#okay how does june sixth sound?

[firesalamander]

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[saltygilmores]

Thoughts While Watching Gilmore Girls, 2/18 “Back In The Saddle” (more glorious filler) Part 2

Wow, Netflix really borked the captions in this scene.

Thinking about how the Chilton Crew wants Lorelai to come to the school and advise their business class, and then I remembered that in a season 3 episode (the one where Lane dyes her hair purple) she does just that at Stars Hollow High, but it didn't exactly go well for her, because instead of asking her questions about what it's like to run an inn, the students were more interested in why 16 years earlier she let Crustypher Hayden boink her on her parents' balcony in the middle of the winter. Then an army of PTA Karens (or Debbies, in that case) approach her outside the school and the word "Condoms" is thrown about, absolutely scandalous. So perhaps she's better off giving this one to Richard.

I swear to gawd, Lorelai, you better give my boy Michel a day off with no questions asked, after all the times you abandoned your post in the last few weeks to help Lucas and left poor Michel to pick up your shifts. She thankfully doesn't give him any guff. We then learn he is (apparently?) excited about his mother coming to visit, while Sookie and Lorelai try to remedy Sookie's misprinted wedding invitations by screaming at some poor underpaid customer service agent who is probably Kirk. Glorious, pointless filler!

A few moments later, Lorelai declines Rory's invitation to Business Advise her and she suggests she asked Richard instead, so Rory goes and visits Richard and he...also declines. Emily gets wind of this declination and gives Richard the business about letting Rory down, and they get into a spat over it. Spoiler alert: He eventually changes his mind.

The sign reads as follows: LIBERTY BELL: The bell in Stars Hollow was cast in 1780 to celebrate the 1st anniversary of the town. The bell cracked the first time it was rung and weighed 2000 pounds. The strike of the bell is E-Flat. On June 6, 1944, when allied forces landed in France, the sound of the bell was broadcast to all parts of the country. Guess that's just another thing they're trying to erase from American history textbooks! Seeing as it's directly next to the gazebo and would be hard to miss, I don't think we ever see this sign again and I don't know why we're seeing it now. Also, there is no actual bell to be seen anywhere in the vicinity. Lane is babbling to Rory about something and I have no clue what she's on about. I had to rewind. Okay, it sounds like she took one of those "Career aptitude" tests at school and it told her she should pursue a career in sales and now she's freaking out over it. R: "Lane, in ten years we'll be having lunch in Paris not discussing if you made quota." Rory is really hoping that in ten years Paris IS her lunch. I'm dirty.

INCOMING!!!!!

The look on Rory's face is like she knows he's coming up behind her. The temperature drops a few degrees whenever he appears. She has a sixth sense for this stuff. She's evolved a series of survival mechanisms. She's like, "if I freeze, maybe he'll just sniff me, see I'm not a threat, and scamper off into the woods. He's more scared of you than you are of him. Stay perfectly still, Rory." Lane, however, is oblivious to the danger, as always.

Women's Reactions To The Arrival Of Dean Forrester: A field guide. Unless you'e Lorelai Gilmore, a typical presentation is quiet, slack jawed terror and/or silently planning an escape route.

Okay butthead, what do you want? How is AmyShermanPalladino going to stuff you into this plot about Rory's grandfather, one that has nothing to do with Boys?

Okay Forrester, you've reached your 1 sentence, four word quota. The time to stop talking is now.

How about you suck my non existent left nut, Forrester?

Please don't do it Rory. I know you have more than 4 brain cells to squeeze together in that smart noggin of yours and you can choose to decline.

She was probably like "Oh yeah Dean I REALLY miss seeing you play softball", the same way she probably said to him "I REALLY want to see Lord of the Rings with you." Dean my friend, it's fine if you can't understand sarcasm, many people can't, and that's OK. But I feel this is causing a bit of a communication issue between you and Rory. For example, you think Rory cares about your stupid hobbies but in actuality Rory would rather see you walk face first into a nest of sexually frustrated hornets than do any of this shit with you.

Are we still on this "I spent one night without Dean so now I have to spend every night with Dean" kick?

NO! NO NO NO. WHY MUST WE DO THIS IN EVERY SINGLE FREAKING EPISODE?! I HATE SEASON 2, I HATE "BARGAINING WITH BUTTHEAD" AND I HATE DEAN FORRESTER! Rory of course fucking COMPROMISES with BUTTZILLA FORRESTER, AGAIN, and agrees to watch him play softball next week if he ALLOWS her to stay home and do her HOMEWORK. GOD DAMN IT RORY GILMORE! ALSO DAMN IT LANE KIM, SAY SOMETHING.

I was so blinded with rage I almost missed the guy cradling a chicken in the background.

Poor Butthead is sad. Wah wah wah. That chicken has more brain cells than you.

Rory got the short end of the stick playing Bargaining With Butthead again, because he's still going to show up at her house later!

Not me going to Google to read up on the weight of a softball and trying to imagine the satisfying crack when one beans him in the head later, knocking him unconcious. WHAT WAS THE POINT OF ALL THIS? Just so Jared Padalecki could get a paycheck? Remember how the WB cut Milo a check for not working? Couldn't they have done that to Jared? Go home, kick your feet up, and don't ever come back to this show. If only. Michel's Mom shows up at the Inn and it's a cute Z plot but it means fuckall and I have nothing to say.

We haven't been told why Richard decided to change his mind, but he did. The random student in the group is named Chip, and with a name like that he's definitely a 35 year old posing as a high school student.

Watch as Madelyn effortlessly invents the Amazon Echo (Alexa) (or a smartphone, depending on how you want to frame it, but the fact that it's meant to be stored in one area sounds more like Alexa to me) but Rory says it can't be done because nobody knows how to build a robot. Another brilliant woman whose multi-billion dollar ideas will eventually be co opted by a man. All because Rory didn't know anyone in her high school who could build a highly complex technologically advanced talking assistant in the year 2002. Pity, that. If you think about it, even the "Carrying your stuff" did not have to mean a literal robot butler, but foreshading the way a smartphone stores books and other school materials. Meanwhile Richard is falling asleep and nursing a migraine listening to her incredible pitch probably because she's a Girl, and the two other men in the group are contributing nothing. Louise wants to invent some sort of device to track lost lipsticks. You attach it to your lipstick then press a button on a remote to find it when it get lost? It sounds dumb on the surface then you realize she just invented AirTags. Rory and Paris are not on board with the LipStick LoJack or the Amazon Echo/Iphone. We have two incredibly advanced minds at work here. and they're being absolutely wasted. What this really means is that AmyShermanPalladino was inventing these things well over a decade before they were actually realized and entered the public conciousness. Let's give her some credit. Dang. I can't recall what the winning idea ends up being but I'm sure it will be absolutely usless. Wait, wait, here it comes... Paris' pitches...a first aid kit. Really? This is the brilliant idea that wins out over all the rest (they never bothered to ask Chip The 35 Year Old or Brad for ideas and actually Rory herself never contributed any idea of her own). Richard wants to know why Paris is inventing a) something that already exists b) something free c) something widely available d) something absolutely idiotic and lame and uninteresting to teenagers, and if you gave teenagers free first aid kits they'd probably just take the contents out and chuck them at each other. And what is her brilliant marketing tactic to get the Teens on board?

This idea is so dumb that it's completely out of character for Paris. How's this gonna look on your Harvard application, girly? I'm not gonna say that in 1998 I wouldn't have bought a lunch box full of band aids if someone slapped a picture of the Backstreet Boys on them, but... I don't know how to end that sentence.

Go on Paris, keep on making the old man feel smug and justified in his thinking that teenage girls only care about unicorns and the color pink. Richard: Tricked out first aid kits? You really think that's going to work? Paris: Yes, yes I do. Richard: So do I. It's perfect. I think Richard has been hitting the bottle a little too hard during his retirement. Rory agrees that the idea is just brilliant, the boys have still contributed nothing, and we cut away from the scene with Richard having never asked his own grand daughter to present any ideas.

She should have invented Buttzilla Repellent spray to keep Dean at bay. Honestly.

[valeffelees]

hello, happy Sunday.

funny thing: i started typing up this post earlier this morning when only one person had tagged me, and then ended up drafting and deleting it because it's quite warm today in my corner of Canada and the heat makes me terribly lethargic, i've done nothing today but slink around between patches of sunlight like a drowsy cat.

a happy round of hellos and thank-you-kindlys to @blackberrysummerblog @rimeswithpurple @artsyunderstudy and @aroace-genderfluid-sheep for tagging today. 🌇

i've finally managed to pull myself away from drawing and get back to editing W/oS, and in the meantime, altho i don't plan to focus on this fanfic much in June (i have another project i want to give my attention to), i wrote a bit more of wt: Niall vs the Amatonormative Agenda [1] [2] yesterday. my timeline is a bit mucky still, but this takes place sometime around late fifth year or early sixth year.

Dev’s eyes are pale yellow in the dark.  Niall watches the knot of their throat move when they swallow, rolling up the length of their neck and disappearing into the soft underside of their chin. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. Dev has a mouth like a paper crane. It folds around their teeth like it is made of a hundred tiny parts, the way it twists beneath their nose is a strange and lovely, complicated thing. “I don’t want you to be sorry,” they say, and they reach for him through his knees, and Niall opens his arms for them the way he always does, the way he knows he always will. He likes their weight on his stomach, the warmth of them. “Fuck, you’re such an asshole. I don’t want you to be sorry,” they say again, “I just—I want you to be okay.” “I am okay.” “You’re not.” “I’m sorry.” “Shut up.” “Dev?” They raise their head. “You’re my best friend,” Niall tells them. “You know that, don’t you?” Dev presses their nose into his cheek. “Yeah,” they say, and their voice is a careful murmur, a deep and quivering sound in their chest. “Yeah, Naya. I know.”

and since i'm sure everyone has already made their posts by now, please consider these tags a hello, how are you, and some well-wishes for the week to come. 🙂

Tag, you're it! 🪄 @cutestkilla @raenestee @hushed-chorus @thewholelemon @larkral @captain-aralias @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @imagineacoolusername @ivelovedhimthroughworse @facewithoutheart

[matthewtkachuk]

Congrats on 1500 followers!! So well deserved 💖 how about the prompt “it’s 3 am, i must be lonely” with Nathan MacKinnon?

thank you love!!

pairing: nathan mackinnon x reader

warnings: mentions of children

word count: 800

it’s 3 am i must be lonely

The offseason gives Nate a chance to rest and recuperate, even as much as it sucks to be sitting at home while the remaining teams get to chase his dream. Another year, another disappointing end to a playoff run, another cup dream demolished before his very eyes. It stings a bit more than last year, the bite of ‘top cup contenders’ and ‘greatest odds to win it all’ never quite losing its might even as another team is crowned number one and everything devolves into the madness of the expansion draft and free agency and all that comes with it.

Home is good for him, the ocean air and the familiar people and the guys he goes golfing with and his mom so close. Home has downtown and the unfamiliar restaurants that have popped up since the last offseason he was back, the bar he meets up with some high school buddies isn’t the classiest of places but it has the same bartender who asked him for his ID when he turned nineteen and came for his first legal drink. Home is grounding and relaxing and a real reset for not only his body but his mind, too.

Home doesn’t have you, though. You’re back in Denver, working crazy shifts at the office to accumulate some overtime and PTO to be able to come stay for two weeks in late July. Nate can’t wait to have you back in his arms and in his home and in his bed, but that’s July and this is June and he misses you. The bed in his lake house is too big, the sheets too soft and the scent of your sleep spray against his pillows is a poor substitute for the smell of your shampoo.

Nate doesn’t usually have trouble sleeping, the vigor with which he lives his day to day life even during the offseason lends itself to deep, easy slumber. An early morning run before the rest of the world has woken up starts his day and then a targeted workout in the morning. Lunch is usually some sort of crime against humanity substitute for real food as you would say with a laugh, “There’s nothing inherently wrong with pasta, Nathan!” Afternoons are ‘for the boys’, golfing or boating or some sort of activity to keep his mind off you and your absence.

He’s done all the things he usually does when he’s home, but the rain is pouring just outside his window and the clock on the wall shows the little hand next to the three and the big hand just a little past the twelve. You love the rain, the sound, the smell, the promise it brings, the way it all but wipes the slate of the cement clean. If you were here tonight, or rather this morning he supposes, he knows you would be shaking him awake before clamoring outside to feel it on your skin.

It makes him miss you even more.

It’s easy, then, to give into the loneliness and the longing and the desire, and he’s calling your number before he’s really sure he’s done it. It’s not until the sixth or seventh ring that he realizes it’s still late for you, even if he is three hours ahead. Just as he goes to hang up the phone and text you to call when you wake up, your sleepy voice croaks out, “Baby?”

