtown USA. 

I walked into the locker room after workouts, I stayed afterwards to work on my shot more. I turned the corner and saw Adam wrapping his wrist up, he winced.

“Adam?”

He jumped and looked up, “It’s not- (Y/n) don’t you dare tell coach.”

“What’d you do?”

Adam sighed, “In the last game, the dude that hooked my wrist with his stick. It’s just a little sore I promise-”

“Adam,” I said gently grabbing hist wrist to examine it, “You might’ve sprained it. If you keep playing on it it could get worse, you might not be able to play anymore.”

“It’s fine. I’ll get it checked out after the seasons over with.”

“That’s self destructive. You can’t set aside your pride for a minute just to get it looked at?” I knew to get him to see how ridiculous he was being I’d have to rile him up a little.

He scoffed, “I’m prideful? Have you even looked at yourself sharpshooter? You think you’re better than everyone and-”

“Adam this isn’t about me, or even you. It’s about the team. And if you have to get benched for longer than necessary just because you ignored an injury than that’s gonna be the whole teams problem.”

Adam sighed, “Fine. But I better not hear a word from you about it.”

“And on the topic of me being better than everyone, I’ve never thought that. I just didn’t feel like I fit in.”

“What are you talking about?” he said, “You fit in fine. You’re just constantly pushing yourself to where everyone feels like you’re full of it. A lot of people are jealous.”

“Jealous?” I cocked my head to the side.

“Yeah.”

I looked at him confused, “Of what?”

“Just- you’re constantly finding things to improve. You’re just the person who doesn’t realize just how good you are sometimes. To the point where it’s almost annoying. Yeah it’s like you think you’re better but at the same time you’re never the best. And it’s infuriating when all I can think about in practice is impressing you-”

“Impressing me?” I smile.

“I- uh. Yes. Impressing you.”

“Adam,” I chuckle, “Everyone on this team thinks you’re amazing. Myself included.”

“Amazing?”

“Yeah,” I chuckle. 

He stands up and walks over to stand in front of me, I look up into those bright blue eyes I could never seem to avoid. I gently grab his wrist, “Let’s go get this checked out by the trainer okay?”

“Okay,” he says as I started to lead him down the hallway, “And (Y/n)?”

I turned back to him.

He quickly leaned forward to press a quick kiss on my lips, “I think you’re pretty amazing too.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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[staysaneathome]

That Day (Evening)

(The Entity-Swap kid fic WIP that now has a fourth part. Warnings for continued endangerment of children and high levels of pining)

The park is quite a bit further from where they lost the teenager in the hijab than Jon initially thought.

It’s almost funny, how two or three miles doesn’t sound like a very long way to run-walk. Just two or three, the small number making it sound doable, like they should be able to get there in a matter of minutes.

It’s less funny when they’ve been walking for over half an hour and Melanie won’t stop whining about how her legs are tired.

”Carry me.” She demands imperiously.

“No.” Replies Jon, flatly. “Last time I did that, you scratched me really badly. My shoulder and face still hurt.”

”They do not.” Melanie says, as if her denial is enough to undo all the damage. “And I won’t scratch this time. Carry me?”

”No. It’s not even much further to walk.”

”Uuuuugh, you said that last time!” She complains. “It’s been for-eeeee-veeer! Can we at least get some juice or a Freddo Frog or something?”

”With what money?” Jon asks archly.  That buys him maybe half a minute of blessed, blessed silence.

“Wait. You don’t have money?” Melanie asks with a frankly insulting level of incredulity. “But aren’t you like, an adult? Adults have money!”

”I’m twelve!” He sputters, gesturing to himself. “Do I look like I have any money?”

There’s a moment of silence as Melanie eyes him up and down. “I thought you were just ugly.” She says dismissively. “Wait. If you aren’t an adult, can I be in charge?”

”No!” He snaps indignantly. “I’m still the oldest.”

”That’s dumb.” Melanie complains. “You’re dumb. And ugly.”

”And older than you.” Jon reminds her smugly. He’s been with her for long enough by now that he knows when to dodge out of the way when she tries to pinch him.

It’s a relief when the park finally comes into view.

It’s an even bigger one when he catches sight of Martin sitting on the balance beam, looking around patiently.

It lifts a weight off Jon’s shoulders that he didn’t even know was there when Martin catches sight of him and his face breaks out in a grin, like the sun rising.  Then Martin’s face rapidly falls, and he’s sprinting over to them, looking like he’s seen a ghost.

Jon has a fleeting fear that the teenager in the hijab or the searcher are right behind them, poised and waiting for him to turn around to strike.