And God, if the way you say baby doesn’t do something for him. It scares him a little, the way your voice chips and cracks at the cold edges of his heart, curling in all around him and holding him tightly. The way it screams of promise, of the future he wants to have with you, of a diamond ring and this lake house full of the laughter of children.

“I’m sorry to wake you, it’s just raining and it’s 3 am and-”

“And you must be lonely,” you giggle, the unmistakable sound of your comforter crinkling as you sit up. He pictures you reaching for the lamp on your bedside table, picking up your glasses and pulling the blankets up around you.

“Okay Matchbox Twenty,” he drawls sarcastically, but you only giggle more. “Can I see you?”

The facetime request comes from your end quicker than he can manage, and his heart feels at ease to see you sitting just as he pictured, a faded Avs shirt covering your frame from the small sliver he can spot that’s not beneath the comforter.

You don’t stay awake much longer, lulled to sleep by the mixing of Nate’s voice and the rain loudly pounding against his window. The smile on your face is a smidge meaningful, the knowledge of your flight confirmation for two weeks earlier than you’d agreed on lifting the corner of your mouth.

It’s 3 am and Nate’s a little less lonely, phone in hand.

[waitimcomingtoo]

In Case You Don’t Live Forever

~sixth chapter rewritten~

Pairing: Peter Parker x Venom!reader

Synopsis: you are Peters greatest love and Spider-Man’s greatest enemy

Series Masterlist

Two months later, you sat outside The Daily Bugle and impatiently bounced your leg. While waiting to see if your boss liked your first draft of the Cleatus Kassidy article, you reflected on your past two months in New York.

It was now June. You and Venom had fallen into a routine. You’d work on the Cletus article by day and go patrolling at night. Of course, being Venom wasn’t a nightly occurrence. You’d only go out eating once or twice a week. Still, you managed to have 11 run ins with Spider-Man.

You and Peter had become significantly closer in that past two months as well. You’d help him with his homework, though you secretly thought he was smarter than you, and he helped me with your story. Some nights, he’d visit you on your fire escape and watch the sun go down. You had no idea how he got there, but you didn’t care.

You’d send him science puns while he was at school and he’d bring you food and keep you company when You had writers block. Your favorite was the long talks on the roof. You would sit there for hours and tell each other everything. You knew all his secrets and he knew yours.

Well, not all.

But the best part of all was that every now and then, you’d catch the other staring. Then, the other would stare back until someone, usually Peter, started to lean in. Every time you thought you were finally going to take the next step, something would interrupt you. Whether it was May knocking or Ned barging in or Peters phone ringing. That was another thing about Peter. His damn phone was always ringing and then he’d have to dash off somewhere, leaving you with a random excuse or something about an internship. Sometimes, you’d wish he’d just throw his phone aside and kiss you already.

“Great work so far, L/n.” Your boss tore you away from your thoughts. “I knew you’d be right for the job.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jameson.” You stammered as you stood up. “I really appreciate you giving me this job. I was kinda blackballed back in San Francisco.”

“I know.” He shrugged. “But you ask the hard hitting questions that people want to hear. Once this article is out, I want you to write one on Venom.”

“Venom?” You gulped at her name.

“Yeah.” He nodded. “You know that scary black monster that’s been fighting Spiderman? I’m thinking an exposé on that menace webhead and his latest enemy, and I think you’d be perfect for the job.”


“I would love to.” You said quickly. “I’ll start researching right away.”

With that, you turned on your heel and left the building before Venom caused a scene.

“Monster?” Venom roared once you got in your car. “Scary?”

“I know.” You whined. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know he was gonna call you that.”

“His whole job is reading about the most dangerous criminals in New York. If he thinks we’re scary, what’s Peter gonna think?” Venom asked. You laughed in dismissal until you thought about what he said.

What would Peter think? What if you told Peter who you really were and he ran away? He was sweet and understanding, but how understanding could he possibly be when you tell him you can turn into a flesh eating monster?

That’s when you realized you were scared. You were scared of letting Peter in and him letting himself right out. You were scared of repeating the mistakes you made with Andy. No, not scared.

Petrified.

What if Peter didn’t like what he saw? What if he realized you were too messy to be with? Or had too much baggage? Peter deserved a nice girl. One with a normal family and friends. One without depression. One without a flesh eating symbiote attached to their immune system.

“What’s wrong baby?” Venom asked with concern. She cuddled around your neck and nuzzled into your cheek.

“I can never be with Peter.” You whispered, mostly to yourself. Hot tears of frustration filled your eyes so you looked up to keep them from falling. Admitting it felt like a fatal blow to the stomach. Venom tied your hair up with one of her arms and wiped the tears from your face.

“Why do you say that?”

You thought about it for a moment before answering. You didn’t want to tell Venom that you were feeling insecure. She freaked out on you whenever you said something negative about yourself. You didn’t wanna another 100 slide PowerPoint titled “why Y/N L/N is the baddest bitch in the galaxy”. Especially since forty of those slides were just pictures of your butt. You appreciated Venom wanting to help but you were feeling the kind of insecure that a pep talk couldn’t fix. You needed to figure it out on your own. So instead, you told her a different fear you had.

“Because. Look at us. We’re the only thing keeping each other alive.” You reasoned. “What if we get separated and die? I can’t become one of those people in Peters life who loved him and then left him. His mom, his dad, his Uncle Ben. I don’t want to die and leave Peter behind. He’s been through enough. He’d be so much better off without me.”

“We’re not gonna die. You protect me and I protect you. Nothing will hurt us as long as we have each other.” Venom assured you.

“I can’t protect you like you protect me.” You said softly. “I’m just a human. What if something happens to me and you die because of it?”

“Nothing will happen to you, Y/N. I promise. I won’t let it.” Venom swore. You looked at her and gave her a sad smile.

“I won’t let anything happen to you either.” You said, but you didn’t promise it. You knew you couldn’t promise it.

“And you can be with Peter.” Venom insisted. “On Klyntar, we mate for life. And we think you’ve found your mate in Peter.”

“What does that mean?” You wondered.

“It means we’ve become attached to him and will never be happy with anyone else.” Venom said. You let out a shaky breath as that wasn’t what you wanted to hear. You needed a reason to shut your feelings for Peter down.

“Like soulmates?” You asked.

“Exactly like soulmates.” Venom answered.

“Well what happens on Klyntar if someone is your soulmate but you’re not theirs?”

“Then we go into a cave and mourn until we die alone of heartbreak.” Venom said simply.

“That sounds about right.” You laughed sadly as you took a second to think.

“I’m gonna call that guy back.” You said suddenly.

“What guy?” She asked.

“They guy who asked me out at the coffee shop this morning.” You reminded her.

“The one with the stupid hair? Why would you call him?” Venom asked angrily.

“What was wrong with his hair?” You laughed.

“It was blonde. We like brunette.” Venom said with a devilish grin.

“His hair was fine.” You rolled your eyes. “And I’m gonna call him to say yes to the date.”

“Why would we do that when we like Peter?” Venom whined.

“Because if Peter doesn’t like us, I don’t want to die of heartbreak alone in a cave.” You admitted.

“He does love you.” Venom protested.

“We don’t know that.” You shook your head. “It’s just one date. I need to get back out there anyway. I haven’t gone on a date Andy and I broke up.”

“Fine.” Venom grumbled. “But this is a terrible idea and I’m going to complain the whole time and sing the Les Mis soundtrack in your head.” This was one of those moments where she felt more like your toddler than your symbiote.

You gave the guy a call before driving back to your apartment. As fate would have it, you ran into Peter in the hallway on your way to your room.

“Hey Y/n!” Peter greeted you. “You want to come over later and help me with spanish? I’ll amo you mucho.”

You wanted so badly to say yes but you had to stick to the plan to squash your feelings for Peter.

“Aw, I’m sorry Pete. I wish I could but I have a date tonight.” You frowned, instantly regretting it when you saw the look on his face.

Peter’s heart sank to the floor as he emotions went from feeling devastated to feeling white hot anger in a matter of seconds

“A date?” He sputtered. “With who?”

“Some boy I met at the coffee shop.” You said weakly, knowing you were hurting him.

“Oh.” He said dully. 

“Some boy.” He thought angrily. “Some freaking dirty ass sissy coffee boy asked my girl out.”

Peter felt like hunting the man down and smacking the shit out of him. Or at the very least, webbing him to a wall leaving him there until he missed the date.

“What’s his name?” Peter asked suddenly, wanting to put a name to his new mortal enemy.

“Matt.” You nodded slowly.

“Freaking Matt.” Peter thought. “Freaking dirty ass bitch ass Matt. Was Matt Spider-Man? No. Could Matt treat you as well as I could? Probably. But did he like you as much? No. Did he have inside jokes with you? No. Could he make you laugh your beautiful laugh just by doing a Captain America impression? No. He wasn’t good enough for you. He couldn’t do the things I could do. He was trash. He was a trashy dirty ass rat boy.”

“Interesting.” Peter said, keeping his thoughts to himself.

“I’ll text you when it’s over and maybe I can help you then.” You offered. That sound okay, guapo?”

Peter nodded sadly, not even acknowledging that you called him handsome. Actually, he probably had no idea that you did. He was smart, but only in English.

“That’s fine.” He nodded glumly. “I’ll see you later.”

You watched Peter trudge into his apartment and felt a pain in your heart. He seemed so upset all the sudden. It couldn’t be from your date, could it? It’s not like you told him you got engaged or something. It was one little date. And it’s not like Peter even made a move. He had no reason to be upset. You brushed it off and went into your apartment to get ready.

Just as Venom predicted, the date went horribly wrong. You drove back to the apartment in silence afterwards, leaving Matt to clean himself off back at the restaurant.

“Why did that happen?” You asked her after a long drive in silence. You were mortified from the events of the night but you needed to know why they happened.

“Because he wasn’t your soulmate.” Venom said simply.

“We defiled that boy.”

“It happens.” Venom stated.

“It shouldn’t.” You said, shocked at how nonchalantly she was being.

“But it does.”

You rode the rest of the way in silence, shooting Peter a text before asleep on your couch. You woke up a few hours later in a cold sweat and in tears. You didn’t know it, but Peter was listening to your breathing from his apartment. He had picked up the small cries of his name in your sleep with his superhearing and stayed up to see if you were okay.

You weren’t, by the way. You had had a nightmare that shook you deeply and left you shaking. It was about Peter, but not in a good way. In this dream, he laid injured on the ground after a fight. You were separated from Venom and bleeding out near Peter. You couldn’t do anything to save him. You couldn’t scream for help. And worse, you couldn’t protect him. It caused you great agony to not be able to reach him.

Without giving it another thought, you got off your couch and made your way to the door. You needed to see Peter and tell him how you felt.

You didn’t care about your insecurities anymore. You didn’t care about all the things keeping you apart. You only cared about him, and that was enough. He needed to know that and you couldn’t wait another second.

You swung open your front door, only to find Peter Parker outside it in pink Hello Kitty pajama bottoms and a tight white t-shirt. His hand was raised, like he was about to knock.

“Hey.” you breathed. His hair was tousled and sticking up in random places. He looked heavenly.

“Hi.” He said shyly.

“I was just about to go to your door. I had a bad dream.” You told him. You were anxious to skip the semantics and cut right to the chase. 

The chase being, “I love you and I’m yours if you’ll have me.”

“Yeah, I heard. That’s why I’m here.” Peter explained. That’s not what he wanted to say. What he wanted to say was, “I’m always here if you need me. I’d go to the ends of the earth for you. I love you. It’ll be okay.”

Peter looked at you funny for a moment, like he was seeing something beneath the surface.

“She looks so beautiful.” He thought. Makeup free, hair a little messy, and nothing but an oversized sweatshirt to cover you. Peter recognized the sweatshirt as his own, one you had swiped from his laundry basket because you had been freezing while watching Alien in his room. He felt so honored to know that you slept in it. Peter wondered how many times he could fall in love with you in a short span of time. In the past few seconds, he’d fallen about 15 times. Once for every breath you took. And you were breathing quite heavily.

“You heard?” You asked, wondering how he

had possible heard from his apartment.

“My hearing is excellent.” He said quickly. “Are you alright?”

“Please be alright.” He thought. “I’d stop anything that tried to hurt you. I’ll protect you from the storm. Don’t shut me out. Don’t turn me away. Let me love you.”

“Um…” You trailed off and looked behind you at your empty apartment. The darkness looked anything but inviting. You couldn’t go back in there just yet.

“No?” It came out as more of a question.