Martin slows, huffing and puffing as his hands reach out towards him, shaking slightly. “Jon! Jon, oh my gosh, what—what happened to, to your arm, to your face?!”

Ah, Jon thinks, as Martin cups his less-savaged cheek gently and tilts his head. Was that all he was frightened of?

”It’s nothing.” He says gruffly, trying not to think about how weird-hot-odd it feels to have Martin worry about some little scratches like this, fighting the urge to fidget. “Just doing, um. Doing what I had to.”

Martin’s eyes are big and liquid and sad, and he frowns, opening his mouth—

“Liar. You didn’t say it was ‘nothing’ when you wouldn’t carry me.” A sour voice interrupts.

Jon startles and Martin whips his hand away so fast it feel like a burn, both of them turning to stare down at where the interruption came from. Melanie is starfished on her back on the grass, glaring up at them moodily, one sweaty hand still clutching Jon’s. The Watcher informs Jon that her clothes will have grass stains on them when she gets up. Jon tries to inform the Watcher that he doesn’t care, but is ignored, as usual.

Melanie eyes Martin critically. “Are you his friend then?”

Martin straightens up, his usual smile on his face. “Erm, um—yes! Yes, yes I am Jon’s friend! Mar-Martin Blackwood! Um, hello! And, and you are?”

Melanie pulls her sweaty hand out of Jon’s grip and holds it out to Martin, sitting up. “M Melanie King. Jon kidnapped me and we’re friends now too.”

Martin’s smile freezes as he processes that sentence. His eyes dart between Jon and Melanie. “Ah. Um.”

”I did not.” Jon protests. “You were being kidnapped by a searcher, and I saved you.”

”Didn’t do a very good job of it.” Melanie mutters, pulling up grass by the roots and dropping it on his shoes.

Jon retreats with a disgusted noise, trying to shake it out where it’s fallen through the holes of his too-big trainers. ”Stop that! And-and we’ve just met, we’re not friends!”

There’s a moment of silence.

Melanie’s eyes start to water.  She begins making an awful noise that makes some part of Jon’s brain he hadn’t even known existed freeze up and go “Oh no”.

He exchanges a brief terrified glance with Martin, who reaches out. “Oh, no, no, no, oh please—”

Melanie wails, the sheer force of the noise making Jon stumble backwards.

“Melanie, shh!” He hisses, darting glances around at few parkgoers who are stopping to stare, “You’re making people—”

”NO!” She bellows, swiping out at him with a poorly aimed claw, tears and snot running down her face in rivulets. “I HAE-HATE YOU! I HATE THI-I-IS! I HATE THAT EVERYTHIN' SO ANNOYING, ALL, ALL THE TIME, AND IT DOESN'T STO-O-OP!! I HATE MY FRIENDS NOT, NOT LIKING ME ANYMORE! I HATE MY DADDY GETTIN' SAD 'CAUSE OF ME! I JUS' WAN' IT TO STOP! I WAN’ MY FRIENDS BACK!! I WANNA GO HOME!!”

The little girl curls in on herself, the bright green grass stains on the back of her sparkly top shaking with her as she continues to sob like her little heart is breaking.

Jon has no idea what to do to fix this, hands clenching and unclenching uselessly at his sides. He has no idea how she was touched by the Slaughter (though the Watcher croons for him to question her, to learn, to Ask—), and even if he did, it’s not as though he could make it just go away, as if a mark like this could be removed with a bit of scrubbing. This isn’t something that can just be pulled out of her, like a loose tooth. It’s part of her now, wedged deep inside like the Forsaken is in Martin, and the Watcher is in Jon.

He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t Know—

“I-I’ll be your friend!” Martin babbles frantically.

Jon stares at him, feeling suddenly, irrationally betrayed.

Melanie gulps and sniffles, peering up at him through red-rimmed eyes. “…you promise?”

”Cross my heart and hope to die.” Martin smiles, holding out a small, ragged tissue. “C’mon now, can you give me a big dragon blow into this?”

She gives him a Look, like she knows he’s trying to make her laugh and is cross with him for it, but does as he says, making a noise that’s a bit like a honk.

“Good job!” Martin praises, while Jon crosses his arms and tries to make his face not frown like he wants to. This is stupid. You can't be friends with somebody you’ve just met, you don’t Know them, it’s silly. Childish. Plus Martin’s his friend. Melanie has no right to come along and-and steal him like this. Martin looks up and catches sight of Jon’s face. His smile dims a bit and his colors go paler, more faded, which makes Jon’s tummy squirm uncomfortably.