“No? Do you want to talk about it-“ Peter was cut off when you rushed into his arm and hugged him tightly. He seemed taken aback, seeing as you nearly knocked the wind out of him. But as soon as he found his footing, he wrapped his strong arms around you and held you close. You relaxed in Peters embrace and let out a sigh.

“I had a nightmare.” You croaked. “You died and I couldn’t save you.” 

“I know. It’s okay. You’re awake now. I’m here.” Peter said soothingly. 

“I’ve been here the whole time.” He thought. “I will never abandon you. You are safe in my arms. Nothing can hurt you now. I won’t let it.”

You pulled away a little and looked at his face, seeing how tired it was.

“Would you stay with me?” You asked timidly. You didn’t want him to go. Not now, not ever.

“Always.” Peter answered with a smile. “As if I could ever leave you.”

Your lips lit up in a smile as your eyes fell to his lips. They lingered there for too long, or maybe just long enough. Peter took the hint and slipped his hand behind your neck and began to pull you closer. As your lips were about to touch, your door slammed, causing you to jump out of each other’s embrace.

“Shit balls.” You said immediately, letting out an annoyed sigh.

“What?” Peter asked, giggling a little at your choice of profanity.

“I just locked myself out.” You realized as you jiggled through door handle. Peter laughed louder this time and put a hand on your shoulder.

“Come on. You’re sleeping over.” He said, leading you back to his apartment with his hand on the small of his back.

You entered Peters room for the millionth time, but it felt the first time. Sure, you’d become good friends in the time you’ve lived in the building, but bedrooms were intimate places. The context of you being in Peters bedroom after going to him for comfort changes how you saw the place. After all, bedrooms were windows into the soul. Oh wait, that’s eyes. Still, the room was different. You didn’t feel like you were entering it. You felt like you were returning.

You looked around with a content smile on your face. He still had his academic decathlon posters on his wall, along with a few Avengers posters. Peter was pretty neat, but he was still a teenage boy. Socks and sweaters were strewn across the room. You saw him kicking a pair of boxers under his desk out of the corner of you eye. His room was so cute. It was so…Peter. You noticed a first aid kit on his desk next to his chemistry textbook and wondered what on earth he could be using it for.

“I’ve always liked your room.” You complimented as you touched a decathlon trophy on his dresser.

“Oh thank God.” Peter sighed in relief. “I thought you’d take one look at my nerdy ambiance and run.”

“Star Wars bedsheets?” You asked when you noticed the Death Star poking out under his duvet. You definitely hadn’t seen those before and found them endearing. Peters ears reddened and he fixed his duvet to cover them up.

“Those aren’t mine.” He said quickly.

“Are they Mays? As in May the force be with you?” You played along and he gave you a defeated smile.

“That was the worst thing anyone has ever said. Ever.” Peter joked. You laughed and he gave you a shy smile.

“Fine. They’re my bedsheets. Star Wars is cool, okay?” Peter defended. You took a seat on his bed and shrugged.

“You don’t have to explain anything to me Peter. I just didn’t know you were a loser, is all.”You said simply. Peter sat down on the bed next to you and rolled his eyes.

“Very funny. You’re the funniest person I know.” He said sarcastically. You nudged him with your elbow and he and hit you with a Yoda printed pillow.

“Mm. Good with the force you are.” You commented. Peter groaned loudly and told you to shut up.

“Enough playing around. How was your date?” Peter asked as he turned to face you. You could hear the pain in his voice and regretted ever telling him about the date.

“Oh, you know.” You shrugged. “Terrible.”

You weren’t going to let him off the hook that easy. If Peter really did like you and want to be with you, he needed to say it. He couldn’t just grumble and wallow in self pity when you were with another boy. You wanted to test him to see if he’d ever actually admit his feelings, but a part of you was still scared there were no feelings to admit to.

“Really?” He said excitedly. He cleared his throat to cover it up and grunted. “I mean, really?” He asked calmly.

“Yeah it was awful. I definitely won’t be seeing him again.” You sighed sadly, but you weren’t actually sad. You were just putting on a show for Peter. Peter bit the inside of his cheek to stop the smile from emerging.

“That’s terrible.” Peter lied. “What went wrong?”

His acting was equally as bad as your own. He had a shit eating grin on his face, pretending to be sad when he was clearly over the moon.

“It was going fine all night until the kiss.” You sighed dramatically, looking longingly out the window. You might as well have thrown yourself onto the balcony and cried out for Romeo. Peter, however, was buying every second of it.

“You guys kissed?” He asked, his voice heavy with disappointment. He looked miserable. All you wanted to do was throw your arms around his neck and tell him he was the only one for you. Instead, you kept your feelings to yourself and nodded slowly.

“Almost. He leaned in and…” instead of finishing your sentence, you just shrugged. You could tell Peter was on the edge of his seat so you dragged it as long as you could.

“And?” Peter practically begged. You let out another long, dramatic sigh as Peter took a slow sip of his water bottle.

“And I threw up on him.” You said simply. Peter spat out the water in his mouth and burst out laughing, doing his best to cover it up. You gave him a fake angry look but ended up laughing as well.

“What?” Peter laughed.

“He was such a tool.” You whined. “He talked down to me the entire night and then had the audacity to try and kiss me. I don’t know what happened but all the sudden he was leaning in and I was throwing up. He deserved it though. He treated me like was an idiot. I’m almost glad I threw up on him.”

Peters was overjoyed. He was about to say something when we heard a straggled cry of your name.

You and Peter rushed to his peephole and saw a familiar blonde haired boy standing in the hallway.

There he was, Matt, outside your apartment door with his phone on full volume playing “Hungry Eyes” from Dirty Dancing.

“What the actual hell?” You wondered out loud. “I better get rid of him.”

“Y/nnnnnn. I’m sorry I was a jerk.” Matt slurred. “Please talk to me. I told the doorman we were cousins. Then I told the elevator guy that I was your husband. You may need to move now. Y/nnnn.”

“You definitely can’t go out there.” Peter shook his head. “He could have a knife.”

“Or worse.” You whispered, making Peter looked at you fearfully. “He could have the same loser bedsheets you do.”

Peter scrunched his nose at you and picked up you swiftly to threw you onto the couch.

“Since when are you so strong?” You laughed in shock. Peter shrugged and held out a hand.

“Let’s go to bed.” He said. You raised an eyebrow and he quickly added, “In a non-sexual, platonic way.”

He was always so cautious of offending you or making you uncomfortable. You appreciated how much of a gentleman he was and knew Aunt May had implemented those qualities in him.

“You can take the bed.” He offered. “I’ll sleep on the couch. Let me know if you need anything.”

You nodded and climbed into his bed, patting the the space next to you.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” You told him. “Get in.”

Peter looked at you with wide eyes, looking very unsure of himself as he toyed with the hem of his shirt.

He was torn. He wanted to get into the bed, but he also knew you were vulnerable right now and he didn’t want to take advantage of you. He didn’t want to do anything you’d end up regretting in the morning.

“Get in, in a non-sexual, platonic way.” You added. Peter relaxed but stayed standing. You pretended to splash Peter and twirled your hand around the bedsheets as if they were water.

“Come on in Parker. The waters warm.” You said in a low voice.

“I am…repulsed.” Peter deadpanned. In reality, he was dying to get in the bed. He wasn’t gonna try anything, he just wanted to feel you close. He wanted to comfort you and take the pain of the night away. Finally, he got into the bed and pulled the covers up. He shut off his lamp and we fell into comfortable silence.

“Good night, Peter.” You whispered, turning your back to him and cuddling into his pillow.

“Night, Y/n.” He whispered back. You felt his eyes on the back of your neck still. He didn’t want to close them and fall asleep. He wanted to stay in this moment as long as he could.

You soon felt hesitant arms wrap around your waist. Peter was very unsure of himself and kept his hands loosely on your hips, barely touching. You turned your neck around and looked at him quizzically.

“What the hell are you doing?” You demanded. His hands flew off your waist and his eyes widened with fear. He looked so apologetic, you thought he might cry.

“Do you not know how to cuddle?” You asked before he could blurt out an apology. You grabbed his arms and pulled them tightly around your body. You held his hands in your own, flush against your chest. Peter felt really tense at first and a bit stiff, but he soon relaxed and nestled into your hair.

“You smell really good.” He muttered. You laughed softly against his body, prompting Peter to hold you even tighter.

“I’ve wanted this for so long, Y/N.” He whispered. He said it so quietly, you figured he thought you had fallen asleep. “Sweet dreams.”

You woke up the next morning in Peter Parker’s arms. Subsequently, you wanted to wake up every morning for the rest of your life in Peter Parker’s arms. You were a mess of tangled limbs and hair but you found yourself firmly in his embrace, inhaling his cologne.

Peters eyes fluttered open suddenly and you were nose to nose.

“Hi.” You said softly, a playful smile resting on your lips. He was so pretty in the morning. He didn’t even have to try.

“Hey.” He chuckled. “This is new.”

“It is new. Is it okay?” You asked him, not wanting to overstep his boundaries.

“Is waking up next to the actual sun okay?” He teased. “Uh yea, Y/n. It’s okay. You can sleep over anytime you like if it means more mornings like this.”

Of course he said that. He held all your strings and knew just how to tug them.

“Did you really not enjoy that date?” He whispered, but in his head thought, “Do you want to be with anyone else?”

You didn’t know why he was whispering, but the look in his eyes told you he was dead serious.

“Not in the slightest.” You answered honestly. What you wanted to say was, “Because it wasn’t with you.”, but you didn’t.

“Would you…would you want to go out with me sometime?” He asked shyly. “I promise I won’t throw up on you.”

He said the second part as if it was the only way you’d say yes to the date, which made you laugh.

“Peter Parker, I have waited exactly 64 days for you to ask me that question and you just had to ruin it by promising you won’t throw up on me?” You playfully scolded as Peters eyes lit up.

“Is that a yes?” He asked excitedly.

“It’s a yes.” You nodded, holding his nearest hand. “It’s always been a yes.”

“Can I-“ He began.

“Don’t ask.” You whispered. “Just do it.”

Peter leaned in slowly and you did the same. His lips had just ghosted yours when Aunt May knocked on the door. He bolted out of bed as you sat up.

“Breakfast is ready. Did you clean your room?” Aunt May called from the other side of the door.

“Yes.” Peter called back. You looked around. No he didn’t

“No you didn’t.” She said knowingly. She didn’t even have to see his room to know it wasn’t clean.

“I’ll clean it after.” He groaned.

“I’m coming in.” She said suddenly, making you and Peter look at each other in fear.

“Don’t! I’m naked.” He screamed.

“Fine. But it better be clean after breakfast. And put some clothes on. You should not be naked at 7 am.” Aunt May said. You heard her footsteps walking away and knew it was safe to speak. You got out of Peters bed as he got up to lock the door, his back still to you as he did it.

“Alright.” He sighed. “That should buy us some ti-“

The second he turned around, he was met with your lips on his. You had your hands on the sides of his face and your head tilted to the left. You felt Peters eyes flutter shut as his eyelashes tickled your cheeks. He was frozen at first, but slowly wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you closer. You melted into him and he melted right back into you. The kiss was short and sweet, but absolutely perfect.

When you pulled away, Peter gave you the softest eyes ever. A grateful smile was on his lips.

“I am so over these interrupted moments.” You laughed softly as you shook your head. Peters eyes twinkled in agreement. The sun was coming through the window and made his brown eyes look like pots of honey. You could stare at them forever.

And then he kissed you again, with confidence this time. He wasn’t ready for the last one since you caught him off guard. You let your fingers tangle in the messy curls at the back of his neck, something you thought you’d only get to dream of doing. Peter groaned slightly into your mouth as you tugged on his hair, indicating that he liked it. He put his hand under your neck and slipped his toungue in your mouth. Who knew Peter Parker knew how to kiss? He tasted like morning breath, spearmint chapstick, and something you could only identify as being exclusively Peter. When you pulled apart, he looked up at the sky and sighed.

“If I wake up and this is all a dream I’m going to fight you.” He said menacingly.

“Did you just threaten God?” You laughed.

“For you? Anthing. I’ll fight anyone for your honor. Our Lord and Savior can catch these hands can square up.” He promised.

“You’ve gone to far.” You joked. “We need to break up.”

“Don’t even joke. I’ve waited too long for this.” Peter said as he wrapped his arms around you.

“I’m only teasing. I’ve waited my whole life for you Parker. I’m never letting you go.” You told him. He burst out in a smile and kissed you swiftly, then promptly got down on one knee.

“Will you please be mine, darling? Officially?” He pleaded softly. There was so much hope in his eyes so you pretended to think about it.