Still, he keeps babbling, “I-I’m really happy to be your friend, and Jon’s friend too! I don’t have many friends at home, so this is. This is nice. To be friends with you two. It makes me happy. Do you have superpowers too? Like how I can go invisible, and Jon can make people tell him stuff and Know things?”

Melanie shrugs, tearing up the tissue in her hands. “Dunno. Making people get into fights, or something. Invisibility’s cool, I guess. But getting people to tell you stuff isn’t a superpower. That’s just asking questions. It’s dumb.”

“No it’s not!” Jon bristles indignantly, all his focus on the little friend-thief. “Asking questions can be dangerous. Especially when you can’t stop yourself from answering them. How’d you think the searcher was going to eat up your life?”

“W-well, a brain sucker monster like her wouldn’t need to ask questions, would they? They’d just bite your ugly head off and know everything anyway.” She argues back, little chest puffed out and tears all but forgotten. “If all that creepy lady was going to do is ask questions, I could take her. I just wouldn’t open my mouth. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.”

Jon barely notices Martin going wide-eyed and near translucent out of the corner of his eye as he opens his mouth to prove exactly why Melanie is wrong.

But he freezes up when he hears a soft, deep voice behind him. “Oh, really? Care to put that to the test?”

The searcher smiles down at the three of them.

Her eyes are empty and something hungry looks out from them.

”Come, little ones.” She coos, one hand outstretched. “Come home with me. Come back to the Collection. You’ll want for nothing, never hungry, never cold, never tired, never lonely, never angry. And you’ll hear such interesting stories. We’ve missed you, my prized Recorder. I’ve missed you so much.”

Jon feels frozen, pinned like a bird in the eyes of a snake, a part of him that he never wanted to know existed clamoring at him to take it, take her hand, you need the stories, you need—

A large, warm, soft hand grabs his, and yanks him back into the fog.

Jon yelps, though it feels like his yell is swallowed up in the crushing, inescapable isolation that now surrounds him. He sees Melanie, but it’s like she’s miles away, her shouting and directionless anger losing teeth as it dawns on her how utterly, utterly alone they both are. They aren’t friends. They can’t rely on each other. They’ll lose sight of each other and perish here, unremarkable and unremarked on and alone.

”C’mon!” A familiar, kind voice comes through the fog, shocking Jon back to his senses. “We’ve got to go! This way!”

His hand is being held. Of course it is. How could he forget? He and Melanie are holding Martin’s hands, as the barely visible boy tugs them through the eddies of fog, away from the searcher.

They run through the dreamlike realm of the Forsaken in a weird, birdlike configuration.

Martin had grabbed the hand which was closest to him on Jon, while Jon was still facing the searcher, locked into her gaze. The result is that his arm is drawn almost painfully across his body as they run, his sweaty palm clutching Martin’s tight, sure that if he even loosens his grip enough to change to a more comfortable position, he’ll be lost forever in the fog.

Melanie is stumbling along on Martin’s other side, her legs weak and shaky, almost skipping at some points to try and keep up with the pace Martin is setting, glancing back every so often. Tears are running down her face almost absentmindedly.

For a moment, as they pass through the darkening trees and get further and further away from the playground, Jon thinks they might actually make it. They might actually escape the searcher and live to fight another day.

”Stop.”

Jon feels his legs lock up, all his muscles seizing together as though cramped. The burning sensation of being Watched sears itself into the back of his neck, the entirety of him Known and Seen and Exposed.

He faintly hears Martin and Melanie scream as though they’re being peeled open and pinned down for study as he crashes face first into the mossy earth beneath them.

The searcher takes her time strolling up to them, forcing Jon to listen to his friends’ pained whimpers where they’ve fallen. Martin’s face scraped viciously from the bark of the tree in from of them, and Melanie unable to even inch off of where a root is digging into her stomach.

That’s how he knows it’s the man looking through her eyes, delighting in their distress.

”No,” He can hear Martin choke out, “No, st-stop it, st-stay away fr—!”

”Look at you.” The searcher coos in a tone that has never been her own. “All banged up and bruised. Do you enjoy this, Jon? Do you enjoy hurting your friends?”

Jon wants to scream, to cry, to yell that of course not, of course he doesn’t, he’d never want to, but it feels like his throat is closed up. It’s all he can do to suck in shaky breaths through his nose as the searcher gets closer and closer.

“Kill you,” He can faintly hear Melanie wheeze. Jon’s honestly at a loss for whether she’s speaking to the searcher or to him. “Swear, I-I swear, kill you, I’ll—”

“Come now.” The searcher says pleasantly. “That’s enough games. Time to come back now, children, Recorder. Time to come back to the Collection.”