“Sorry.” You shrugged. “I’m pretty busy with Matt.”

Peter stood up and gripped your hips, pulling you closer while you let out a small gasp.

“I never want to hear his name again. He had the privilege of taking my girl on a date and treated her poorly?” He raised an eyebrow. “He’s a deadman if I ever see him around here. Now, I need you to tell me you’re my girlfriend before my heart explodes. Tell me you’re mine. I won’t believe it until you say it. ”

You nodded yes as you wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed his lips.

“Peter Parker, I always have, and always will be, yours.”

[sundaysundaes]

My Words, Your Thoughts (Teaser)

Lee Donghyuck/Haechan X Reader | Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Smut | Soulmate AU, Friends-to-Lovers AU

Part of the beautiful ‘Aubade’ collaboration hosted by @hyucksie​

Synopsis: As an introvert, you are familiar with the silence. Drowning yourself deep in your thoughts has been a habit you’ve become addicted to. Your life begins to change, however, ever since the day you turned twenty. Suddenly, there’s this song that’s stuck in your head, and no matter how much you yearn to hear your thoughts or be comforted by the silence, it keeps on playing. You only get to find the answer to your problem when a young, cute barista hands you a cup of coffee one day, with that song’s lyrics written on the side. And you realize that you’re not the only one who’s been hearing voices in your head.

Warnings: explicit sex, expletives, mentions of physical abuse and astraphobia (not for the main characters)

WC (Teaser): 4k

Release Date: June 27, 2021, 10 AM KST

It’s weird. It’s so weird.

It’s weird that you’ve been hearing this song replaying over and over again in your head when you’re sure you’ve never listened to it before. It’s also weird because sometimes the song sounds like the ones you often hear about on the radio—complete with instrumental accompaniment and everything—but most of the time, it just sounds like someone is humming to it. Sometimes quietly, but more often than not, vehemently like they’re having a concert in the shower, not caring if the neighbors might hear.

As someone who rarely listens to mainstream music, you don’t keep up with the trend these days but the tunes are catchy enough that you think, maybe, it’s one of those Justin Bieber’s songs people always talk about. You’re not fond of it, though, so even if you’ve heard it somewhere in a cafe or a mall, there’s very little chance you’ll be humming it in your head.

And yet, it keeps on playing.

It gets worse when it goes on for a whole day—a whole fucking day—that your brain feels like it’s seconds away from bursting into pieces. It doesn’t even sound like your voice. It seems like it belongs to a male, a bit light and a pitch higher than most. Though it sounds pleasant, the voice is unfamiliar to your ears and that’s what bothers you the most. 

Trying your best to escape, you plug in your AirPods to your earholes, choosing one of the most beloved tracks from your playlist—today, it’s Bloom by The Paper Kites—to help you relax as you lie down on your bed. But no matter how many times you turn up the volume—it’s practically turning you deaf, ironically—you can still hear that one goddamn song playing.

“Oh my God,” you groan, projecting a murderous glare at the ceiling of your room before you shriek all of your heart’s content to your pillow. “Make it stop!”

This has been going on ever since your twentieth birthday and it’s been three months since then—three months of suffering, to be exact. Fortunately for you, you haven’t been listening to the same song for those amount of time—God, you would’ve killed yourself if that was the case. The song changes without warning. It can change ten times within a day, or stay the same for ten days. You have never heard of these songs except for the popular ones, and even then, you only ever listened to snippets as they don’t suit your taste. 

So… It doesn’t make sense that you could recite the whole lyrics, does it? 

And yet, you can. 

Somehow, you already know every word, every tune, even every ad-lib in these songs and it both amazes and creeps you out. It’s as if somebody else is singing about it in their mind, and you, somehow, are mentally connected to them.

But that’s surely not the case, right?

With more days passing by, as your brain deteriorates little by little, you start to think that maybe that is the case.

Or maybe you’re just going crazy.

It’s nine in the morning and your eyes are bleary from how you involuntarily skipped sleep last night. With the loudest sigh and your half-charged MacBook sitting still in your backpack, you let your wobbly legs carry you to the nearest coffee shop. There’s a new Starbucks store opening just a couple of blocks away from your apartment and it’s perfect since you’re going to pass it every day on your way to college. 

You’re not excited though, not when you have Michael Jackson’s Man in The Mirror playing in your head for the, approximately, thirty-fifth time that day. And it’s only nine in the fucking morning.

When you enter the coffee shop, greeted by a cute Christmas tree and festive decorations spreading all over the place even when it’s still three weeks away from the holiday, you almost weep in joy when the song stops playing in your head. It does happen from time-to-time, sometimes it stops for a few hours before it starts again with the same song or an entirely different one. But in most cases, it only pauses for a few minutes which just doubles the torture whenever you’re trying to concentrate on your paperwork.

“Hi.” You display a timid smile at a female barista, slightly wincing when the song in your head starts blaring again, as expected. It’s still the same song this time—so that thirty-sixth by now, Jesus Christ—but instead of someone humming it, it’s the original version that plays. You’re having trouble focusing on her greeting when the sound of a synthesizer echoes through your ear, stridently so. “I would like a tall skinny latte with a double shot, please.”

“Would you like anything else to accompany your drink?”

Perhaps a gun to blow my head off? “No, thanks. That’d be all for me.”

“Is that for here or to go?”

You take a quick scan of your surroundings. You still have an hour before your first class starts and since the place isn’t that crowded, you figure you might as well just spend some time here. “For here.”

You tell her your name and slide down your card to complete the payment. “All right. We will call your name once your order is ready.”

“Fantastic. Thanks.” As the female barista takes an order from another customer, you drag yourself to an empty seat in the corner of the room, next to the glassy window where you can glance at passersby. You lay your head down on the table, cheek pressed against the wooden surface, lower lip jutting out in weariness. You’re drowsy and you want to think about the snow that’s probably gonna fall sometimes near Christmas’ Day and maybe the sight of a warm fireplace where you can cozy up with your imaginary boyfriend (also known as Jung Jaehyun—that one perfect boy who lives just across of your hallway), but no, unfortunately for you, you no longer have any space left in your brain since Michael Jackson is performing a damn concert and it doesn’t seem like he’s gonna stop anytime soon.

“I’m starting with the man in the mirror…” Great, now you’re singing it. “I’m asking him to change his ways…”

The music in your head abruptly stops again but before you can close your eyes to finally enjoy your silence, a familiar voice chimes in.

“It’s a great song, isn’t it?”

Shocked, you quickly lift your head to identify a male barista placing down a cup of your ordered latte on your table. You swear you recognize his voice but his face doesn’t ring a bell.

“Hi,” he greets, smiling a bit sheepishly. “I don’t usually bring orders directly to the table but I think I misheard your name so I couldn’t call you out from there.”

“That’s, umm, that’s okay…” You hide the bottom half of your face behind your scarf as you’re not used to talking to a stranger, especially one that looks overwhelmingly pretty. “What did you think my name was?”

“Umm…” He rubs the back of his nape awkwardly. “I don’t think you want to know. It was a bit… inappropriate.”

“R-right…” You glance at the cup. “It says ‘Michael.’”

He chuckles but with only a slight hint of amusement in it. “Yeah, sorry about that. I had to come up with something and it was the first thing that came to mind.”

“And it has…” Your eyes widen when you notice the words he’s written on the side of your cup. It’s not a greeting, it’s not a motivational sentence, it’s the fucking lyrics to Michael Jackson’s Man in The Mirror.

“Yeah, okay, so—” Noticing the appalled look on your face, he hurriedly tries to reason out. “I’ve had this song stuck in my head all day long—I just listened to it a minute ago while making your order—and the lyrics are just so inspirational so I decided to write that down. I hope that’s not too weird.” Then he laughs a little, a tad more genuinely this time. “But I heard you singing that song just now. What are the chances, right?”

You swallow hard. He’s been thinking about that song too? Listened to it a minute ago? What are the chances of this is happening? Is he the one whose voices I’ve been hearing in my head—

The male barista abruptly takes a step back, his tray nearly slipping out of his hold. He has a hand pressed against his ear, eyes blinking several times in disbelief. “Holy shit.”

“Excuse me?”

“You—” He splutters, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “I can’t believe it’s real.”

“What?” The way he seems like he’s looking at a ghost sends goosebumps all over your skin. “What is it?”

“Think about something.” 

“Umm—” What is he talking about?

This time he gapes, his jaw dropping low. “Holy shit, I can really hear you. Think about something else—think about me.”

“Look, I don’t know you and you’re being weird.” The sudden change of conversation baffles you but when his words sink in, you can’t stop yourself from thinking about him as he orders. He’s cute, his entire features are cute—you’ve noticed that from the first second you laid your eyes on him, but what catches your eyes the most is his lips—the way they’re shaped so beautifully, like a cupid’s bow—

“You’re thinking about my lips? Seriously?” He asks, but might as well splash cold water to your face. “If you said something about my eyes, sure, I mean, they are attractive. One might even say that God Himself took the stars from the sky and put them in my eyes—but my lips? Huh, that’s new.”

You loudly gasp when you’re finally aware of the situation, hands flying to your face to cover your gaping mouth. “You can hear my thoughts!”

“And you can hear mine too!” He points out, and as startled as you are from the previous realization, you instantly frown upon his words. 

“I don’t think so,” you reply. “I can only hear—”

“Donghyuck-ah!” Another barista comes to interrupt from the other side of the room. “We didn’t pay you to flirt, come back here!”

“I wasn’t flirting!” He shouts back, tips of his ears reddening. When he turns to you again, he has a prominent scowl on his face which makes you squirm on your feet. “We need to talk about this. My break is in an hour, do you think you can wait?”

It sounds more like an order than a request. “B-but I have a class in an hour.”

“Skip it.”

It takes all the strength in your body to be brave enough to retort back with, “Why don’t you skip your work?”

“I’m already half-done with my work, I can’t bail out now.” He rolls his eyes. Suddenly, his courteousness just vanishes without a trace. “Look, I’ve been hearing your thoughts for months now and I have a lot to complain to you about.”

You grimace. “It’s not like I can control my thoughts—”

“I know, I’m not blaming you.” He picks up the tray, his gaze softening but only slightly. “I just want to complain. You’ve been driving me crazy these past few months.”

You glance away, pouting. Wow, he surely knows how to befriend a stranger.

“I can hear you, you know.” He sighs as if talking to you is exhausting, when it should be the other way around. “Look, I’m sure you’ve been going through the same thing. Don’t you want this to stop?”

You’re not wasting any second. “Yes, please.”

“Then wait for me. We’ll talk this through.” He pivots on his heels, his tray glued to his side. When you can finally breathe properly, exhausted from the social interaction as you sink back to your seat, the barista—Donghyuck—adds, “Oh, as you wait. Can you please stop thinking about my lips? Or just how cute I am in general? It’s sweet but I gotta concentrate so I won’t write another Michael on my next order.”

You slam your forehead down the table, face aflame. “I-I’ll try.”

“Thanks.”

***

“You just can’t stop thinking about my lips, can you?” Is the first thing Donghyuck states out as soon as he’s approached your table. He runs a hand through his brown hair, which looks out-worldly fluffy that you begin to wonder what kind of hair product he’s been using. “Or my hair.”

Mortified, you mumble out, “I’m sorry,” with half of your face covered by your hands. The more I try not to think about his lips, the more I do—shit, is he hearing this too—

“Yes,” Donghyuck says, but this time with an amused smile. “Man, I didn’t know my lips were that appealing to ladies. You’re gonna make me blush.”

Well, he’s making you blush for sure. “Would it be too much to ask for you to stop listening to my thoughts?”

“Believe me, woman, I’ve tried.” He groans, taking his apron off before he sits in front of you. He loosens up his collar, unbuttoning two buttons of his white shirt—which is two more than necessary to your liking—and you have to gaze away before another thought forms inside your head about a certain part of his body. 

“Sorry if I came on too strong before. I’m Lee Donghyuck,” he introduces formally, offering you his hand. You reply with your name but you’re reluctant to shake his hand since you’re sure you’re breaking into a cold sweat, and an overly sweaty palm doesn’t really scream attractive—

“It’s literally just a handshake,” he says, stifling down a laugh. “I’m not gonna start judging you about it. You’re cute, sweaty palms or not.”

You nearly choke. “If I can’t ask you to stop listening to my thoughts, can you please be quiet about them?”

“That’s also impossible since talking is an integral part of my charm.” He leans back to his chair. “I’m pretty good with my mouth.”

That was… a poor choice of words, you think, as you stare at his lips and can’t help but wonder what can that mouth do other than talking. You take a bite of the bagel you just ordered, desperately trying to avert your attention.