He can see her hand reaching down for him.

A dark blur slams into the searcher.

Jon hears several short screams, what sounds incongruously like a growl and then a loud, wet, puncturing noise.

His limbs release from the rictus they’ve been forced into.

The burning sensation of being Watched fades to the ever-present prickle on the back of his neck.

Jon jerks his head up with a punched out gasp, reaching for the others, pulling them behind him even as he turns to See what is happening, what’s going on.

There’s a lady kneeling over the searcher’s limp, lifeless body.

She’s got combat boots and a hoodie that’s slipped down from her shoulders to bunch around her elbows. A small burst of scar tissue, almost like a flower, is visible and hidden again as she shifts, more animal than human in her movements. It reminds Jon of a nature documentary he watched with his grandmother once, a mountain lion stalking forward lithely to devour its prey.  There’s the same intent, hungry stare in her eyes that Jon vaguely recalls the mountain lion having as she draws up to her full height and pins the three children huddled at the base of the tree under her gaze. There’s a penknife in her hand that’s dripping with the searcher’s blood.

He hears Martin suck in a frightened whine behind him, fog spilling out to pool around Jon’s ankles. Melanie’s breathing so fast she sounds like she’s a mere moment away from hyperventilation.

They can’t escape like this. Not from a killer touched by the Hunt. Not without a distraction of some kind.

Jon’s mouth is opening before his brain can process what an awful idea this is. “How did you get that—”

He doesn’t even see her move.

All he knows is the breath is punched out of his lungs and his feet are dangling uselessly as the Hunter slams him into another tree, a snarl on her lips. The bloody penknife is pressed hard into the thin skin of his throat.

”So you’re one of them, hm?” The Hunter snarls, the burr of her Welsh accent mixing with a growl that almost drowns out Martin’s frantic cries of “JON!” A tiny part of his brain that isn’t frantically trying to stay as still as possible notes that she’s got Melanie’s sparkly hair bobble stretched around one wrist.

“I wonder.” The Hunter says, with fake casualness. “What’d be the best way to make sure you can’t ask any more of them pesky questions that hurt people, hm? The tongue? Or the voicebox?”

”DAISY, STOP!”

It’s like magic.

The Hunt slides away under the young woman’s skin like someone’s pulled a blanket over it. Not gone, the shape of it still plainly visible, but softened, gentled by the cover’s drapes and folds. The arm that’s holding Jon up trembles, ever so slightly, and the penknife is finally, finally pulled away, even if only by a few centimeters.  Jon’s breath hitches in his chest and he has to blink away tears.

As she twists around to face the teenager in the hijab, Jon’s given a clear view of one of her ears, which has begun to flush pink, for some reason.

”Basira.” There’s barely concealed excitement in her voice that is very confusing right now. “Hi. I, uh. I was in the area, and I, uh. Noticed you were having some trouble. So I found those kids that, that you were looking for.”

”That’s. Nice? But, Daisy, I need you to put him down now.” The teenager in the hijab is holding her hands out placatingly. “That boy’s not dangerous, not like Rayner. I wanted to ask him some questions.”

The teenager in the hoodie scoffs, but does as she asks, tucking the penknife away and lowering Jon to the ground. “If you say so. Just don’t let him ask you any—they’re tricky, Eye types like this.”

Jon feels his legs go wobbly the moment his feet touch earth. He slumps, breath wheezing out of him, heart racing like he’s running from the searcher all over again.

”JON!” Martin’s arms curve under his, pulling him forward into a tight, warm, soft hug. “Oh, oh god, I-I’m so sorry, ah-are you okay?! Did she hurt you?”

Jon can only grip feebly back, burying his head into Martin’s increasingly saturated shoulder as it feels like he shakes apart.

Part of his brain that isn’t focused on clutching onto Martin like he’s a lifejacket and swallowing compulsively to remind himself that he’s alright, he’s whole, faintly registers the sound of something smacking flesh, and the Hunter going “Ow!” “That’s what you get!” Comes Melanie’s shrill reply. “Don’t you ever touch him again, okay, you big, big, stupid, bullying, ugly—!”

”Okay, that’s enough of that.” The teenager in the hijab—Basira? says. “Break it up, you two.”

There’s the distant sound of dried leaves and tree detritus crunching underfoot, and then Martin’s breath hitches. Jon tightens his grip, preparing to twist him away from whatever’s threatening them now.

”Hey, easy, easy.” Basira’s voice comes from a lot closer. “I’m sorry about Daisy, but she’s very…passionate about stopping monsters. Like the one chasing you three. That was a monster, wasn’t it?”