“It wasn’t a poor choice of words.” He winks. “I did mean that in every way possible.”

This time, you really are choking.

“Okay, so what’s happening to us?” Donghyuck questions, after you manage to shed a tear or two during your attempt in relieving your throat. “Why have I been hearing your thoughts? I don’t even know you.”

“Same here.” You’re still going through a hard time keeping eye contact with him, but with more seconds passing by—and him pronouncing every bit of your thoughts out in the open—the knots inside your chest begin to loosen. “Ever since I turned twenty, I’ve been hearing these songs playing in my head that I’d never even heard of.”

“Never heard of?” Donghyuck snorts. “What, you never listen to Billboard’s top forty?”

You weakly shrug. “I prefer indie music better. Or instrumentals.”

“I would say that you have a soul of an old lady but the way you’ve been thinking about my lips reminds me of my sister who’s going through puberty.”

“Okay, this isn’t fair.” You shake your head, ashamed and tired of being humiliated over something you can’t fix. “Why can you hear my thoughts but I can’t hear yours?”

“Believe me, you’re much better off this way.” His face contorts in pain which makes you feel somewhat sorry if he’s not constantly being an ass about it. Hearing your insult, he notes, “Also, I’d prefer to be called with terms of endearment in the future, if that’s okay with you. Something like Babe or Darling.” The way he raises his eyebrow is just strictly illegal. “And in return, I’ll call you Sweetheart.” But before you can say anything—or run toward a running bus to put an end to this endless humiliation—he questions, “Wait, when you hear the songs I’ve been thinking in my head, does it sound like the original version of the song, or like me singing it?”

Finally, a proper conversation. “If you’re listening to the actual music, I can hear the original song as if I’m hearing it through my headphones. But when you’re just thinking about it, well, I‘ve never heard you sing, but,” you decide to tease him back—which startles you from how blatant you’re being. “From how amateur and pitchy this voice sounded in my head, I think I’ve been hearing yours.”

“Cute.” He scrunches up his nose. “Okay, let’s try again. Can you hear what song running through my head now?”

You stiffen, sitting in silence. After a few seconds pass by with only you exchanging stern stares at each other, your eyes gleam with a spark of hope. “Wait, I can’t hear you. Does this mean it stops? Because we’ve met in person?”

“Sadly no, because I was just thinking about how silly you looked when you choked over your food earlier.” He chuckles to himself and sends you another wink when you degrade him in your head. “Okay, let’s try again.”

“For real this time?”

“For real this time, Sweetheart.” He closes his eyes, holding back a smile when he catches how you flinch a little at his pet name for you. This time, you really do hear him humming inside your mind. “Don’t tell me by words,” he immediately adds, “Just think about them.”

Heaving a sigh, you close your eyes too. I’ve heard this song somewhere.

“If you’ve never heard about this song, I will literally cry and apologize to the world on your behalf.”

Be quiet, please, I’m trying to concentrate.

“Worried that you’d be thinking about my lips again?”

You almost fall from your seat. Almost. Okay, you’re singing to… You knit your eyebrows together as you provide your best effort to remember the tunes. You’re singing to Super Mario Bros theme song?

“Correct.” He taps his fingers to the table, simpering. “This is actually pretty cool. We can be, like, partners in crime or something.”

You shudder. “Please don’t tell me you’re an actual criminal.”

“If looking this handsome is a crime then I am, yes. Guilty as charged.” He makes a kissy face when you think about throwing the rest of your bagel to his head. “You look like someone who writes fan-fiction about their idols having sappy first kisses in your spare time but you’re actually pretty wild in your head, aren’t you?” He loves seeing your reactions, you know that, so you give your all in trying to act nonchalant. “Now, let’s try again. Did you bring your headphones with you?”

You check your coat’s pocket. “I got my AirPods.”

“Perfect. Put them on and play something from your phone.” As someone who’s pretty carefree, he can get serious at times. “Play as loud as you can until you feel like you’re going deaf.”

“I’ve tried that many times.” You nearly wail at the memory. “But it’s hard to drown your voice since it comes from inside my head.”

“Yeah, I know that. I’ve been hearing your thoughts too, remember? Don’t you think I would at least try something like that?” You narrow your eyes menacingly at him but he simply waves you off. “Anyway, that’s not what I’m trying to do. Put them on and you’ll see.”

He’s ordering you around. He just met you and he’s ordering you around. Socializing with people in general already zaps your energy pretty quickly, so socializing with a brat—

“I’ll grow on you, don’t worry.” He smirks and you take a mental note to really learn how to control your thoughts this time.

You follow his lead, as requested, connecting your AirPods to your phone and play something relaxing—because God knows how desperately you need it—as loudly as you can bear. Okay, go try… whatever it is that you want to try.

He smiles and shifts slightly on his seat, facing the window. His eyes glimmer under the light when he parts his lips, mouthing some words—no, singing something that you can’t hear.

Wait. I can’t hear?

Donghyuck glances at you, a grin breaking further on his lips upon hearing your thought. He gestures to you to take your AirPods away and you nod. Vacation Manor’s You promptly fades as his voice enters, and it’s weird because you’ve heard him sing in your head so many times yet it doesn’t do justice to how beautiful he sounds in real life.

It’s almost angelic, the sound he makes, which is kind of ironic for a little devil that he is. His honeyed voice is soothing, almost like the patter of rain on your window at dawn, lulling you back to sleep. You’re no expert in music but to you, he sounds impeccable that you run out of words to describe how pleasant his voice is to your ears. It’s so distinct, soulful—

Donghyuck giggles. “Thanks.”

—and annoying. “Okay, so what happened?” You try to divert the topic. “I can’t hear you when you’re singing out loud, but I can hear it when you’re thinking about a song?”

“I guess so.” He furrows his eyebrows, deep within his thoughts. “I figured it out when I couldn’t hear your thoughts whenever you spoke out loud. I think we can work from this?”

“So instead of thinking about what I have to say, I should focus more on saying what I want to say?” You shake in horror. “I don’t think I can do that.”

“What, you don’t like talking?”

“I’m…” You swallow your breath. “I’m not really good at that.”

“You’re talking to me just fine now, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, because you make it so easy.”

“Aaw,” he purrs, a lopsided smile painting his face. “Thanks, Sweetheart.”

“No.” You hold up a hand. “I mean, since you can hear my thoughts, I have no other choice but to speak. Also, you seem like you’re the type who just says whatever that comes to mind without worrying too much about my feelings—”

“Hey, now you’re just making me sound rude—”

“You are rude,” You emphasize. “But it works well with me because then I don’t have to hold myself back and pretend to be somebody else.”

“Why do you have to pretend?” He frowns. “Because you’re afraid people are gonna hate you? Judge you on your words?”

“It’s…” You look away, nibbling on your bottom lip. “I just… I’m trying to be a good person so people will like me—”

“I like you,” he says casually as if he was talking about having a cute Pomeranian as a pet, and there you are, almost fainting in your seat. “I mean, in the last forty minutes I’ve known you, I think you’re great the way you are. You don’t have to be good, you just have to be you.” He shifts closer, crossing his arms on the table, and lays his chin on them, gazing up at you with a soft smile that doesn’t match well with his previous attitude. “Don’t you think it’s great if people accept you the way you are?”

You hurriedly take a sip of your coffee, pretending to swallow even if it’s already empty. “You’re… not so bad yourself.”

“What was that?”

“Okay, well I think I should go.” There’s no way you’re gonna repeat that. Donghyuck titters, taking a hold of your wrist when you’re about to stand up from your seat.

“We still have loads to talk about.” You observe the way his fingers linger around your arm, his sun-kissed skin feels silky smooth against your own. “Why don’t we have lunch together? My treat?”

“D-don’t you have work to do?”

“I’ll make an excuse.” 

A barista with the word Jeno written on his name tag walks by and slaps Donghyuck on the back of his head as if it’s something he’s done on a daily basis—probably is. “You’re not going anywhere, asswipe, get back to work.”

When the brunette boy turns to you, he winces. “Or maybe you can give me your number so we can meet up later?”

***

A/N: I’m both nervous and excited for this as this is my first collaboration. Thank you so much, Denise, for having me on this wonderful collab!

[meetmymouth]

your lips, my lips... apocalypse (harry styles imagine)

warnings: smut... fingering pregnant reader (thats your summary i guess lmao) word count: 4k+ this is for @majorharry‘s ‘20k fic celebration’ and the prompts i’ve chosen are ‘your hands are soft’ and ‘stop looking at me like that’. i hope you like it. 

It’s magnificent, he thinks.

It’s the way the raised skin is peeking out from the bubbles, all shiny and inviting for his hands. He wants to reach out and touch the dampened bump, follow the barely-there trail of hair with his fingers down her belly only to find the rare, soft part of the bump, and rub the skin there while she laughs and tries to push his hands off of her. It looks breathtaking; in fact, she looks breathtaking. Her head resting on a bath pillow, eyes closed, twitching like a butterfly shivering its wings. Her skin glimmering, almost sparkling like the waves in the ocean when sunlight hits them. When his eyes fall to the bump once again, he realises the little baby growing inside and the hot air of the bathroom are to blame.

He comes closer, his gaze shifting from her face to the two large candles placed on the corner of the bathtub, eyes catching how the flames keep dancing as if they too are in awe of the glowing creature before them. Just like Harry, it’s as if they can’t believe she’s given them the opportunity to witness something so special, so exquisite. When his bare feet reach the mat in front of the bathtub, she‘s already stroking her belly, delicate fingers rubbing every inch of the bump, especially the sides where there’s a prominent bulging.

“Sneaking up on me?” she murmurs, eyes still closed.

Kneeling on the floor, he puts his arms on either side of the bathtub, and scrunches his nose at the sweet smell of peaches and vanilla. He turns his face towards the large window which is now letting the cool summer air enter the room. “The June moon. Burning pure champagne,” he murmurs back at her, and she opens her eyes. When she doesn’t reply, his smile grows. “If I were her I’d be envious of you too.”

“Come close, wanna smell your breath.”

He dips his index finger into the soapy water and splashes her. “Am not high.”

It’s dead silent for a minute, only little ‘plinks’ of dripping water and faint noises of cars coming and going outside can be heard. As she tries finding a better position for her head, rubbing it on the wet bath pillow, he keeps his gaze focused on her face, mostly the tiny droplets of water on her forehead as they make their way down to her flushed cheeks.

Over the last few weeks, her face had started gaining a bit more weight, her cheeks becoming fuller than usual and despite her loathing her ‘chubby’ cheeks, she looked ethereal. Whenever they complimented her ‘pregnancy glow’ though, she would pout and immediately show her swollen fingers and feet, and say ‘look at my face, do my chubby cheeks scream glowy to you?’. And to Harry, they did. They screamed everything beautiful to Harry. He, as selfish as it sounds, wanted her all to himself during her pregnancy.

Of course she’s always been beautiful. He’s never been a shallow man but whenever he looked at her, just doing the most mundane things, like doing the laundry, making tea or shaving the peach fuzz on her face, he felt his chest tighten. He felt proud, so proud that she allowed him into her bubble everyday. He felt like she was so out of his league. Fuck what the tabloids say, fuck what Twitter says; she was way out of his league. His feelings only ended up intensifying during her pregnancy. He wanted to be the only one who saw her, who heard her voice, who got to hug and give her kisses. As absurd as it sounded, he felt like a jealous, territorial dog protecting its owner.

Now, looking at her naked form surrounded by bubbles in the tub, he feels the familiar pain in his chest, as if his rib cage has been squeezing his heart so tight that any moment now, blood would come out of his mouth. His heart feels like a quivering branch a bird has just left behind, shaking, but never empty. So full of love, adrenaline, and as warm as the first mould wine of the year.

When she tries to sit up in the tub, he stands up and reaches for her. “Let me help,” he whispers, hands going under her armpits to secure her in the slippery tub. “There. You comfortable? I’m surprised the water’s still warm.”

“Come in?” she asks with sleepy eyes and a tiny smile.

“I’m huge, I don’t want to make you guys uncomfortable.”

“Please? I miss baths with you, just come in.”

He starts from his trousers, then his t-shirt, and then peels off his briefs. They both can’t help but notice his semi as it gets freed from the fabric, growing more and more at the sight in front of him. He can’t help but get excited at the sight of his girlfriend’s growing belly, the stretch marks appearing on both sides of it from carrying something, someone so special. As he dips his right foot first, then left in the water, his eyes fall to her full breasts, wanting to reach out and rub the darker nubs softly knowing they might feel tender to touch. Her beautiful nipples are facing downwards, slightly touching the sides of her stomach since her bump is getting bigger and bigger everyday.