“Y-yeah.” Martin stutters. “She was going to hurt Jon. Just like she did.”

Jon stiffens at the sound of the warning growl, but Martin doesn’t let go of him, even though Jon can feel his heart racing in his chest. A peek shows that Martin’s staring down the teenager in the hijab with a wobbly lower lip, but eyes set hard.

”And she’s very sorry about that.” Basira demurs. “It was all a big misunderstanding, wasn’t it Daisy?”

There’s a moment, and a decidedly grumpy, “Yes.”

“There we go.” There’s a rustle, and Jon withdraws his head from the safety of Martin to see that she’s pulled out a small leather-bound notebook and a pencil. “Now, could I ask you both some questions? About the whole,”

She makes an all-encompassing gesture to them and the cold fog of the Forsaken coiling around them.

”Our superpowers?” Martin blinks. “Why? Do you have them too?”

The teenager shakes her head. “No. I’m ah, uninvolved in a lot of this. But then a boy I was babysitting got kidnapped by shadow monsters, and I met Daisy while trying to rescue him, so ‘forewarned is forearmed’ and all that. And since I’m under strict orders not to go to the Orsinov Institute—”

”I told you,” The hunter—Daisy—interrupts. “That place is dangerous. They say they research stuff, but something ain’t right there. You’d walk in, and something else would waltz out in your place.”

Jon can’t help his curiosity. “H-how—?”  It feels like his vocal cords dry up under the glare the Hunter pins him with. Thin ice, she mouths at him.

”Yes, thank you, Daisy.” Basira cuts in, shifting so she breaks the line of sight between the Hunter and Jon. “So, as I am banned from ever setting foot in the one reputable center for the study of the supernatural in this country, I have to do my own research piecemeal from subjects in the field.”

Martin and Melanie are giving her blank looks.  “She wants to ask us about the Watcher, the Forsaken and the Slaughter and what we can do.” Jon translates.

Martin nods with a little ‘oh’. Melanie just looks even more confused.

”I just want my Daddy. I wanna go home.” Her voice breaks on the last word.

Basira’s face softens at that.

”Y-yeah.” Martin says, shifting from one foot to the other. “A-and I need to get my train back. My, my mum’s probably worried about me…”

Jon can’t quite help the way his arms tighten at that, though he loosens them quickly. It’s only natural. The sun’s practically gone down, after all. Whether Jon desperately wants him to stay has no import on the matter at hand.

“Right.” Basira scribbles down something in her notebook, then tears the paper out and then tears that into three strips. “This is my mobile number, and email address. You can contact me using either of these to talk about…superpower things.”

”And I’ll find you if you try to vanish, easy as anything.” Daisy adds with a toothy grin. “So don’t.”

”Daisy.”  The hunter holds up her hands. There’s dark red blood on the one that held the knife. “I’m joking, Basira, joking.”

Jon, despite how much he doesn’t want to, detaches from Martin. “I, I don’t have a phone. Or a computer.”

Basira hums, her head tilted to the side. “You know Angel of Islington? Near where you two got on the bus earlier?”

Jon nods as she goes on. “I can be found around there most days. Just drop by if you feel like sharing any of the things you’ve seen so far. And who knows? Maybe I’ll have some stories for you too.”

Something leaps in Jon’s stomach.

Still, the way the Hunter’s gone tense puts him on edge, so he makes himself say, “Only-only little ones. Not, not big stories.”

The teenager in the hijab nods impassively.  She claps her hands together. “Well, that’s enough excitement for one day, I think. Let’s see about finding your parents and getting you all home, shall we?”

Daisy nods, stepping close. Her ears are still red in the fading evening light. “I’ll come with you.”

Basira gives her an unimpressed look and a snort. “And then who’ll deal with that?”

They all turn to stare at the searcher’s body.  Martin shivers and grabs his hand, squeezing gently. Jon almost jumps when he feels something small and warm press close to his other side, before he looks down and sees Melanie’s leaf-and-twig-filled hair. The other sparkly bobble is almost falling out too.

Daisy’s eyebrows draw together and she lets out a small growl. “Ugh, fine. But just, um. Call me, maybe, next time? If you’re gonna go chasing after weird things.”

Basira smiles, playing with the edge of her hijab for some reason. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Jon glances back as she ushers the three of them out of the park, shoulder and throat and everything else aching and feeling like he imagines an orange must do after the juice is squeezed out of it. The hunter’s eyes shine in the looming dark as they go, shifting from something that Jon wants to call friendliness to a more animalistic bent as she crouches over the body of the searcher, and the two of them disappear into the trees and the twilight.