“Budge up. Here, I’ll help you,” he mumbles as he tries to help her slide forward in the tub just to make space for him behind her. It takes some effort but they finally find the right position, all thanks to the spacious bathtub.

When he’s fully seated behind her and is sure that she’s also comfortable, especially with the added weight of her bump, he sighs and presses a kiss to the side of her forehead. “You smell nice.”

She lets out a breath through her nose, “Mm, thank you. You do too.”

“I’m sweaty, I doubt I smell nice.”

“I like your musk. So hot,” she lets out a sweet giggle and Harry groans, squeezing her shoulders.

When she tilts her head back, their eyes meet. Harry’s pupils get dilated, his hold on her shoulders tighter. He watches her close her eyes, inhale the sweet, floral scent as his hands follow the length of her arms until they reach her hands, intertwining their hands. Her hands are wet and warm, almost as warm as a concrete that’s been swallowing all the early afternoon sunshine. But then again, he thinks, maybe it’s just the excitement seeping through his pores, spreading onto his hands, then mixing in with hers. When he shifts his gaze from their hands to the side of her face, his dimples become larger. She’s humming a song ever so quietly, presumably one he’s never heard of, as she rubs the soft web of skin between his thumb and index finger.

When she tries to reposition one of her legs, Harry becomes alarmed. “You okay? Do you need me to move?”

“No, I’m good,” thumb still rubbing his skin delicately. “My knee was getting cold,” her hand must feel warmer now that it’s completely underwater as she hums quietly, presumably at the warm feeling.

He hums and presses a kiss to her head, the wet hair dampening his lips slightly. Licking his lips, his eyes catch the sight of her boobs again and he feels his cock twitch at the sight. They had sex while she was pregnant. Lots of times. He’s always been careful with her but it only intensified during her pregnancy, especially during sex, and anything that involved her body. He loved making her feel good, whether it be sexual; fingering her, eating her sweet cunt out... or non sexual like giving her massages, massaging her swollen feet, helping her shave the areas she can’t reach… he’s always been happy to make her happy. But at the sixth month mark, things had started to shift in the bedroom. Now, Harry doesn’t care if he gets some as long as his heart and soul, his girl and their baby are happy and healthy. He doesn’t mind not waking up to her between his legs, sucking him off like her life depended on it. He’s okay with not having mind blowing sex 24/7 or being able to lift her up, part her legs and fuck her without giving her any warning.

But right now, at this moment, her soft and wet skin resting against his front, and her lower back slightly touching his pubic bone, these are all making it hard to keep his thoughts pure. He knows she can feel it, the growing bulge, by the way she keeps pressing her back further into his front and when he looks down, he sees her mouth curl upwards. Without much thought, he unlinks their fingers and brings them to her neck, gently pushing back a few wet strands of hair. “You’re warm,” he rests his hands on her collarbones. Her skin feels like the warm spot on the bed that she leaves behind on Thursday mornings, leaving Harry no choice but to cuddle into it more and more until he gets sweaty.

She tilts her head back and a fond look appears on her face, features all soft, eyes all sleepy. “You smell like strawberries,” she says, voice all soft, dripping with honey and lullabies and all things soft and good. “I wanna…” she puts her hand on his which are still caressing her collarbones, “…wanna eat youuuu.”

“Did you want strawberries, hm? Why didn’t you tell me earlier, I could pop to the shops and get you some, baby.”

She shakes her head and presses a kiss on his hand, “Ssh, it’s fine, just keep lovin’ on me.”

And he does. Of course he does. He takes her hand in his and brings it to his lips, careful not to bend her arm too much, and peppers little kisses on her warm and damp skin. When she lets out a satisfied hum, his other hand travels down to her breasts and caresses one of them, just the upper side of it, careful not to do anything that would make her uncomfortable.

“You like that, baby?” his hand makes its way to her nipple, all hard and swollen, asking for Harry’s attention. “You want more?”

A low moan leaves her parted mouth as Harry keeps rubbing the nipple with his thumb, giving it a gentle squeeze as if he’s just testing the waters, wanting to make sure he’s not hurting her already swollen boobs. As he keeps squeezing and tweaking the hardened nub, he takes a look at her face, sees her eyes all closed and he knows she’s already wet. He knows because he remembers her ob-gyn mentioning the ever-rising oestrogen and progesterone hormone levels during pregnancy and how these can make her feel… well, horny and aroused, at least more than usual. He slowly retracts his other hand from her neck and makes his way down to her slightly parted legs that are barely visible surrounded by the bubbles.

She nods and lifts up her head. When her nose touches his chin, the touch makes her smile. 

“What do you want, baby? Tell me,” he utters, grip tightening on her left thigh. His breath hits her neck and she lets out another hum, her own hand finding itself on his that is placed on her thigh, fingers interlocking immediately.

“Touch me.” 

“Touch you? Mm,” he squeezes the warm, hot flesh, her own fingers curling around his with the movement. “I’m already touching you, sweetheart.”

She takes her hand off of his and brings it up to his chin, fingers curling around it and making contact with his stubble first, then the scar under his chin. From the way she’s touching his face, Harry knows she’s getting frustrated with the game he’s playing. “Harry,”

“Tell me where you want my touch and I’ll give it to you.”

She lets out a soft groan, “Touch my pussy, please. I want it so bad I’m aching for it.”

“Oh baby, look at you,” his ring-free hand travels down her thigh, following the trail of slight fuzz of hair she’s forgotten to shave. “I bet you’re soaked… is your cunt soaked baby?” he asks, her hand gripping his wrist as his hand goes underwater, where her sweet pussy is buried between her legs, and he parts them. “Open wider so I can touch your little clit, baby.”

And she does. She parts her legs as wide as she can considering their position in the tub, and the lazy movement makes gentle waves on the surface, vanilla aroma as thick as ever, swirling in the air. He looks down and a smile appears on his face when he realises he won’t be able to see her pussy since her bump is on the way. Before she started showing, Harry’s hand would easily travel down her body, part her legs and start rubbing her clit while watching his middle finger work the soft, spongy spot. He would see every imperfection and curve of her lower body, thank whoever’s up there for sending her to him, and her, for letting Harry see her at her most vulnerable moments.

Even underwater, he feels her wetness as he drags her juices up to her clit and rubs harder. It’s slippery and warm, making his cock become more and more aware of what’s going on and as he keeps circling her clit, her hold on his wrist tightens. “Harry… God, that feels good.”

He hums and presses a soft kiss to her earlobe, “Yeah? That what you wanted? Me to play with your needy little cunt?” he presses his middle finger harder, applying pressure and she lets out a moan as he brings his finger towards her hole. “Fucked you too many times but y’still so tight, darling. Put a baby in you but you’re still so fuckin’ tight… fuck.”

“More please, give me more.”

“Look at me, let me see your pretty face while I fuck your cunt with m’fingers,” his palm makes contact with her pussy, pressing harder against it as his middle finger works her hole.

She raises her head, looking up at him with tired eyes and parted mouth. It’s all love, he thinks. She loves me. She lets me touch her even when she’s carrying a tiny human inside this belly. She wants this. She wants everything with me. And it actually hits him, for the hundredth time, that yes, she loves him. Her eyes, despite being half closed, touch something inside him. Not just his cock. It goes deeper than that. So deep. The loving and suggestive eyes make him feel all warm and fuzzy, like that one summer afternoon makes him feel, where you don’t have anything to do but lounge on the sofa, legs intertwined with hers and a stupid film playing on the telly. It feels warm. Hot. Familiar. And as he presses the second finger inside her, her arm reaches behind her and touches his hard cock underwater. She touches just the tip. It’s hot, and slippery. She knows he’s oozing precum as she touches the tiny slit.

“Baby…”

“I like your cock. It’s so big and warm in my hands. Always so hard for me,” she whispers as her fingers work his slit, thumb circling around the slippery area.

As she rubs her cock as efficiently as she can, he gets his fingers out of her and begins rubbing her clit, moaning at the spongy feeling as if he’s found a pearl deep inside the ocean. “Does it feel good baby? How’s it feel?”

She moans instead of responding, hand gripping his cock harder and making him hiss at the feeling. She doesn’t continue her movements, probably because of the way her arm is bent, but still holds his cock in her palm, squeezing it from time to time especially when his fingers rub that special spot inside her. His other hand finds her boobs and tweaks one of her nipples, making goosebumps appear on her skin. “God, your tits. So fucking hot. Look how big they’ve gotten baby…” he keeps squeezing her nipple between his thumb and index finger, tugging the nipple and twisting it just so before letting it fall, watching it jiggle. “Fucking gorgeous,” he keeps playing with her nipples while his fingers work her clit, rubbing circles as she keeps letting out little whimpers of joy.

When he sees her struggle with her arm, trying to find a better position for it just so she can give his cock more attention, his hand fall from her boob and grabs her by the wrist, bringing it up to her boob where his hand had been previously. She goes voluntarily, getting the message, and begins kneading her left boob, the nipple getting hard and pointy like clockwork. It’s so hot, the way she keeps playing with the swollen nipple, tweaking and squeezing the nub… it makes him harder than he already is. If she weren’t pregnant, he’d grab her by the waist and pull her closer to his front, press her against his cock just to get more friction. But it’s fine, he thinks. As long as she’s enjoying this, he’ll be more than fine.

“Fuck baby, I wish I could put those tits in my mouth right now. Lick them a little, bite them…” he adds the third finger, and as much as his arm starts hurting, he still keeps fucking into her with his long fingers. “Would you like that sweetheart? Would you want me to bite your little nipples while I played with this wet, juicy cunt, hm?”

She nods and a moan leaves her parted mouth when Harry brings her hot mouth closer to the side of her neck, and licks a long stripe from the salty skin of her neck to her ear, leaving a wet trail behind which he goes back to press open-mouthed kisses to the area. “This makes you wet? Me talking about what I would do to you?”

“Yes yes yes. Oh God- please!”

“You wanna move your hips so bad don’t ya, darling? Wanna ride my fingers, rub your little clit on my palm, hm?” while his fingers are still inside her pussy, now only his index and middle finger, he begins rubbing his palm against her clit. Despite being underwater, he feels the slippery nub inside her pussy make contact with his palm and he groans at the feeling, his palm increasing its movements as he keeps moving it left and right, then up and down. “Such a little slut, baby. Fucked you so good you ended up with a baby inside you but you still want it so bad, don’t you? Yes, look at you… want it so bad. You’re such a whore for me, always want something from Daddy. Always want this little clit to be played with don’t you, baby?”

“I do, God, I do! I love being a slut for you. I love when you fuck my little clit, please- please keep fucking me,” she moans and tries to ride Harry’s palm but fails due to the slightly uncomfortable position. A tear rolls down her left eye, pooling around her nose, and it makes her feel all pathetic and dirty.

Harry’s cock is now standing up against his belly, peaking through the soapy water, and it’s so hard, so fucking hard. The tip is swollen and a beautiful, mouthwatering shade of pink. He wants to reach down and thumb at the tip, maybe rub it a little bit just to get the edge off. But instead, he keeps fucking into her pussy while his mouth is pressed to her ear, alternating between licking and nibbling the soft skin. While sucking her earlobe, his free hand finds her bump and rests there. “My beautiful girl. Always so nice to me. Always so wet, so sweet…”

“I wanna cum,” she breathes, voice all groggy. “Let me cum, please baby, let me cum.”

“Does it hurt? Tell me, does your little clit hurt baby? Am I rubbing it too fast,” his tone is anything but sweet, it’s mocking and intimidating. And yes, it does hurt. The way his wide palm keeps rubbing against her sensitive clit makes her whine as she feels a little uncomfortable down there.

It’s so hard, keeping it up, and holding herself back from coming. She feels the burning sensation in the pit of her stomach but she tries to focus on the tips of her fingers playing with her nipple. She tugs harder, pulling it and then letting it go once again, but it’s too much and never enough at the same time. She needs it. She needs to cum so bad. 

Harry brings his own hand and places it on top of hers on her boob and closes his fingers, making her squeeze harder. “Beautiful tits, baby. So, so fucking beautiful.”

“Harry…”

“Yeah, you like when I admire you? When I compliment your tits?” he smacks his hand on her, making her moan at the stinging sensation. “You know what’s comin’ right, sweetheart? You just know it, you dirty fucking slut… take your hand off. Come on,” he grabs her hand and places it on her thigh. He then travels his hand up to her boob, caressing the bump on the way, all gentle and loving, and then slaps her boob making her a whining mess against him. “Did it hurt?” he whispers, his breath tickling her ear, and he gives her nipple a hard squeeze.

“Mhm, yeah.”

“Good girl… want me to hurt you a bit more?” he kisses her ear and brings his hand to her other boob without waiting for her response because he knows what she would say. He just knows how bad she wants to be slapped even when pregnant. 

When another smack is met with her other boob, her left leg twitches in the water, his inner thigh rubbing against Harry’s wrist that is still between her parted legs. “Want me to rub your cunt some more? To make you cum?”

She lets out a sigh and turns her head to the side, Harry catching her lips as if he’s been waiting for this moment. It’s messy, hot, and wet. It’s dirty. The way he captures her bottom lip with his teeth and pulls it, then sucks it into his mouth… it’s so dirty. He knows she’s tired, could cum any minute, but he appreciates how she presses open mouth kisses to his equally parted lips, the inside of her top lip catching a portion of the stubble on his upper lip which she decides to lick and press her open mouth harder. Wet sounds fill the room as Harry bites her bottom lip first, and then travels his lips down to her chin, sucking her sweaty flesh into his mouth.

She whimpers, hand falling to her bump, and Harry’s immediately follows. “Can I cum? I wanna cum so bad,” her legs start shaking visibly and Harry uses their intertwined hands to rub her belly, appreciating the hard bump under their hands. “Please, I want to cum so bad, so so bad. I can’t take it, it hurts.”

“Does it? How bad does it hurt, baby?”

“So fucking bad, Harry, please let me cum,” she practically wails and squeeze their fingers.

The candle that’s been sitting in the corner seems to be on borrowed time as it radiates the tiniest amount of light and Harry presses his lips to her warm neck, sucking the flesh while his hand works her clit, eyes never leaving the smoke that is dancing above the flame. And finally, she lets go, her other hand coming up to his neck and trying to hold on to it. It’s hypnotising, seeing her come undone despite not being able to see what his hand had been doing. It feels good, being the one who makes her feel like this; unguarded and dirty.

After that, a comfortable silence falls upon them as she tries to catch her breath, bump rising and falling with every breath she takes.

She looks up, eyes all red and watery, and a lazy smile appears on her mouth. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Mm, I like your face. Let me look at you,” he grins, resting his forehead on top of her head. “Smell nice.”

“I use shampoo on Fridays.”

“Come on, let’s get you out of here, darling,” he clears his throat to get rid of the hoarseness. “You feeling okay? How’s your back?”

“I’m good, don’t worry about me. I needed that. I can’t enjoy my own fingers anymore, I wish she was here already.”

He laughs but his eyes widen after a few seconds, hands falling from her shoulders to his sides, into the water. “She? It’s a girl? She’s a she? You- I thought it was gonna be a surprise, what the fuck babe?”

“I’m sorry! It’s not my fault, she told me by accident on my last visit!”

“You- I,” he waves his hands around and a few droplets land on her nose making her flinch. “I’m telling your mum.”

She gasps, “You wouldn’t! If I see another pink onesie I’m eating the baby. I’ll actually eat it.”

“I’ll eat you! Can’t believe you couldn’t hold it in.”

She sighs, hands going to her belly. “Help me get out and I might let you eat me some more.”

[enviedear]

miss moonlight, put in a word → draco malfoy

DESCRIPTION ⌙ in which draco sees the same annoying hufflepuff he’s enamored within his dreams every night, but can’t muster up the courage to talk to her in waking life. so instead he talks to the moon, telling the rock that’s miles away, everything he wants to tell her. little does he know, she does the same thing.

PAIRING ⌙ draco x fem!reader

WORD COUNT ⌙ 3k

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

its a little angsty im sorry. but im nervous abt this and have been sitting on posting it for almost a month now so please lmk if you like it :)

based off the songs talking to the moon by bruno mars and please mr sun by tommy edwards

she waves at him, her eyes holding a happy glimmer. he walks closer to her and wraps his long arms around her, pulling her close. he breathes in her scent and she giggles. it sounds like heaven. he holds her like that for what feels like forever before she pulls away.

he watches as she sits down in the grass, patting the place beside her.

“sit draco.” she commands. he complies.

“i love it when i’m asleep. you’re here and the world is so much more peaceful.” he smiles, a real true smile. not like the ones he usually gives now.

“but imagine if we were awake. the world might not be so wonderful, but we’d have each other. and the sun. and the wind. and the trees. and missus moon.” she grins, looking up at the bright blue sky.

he wants to agree, and tell her that’s all they’ll ever need. but he knows he can’t. because truth be told he needs more. he needs to know his family will be safe. he needs to know if he’ll make it out of his sixth year alive. he needs more than the sun and moon.

instead, he places his head in her lap, relishing in the way her fingers card through his hair. she sings a song he can’t place as he falls asleep. 

“i love you y/n” he whispers, right before he dozes off.

that’s how the dreams usually end. he always slips off to sleep so peacefully in your arms. but when he wakes up, he’s still in the slytherin dorm, lonely and afraid.

yours end in the same way, and when you wake, you’re clutching your pillow as if it’s him. you don’t dare tell anyone about the dreams. your friends and family would think you mad. but it’s enough for you to be able to have them, even if you’re not sure if they’re shared or not. 

you see the way he looks in the dining hall, potions, and in passing. he’s always so monotonous. so unlike the boy you’ve grown up with.

you of course have dreams, where he’s told you everything that has happened to him. he’s confessed to you that he’s working with voldemort, for his parents' sake. he even told you about dumbledore. but no matter how much you beg him to leave that life behind, he can't. besides, you’re dreaming all of this. who’s to say it’s even real. 

so you stay away, yearning for bedtime. where you can talk to the boy you love more than anything else in the world.

you’re not sure how the dreams started but you have an idea.

and so does draco.

he reckons he must have used some sort of wandless magic the night he was thinking to himself on the astronomy tower. it had been a humid night and he was all alone. his eyes deadset on the bright moon in front of him. he had just started talking.

he knew the moon wasn’t someone that could actually listen but then again, maybe that’s what he wanted? he didn’t want someone to place any input on his situation. he just wanted to speak and let his thoughts travel into the void and maybe out from his aching head.

“i just want everything to be okay. mother deserves a son who can protect her and.. father needs me. i can’t fail.  i just wish i had someone to talk to when the sun goes down. someone kind and someone warm. i know they’re somewhere out there. but maybe all i’ll ever have is you missus moon, at night when it’s just the stars to listen in to our conversation.” the boy had mumbled, before making his way to his dorm room.

you had been having a word with missus moon that night as well, alone in your hufflepuff prefect dorm. you thought yourself lucky to have a window so that you could see the stars and the moon. you were fighting sleep and had no one else to speak to, so you watched the bright yellow moon as you recounted your troubles.

“my dreams have been so bad recently missus moon. i think it’s because i’m still so scared for everyone and myself. they say the dark lord could strike any day. i’d hate for anyone i love or even myself to end up like poor cedric. i wish i had someone to talk to, someone to understand. everyone thinks i’m crazy, but they don’t know what i know. the world is getting scary. at least when the stars light up my room i have you missus moon.” you had sighed getting off the floor and laying down in your bed.

that night draco dreamt of flower fields and you. at first, the boy wondered if maybe it was real. it seemed real. he could see you and everything around you so vividly. and the same for you, you made out his platinum hair and could smell his crisp cologne. but when the two of you awoke, you knew it couldn’t be real.

until the next night, where the both of you met again in your dreams.

“are you following me?” you had asked draco.

he narrowed his eyes at you, “how could i follow you into a dream. what a stupid thing to ask.”

“you’re supposed to be nice to me. this is my dream after all.” you had pouted.

draco snorted, “i need to stop drinking tea before bed. i’m having dreams where the people in them think they’re the ones doing the dreaming.”

“but i am the one dreaming! this is my dream. i can control it, watch!” you’d grinned, before commanding a nearby tree to grow apples.

draco’s eyes had widened, “no, this can’t be right.”

you watched as he wished for the tree to grow taller before glaring at you, “smack yourself.”

you glared back at him, “no, but you can shove your fist down your throat if you’re going to be rude.”

draco circled you, “so you don’t have to do what i tell you and neither do i. strange.”

“why would i have to do what you tell me to do in my own dream?” you’d asked.

the boy had shrugged, “maybe it’s not just your dream. maybe it’s mine too.”

that’s the most the two of you ever discussed the shared dreams. after that there wasn’t a need. you both enjoyed them. both of you needed them.

once in study hall you caught draco reading a book about dreams but you didn’t ask him about it. in truth, you were too afraid to have him label you as insane.

draco found himself wanting to speak with you too. countless times. he had grown quite fond of you after the dreams he found you in every night. so in the daytime, he would sneak glances at you. he took notice if you did your hair differently or if your makeup was done. of course, he knew he couldn’t talk to you. you’d think him mad. still, he found himself dropping subtle clues to see if you’d come over to him, like reading a ghastly book about dreams in a class the two of you shared. it hadn’t worked but he could have sworn he caught you looking his way.

draco spends hours obsessing over you, the dreams, and the few glances you would give him. but the vanishing cabinet is almost fixed and he knows it’d be foolish to speak to you now. no matter how much he wishes to run into your arms and tell you to take him away from here, he won’t. 

it’s a dreary day in june and you’re getting snacks for some of the first years when you hear it. maniacal laughter and breaking glass. your first thought is to check on your house. you rush into the hufflepuff common room and make sure everyone’s ok and then urge them to stay safe. they nod and bolt to their dorms.

then, you make your way to the source of the noise. the dining hall, which is torn to shreds, is crawling with death eaters. you feel lightheaded as you watch them. out of the corner of your eye, you see professor snape making his way to the astronomy tower.

curious, you quietly sneak behind him, careful not to make yourself known. you hear a voice above you. a voice you recognize.

draco. 

you’re trying your hardest to figure out what he’s saying but you can’t. all the sounds around you are blending together and you can’t seem to calm down enough to hear anything. when the professor reaches the tower, underneath the scene of whatever is going on, you stay behind.

in a flash, the teacher is out of your vision and upstairs in the chaos.

“severus, please.” is all you hear before the killing curse bolts out of snape’s mouth.

you stand in shock as the footsteps trail out of the tower. draco. snape. dumbledore. death eaters. it was all so much.

“y/n! are you ok?” a watery-eyed harry potter asks from beside you. you don’t even question how he got here or if he saw what you did. instead, you fling your arms around him and stare at the wall petrified. no tears can escape your eyes, you’re in disbelief.

“come on. you have to breathe and we have to get down there. get your wand ready. we have to do something!” he shouts, voice breaking.

you look at him for a second before he bolts out of the room, wand in hand.

instead of trying to fight, talking to anyone about what you saw, or even going to look at your headmaster’s dead body like everyone else, you slip quietly into your prefects dorm.

you watch the moon until she’s gone and when you see mr sun the tears finally fall. you mumble, “talk to him please, mr sun.”

draco glanced at the blinding sun from the malfoy garden, where he had spent the night. he couldn’t be in that house. not after everything that happened. so instead, he sat in the garden thinking of his best thoughts, you.

he watches the sunrise, listens to the winds and the robins singing, and mutters to himself, “tell her how i feel. it shouldn’t end this way. since you are all her friends, she’ll listen to whatever you have to say.”

a baby robin sings a little louder, almost like it’s agreeing, and it causes the boy to cry.

it’s an eerily quiet early morning in the room of requirement on the second of may. you’re in the back of the room, trying to sleep. sleep has become your only form of happiness. your dreams have become a wonderful fairytale. draco is still prevalent and he holds you tighter and tighter with each night.

almost as soon as you drift to bed, you hear gasps. you look up to find harry, ron, and hermione. without a care in the world, you rush to the three just like everyone else. harry gives you a weak smile and you return it.

the three of them explain that today is the day. today is the day the world is split into two and voldemort attacks. plans are arranged and everyone holds each other close.

selfishly, you wish you could see draco. 

minutes later, a meeting is called by snape in the dining hall. You watch as neville and ginny procure robes for the green-eyed boy and walk to the hall.

the carrows look at everyone with malice in their eyes as snape drones on about a sighting of harry in hogsmeade. soon after, harry shows himself and begins arguing with the black-haired man. he tells everyone about the night in the astronomy tower.

mcgonagall throws curses at the man along with harry before he flies out of the hall. The woman looks at all of us, eyes wide but determined.

in a rush, everyone is scattered about. you follow neville to the bridge and help as much as you can. when the death eaters, led by greyback, enter hogwarts, you stand your ground. you’re ready to fight.

draco easily locates blaise and goyle before heading off to find his wand and harry potter. his chest aches with looming fear but he tries to repress it the most he can.

“i guess this is it boys.” blaise sighs.

draco looks at his friend, “we’ll be fine. just stay safe and together. don’t go weak on me now zabini.”

you’re doing your best to fight off corban yaxley but every time you’re ready to throw a killing blow his way he narrowly hits you with the killing curse. your fighting in a state of pure unadulterated anger. it’s been hours of fighting but your anger remains.

“stupid little girl, you’ll be dead before nightfall.” yaxley spits before hitting you with a weak spell. 

you still double over a bit, but hold your ground enough to raise your wand and hit him with the cruciatus curse. in the corner of your eye you watch professor flintwick begin dueling the vicious man, before running inside the castle.

fire burns everywhere around draco. he’s about to turn to blaise and say his goodbyes before potter snatches him up and leads him out of the room of requirement. the second he’s on the ground he makes a run for it. he loses blaise on the way and can’t seem to figure out where to go. he’s on the second floor, tears are pooling out of his eyes and the ache in his chest has grown when his body collides with another.

you fall back, hitting your head against the hard stone of the castle floor. when you look up, your vision is hazy and shaky.

“y/n?”

you know that voice. it’s the same voice you’ve heard every single night for a year.

“draco?” you ask, hands reaching out.

“you’re bleeding. let me help,” he says before gently healing your head.

you stare at the boy, “you know it feels weird to see you. i’ve never really spoken to you besides the dreams.”

his eyes grow wide, “you know about those?”

you smile a little, “yeah, i do.”

the two of you find yourselves entering the great hall, helping whoever you two can.

draco is comforting a teary-eyed second year when blaise zabini comes in, eyes bloodshot and clutching his right arm.

you watch as the two embrace, pulling apart so that draco can tend to his arm.

minutes that feel like hours pass as the three of you silently process the commotion going on around you.

a tattered luna lovegood emerges through the rubble and towards the three of you.

“everyone’s outside now- harry he... i think you all should come with me.” her shaky voice requests.

draco looks to you and nods, helping you rise. his hand grasps yours and you all follow luna outside.

all around you is destruction. the place you’ve called home for years in now a bruised battleground and at the very center of it stands the man you’ve come to fear more than anything in the world. voldemort. 

“harry potter, is dead.” the creature laughs.

you grip draco tighter and he looks at you with an expression of sorrow.

“from this day forth you put your faith in me. and now is the time to declare yourself! come forward and join us. or die.” the man spits, smiling at the broken faces opposite him.”

it is quiet for just a moment before lucius malfoy calls for his son. you watch the man and his wife plead with him. but his hand remains in yours and feet right beside you.

you look up at him and give him your brightest smile, a smile you would give him in dreams. as he peers down at you he knows that nothing in the world means more to him than you and that smile he’s spent hours telling missus moon about.

“you insolent boy, draco!” the snake-like man hisses.

you turn to face him, eyes wide with fury and hate.

neville begins limping toward the band of villains.

“i’d like to say something.” the boys breathes out.

voldemort smirks at him, “well neville i’m sure we’d all be fascinated to hear what you have to say.”

“you’re wrong! harry’s heart did beat for us, for all of us!” and with that, he pulls the sword of godric gryffindor out of the sorting hat he’s been clutching and aims it at the deatheaters and their leader.

draco’s head cranes in harry’s direction, and in an instant, the boy flies out of hagrid’s arms and throws a spell at voldemort.

you cry out along with everyone else before watching voldemort’s followers disappear.

“come on, we’ve fought enough. i won’t let you die now!” draco commands, leading you to the bridge.

you follow, but turn to look at the castle one last time. draco stops as well and you see him meet ron and hermione’s gaze. ron nods his head and draco returns the gesture.

“let’s go draco.” you sigh.

he didn’t know he’d see you again. the two of you had gone to your home to bathe and sleep and when the boy found himself in his dreams, he saw you.

you smile at the platinum haired boy, “sit draco.”

he complies. 

“i hope you haven’t gotten tired of seeing me. i suppose it will be a lot now. to have me in waking and in sleep.” you giggle.

draco stares at you deeply, “i could never get tired of you. i’ve spent a year talking to the moon, trying to get you. in hopes you're on the other side, talking to me too. i’ve asked the sun to tell you all the things i couldn’t, the wind to whisper all the things i love about you, all the rainbows to make you smile, and the trees to take you under their branches. i’d want nothing more than this.”

you lean your head on his shoulder, “i’m here now and we have eternity to tell eachother the things we haven’t said yet.”

the two of you can’t help but to stare at the moon some nights, silently thanking missus moonlight for putting in a word.

[hargrove-mayfields]

The first summer after the incident at Starcourt, things have finally had enough time to slowly ease back into normalcy.

The day after school lets out, the kids talk Steve into letting them come swim in his pool. It’s only for a couple of hours, and honestly, it does them all some good, the kids getting to pretend things are okay for a while, and Steve getting to soothe that worry that crept in every time he didn’t have an eye on all of them, so despite the guilt they all certainly felt for having fun, they let themselves enjoy it, for a little while at least.

The gimmick of what made summer fun ran out pretty quickly for them though, so once they’d all gotten sunburnt shoulders and had tangles in their hair and wrinkles on their fingers from the chlorinated water, they decided it was time to go home. They weren’t up for the arcade or ice cream after the pool like they used to be either, but they had had just under a year now to decide they were okay with that.

So Steve loads them all up into his new Mercedes-Benz, the replacement for the BMW that became necessary post battle when they discovered his car had been crushed at some point during that night by the Mind Flayer, and took them all home.

Max’s house was the last on his route no matter which way he went, the only member of the party who lived on the outskirts of the wealthy part of town now that the Byers’ had moved, so it’s just the two of them in the car. As they pull up outside though, she hesitates to get out, instead nervously picking at the stitches in the seat, mulling over something in her head.

They aren’t really close, no bond between them beyond babysitter and grumpy teenager not happy to have one, but Steve feels an obligation towards all of these kids, so he shifts in the seat so he’s facing her, and asks her in a way he hoped sounds approachable, “What’s up, Max?”

Max takes another second and a deep breath before speaking, wringing her hands nervously, “Billy’s birthday is in a few days and I don’t think anybody knows that, but I want to do something for him.”

Steve nods, doesn’t really know what he’s supposed to do at first, “Have you talked to your mom about this?”

He asks because word traveled fast in a small town like Hawkins. Everyone and their mother knew that Neil Hargrove had split before they’d even stabilized his son in the hospital, and his wife had stayed with their children, taking full responsibility for Billy and Max. If anyone should be having a party for Billy, it should be Susan.

“Yeah and she liked the idea, but she’s been really busy with work and stuff, double now with Billy’s medical bills, and I know a lot of the other parents are too and some of them I just don’t know well enough to ask, and I don’t know who else to turn to because normally I’d take this stuff to Billy and I can’t do it by myself.” Max rambles all in one breath, has clearly been thinking about this for a long time.

Steve obviously wants to encourage that, so he asks, “What did you wanna do for him?”

“I just wanted to have a party for him at the hospital, but I know that’s kinda dumb since nobody goes to see him anyways.” Max mumbles, wrapping her fingers around the door handle like she’s going to get out, “I don’t know, it’s stupid.”

“No it’s not. What day is it, his birthday?”

“The sixth. I know that’s kinda short notice but-“ Max starts again, but Steve interrupts, a small smile on his face as if to prove he’s genuine, “No, it’s fine. We’ll figure something out. We’re not going to let Billy be alone on his birthday.”

It doesn’t seem to have the effect Steve wanted though, because Max scoffs and pushes the car door open, snapping before she gets out, “You do every other day.”

Even though Max had been so short with him at first, after that, she and Steve work on a plan at the end of every day when he was driving her back home, Max slowly evolving from tense about even bringing it up to actually excited for this thing they were working on together for her brother.

Steve doesn’t really have the time or the know-how for home made anything, but he buys everything you typically would find at an under twenty one birthday party, balloons and streamers, a chocolate cake, per Max’s request, and a tub of Superman ice cream, also a suggestion from Max.

He doesn’t buy Billy a present, he figures he doesn’t have use for much for anything material in the hospital, and although he’s willing to help, he feels he still doesn’t really know Billy like that anymore.

Or maybe he does, he just doesn’t know if the friendship they had been reluctantly developing would withstand the strain the accident at Starcourt had put on it, and didn’t feel it was very appropriate just to show up with an expensive knick knack that would just rub his wealth in Billy’s face.

Instead, he gets him a card, because who doesn’t want a birthday card, and leaves a hundred dollars and a heartfelt note in it. The money is because he has it and Billy needs it more than he does, and a hundred dollars was standard for milestone birthdays, in his family at least, and since Billy was lucky to see his nineteenth come around, he figures this counted.

So on the sixth of June, they’re ready to celebrate Billy.

Steve drives the kids all to the hospital that day, surprised that even without El around right now to convince them to, they were all willing to come. He guesses they’d all seen how torn up Max was when Billy was admitted to the hospital, and now that eleven months later he still hadn’t got out, it was bound to be hard on her.

It wasn’t a surprise anymore, Max had let it slip to Billy a few days beforehand in her excitement, so they just went straight up to his room, each kid and Steve carrying something, decorations or food or presents.

At first, Billy doesn’t really seem to thrilled to see them, but Steve supposed he wouldn’t be either, it couldn’t be any fun aging in the hospital, especially surrounded by nobody but your little sisters friends.

But they still set it all up for him, tying balloons to his bed and hanging streamers above the door. Max sits with him and keeps him entertained with stories, but what makes his mood significantly improve is when a nurse interrupted them to give him another dose of his pain meds.

Once they’re all set up, it’s Lucas who points out, “We forgot the candles for the cake.”

And it’s Max who, without really thinking about it, reminds him, “We probably have some with all the decorations and stuff we bought.”

It’s Dustin who looks and finds a pack of candles that someone indeed had brought, and calls out, “Found some.”

But it’s Steve who is seemingly the only one able to remember that the birthday boy was still on oxygen after a lung transplant and didn’t think he needed to be blowing out any candles, reminding Dustin very pointedly, “Actually, Dustin, I don’t think we need any candles.

Of course he argues, because kids do, “C'mon Steve, it's a birthday cake. All birthday cakes have candles.”

“Yeah, but I said I don’t think this one needs any.” Steve says, through his teeth this time, nodding subtly towards Billy, and Dustin's eyes widen a little, and the candles get put back without another word about it.

Instead, Steve gives Billy the zippo from his pocket, flipping it open for him so a tiny flame dances in front of his face, “Make a wish, Hargrove.”

Billy takes the lighter, a little apprehensively, but he stays quiet, looking up at Steve as he presumably makes his wish to himself, then clicks it shut, extinguishing the flame.

Ever impatient, the kids decide that’s their cue to cut into the cake without really asking anybody, but Steve doesn’t stop them, because as Billy reminds Max when she sits down on his bedside with a piece, “I can’t really eat that right now, kiddo, but thank you.”

She blows him off, teasingly uncaring in that sibling way, “Oh, I know, that’s why I picked chocolate cake, ‘cause I know you don’t like it. I just wanted you to have one, so it felt like a real birthday.”

Billy smiles wide, holds his arms out the best he can anymore for a hug, “Aww, come ‘ere, shitbird.”

Max spends the rest of their little impromptu party at his bedside, talking to her friends but sitting with her brother, the both of them chasing that sense of normalcy that everyone else had been able to move on and achieve, but they had no chance at grasping so long as they were apart.

That is at least, until to keep himself busy while the kids argue about something, Billy reads his card from Steve, that long written out note that detailed all his feelings and regrets and thoughts about Billy that he had been grappling with since Billy was hospitalized, sorrys and thank yous and happy birthday, everything crammed into that card but the part about how Steve had been falling in love with Billy since they met in ‘84.

It makes Steve nervous, twitchy and vulnerable with Billy reads it, until he gently closes the card and looks up at Steve, eyes wide and a little teary.

The first thing he says is an unrelated question, ruffling his little sisters hair and asking her, “Maxi, can you go down to the vending machine at the end of the hall and grab me some stuff? I’m running out of candy to hide in the bedside drawer.”

Max nods and slides down from his bed, and Billy adds, “Take all your friends too. See if they want anything.”

He waits until all the kids are gone, their voices echoing distantly down the long hallway, to ask Steve, “D’you do all this for me, Harrington?”

Steve shrugs, not sure if he’s more humble or nervous about why Billy wanted to talk to him alone, “It was Max’s idea.”

“But you still organized it, right?”

“I guess. I don’t want a thank you or anything though.” Steve insists, but Billy smiles, a bright one like Steve hardly ever saw anymore, and insists right back “Too bad, you’re getting one. Thank you.”

Steve just shrugs again, “It’s your birthday, Hargrove. I wasn’t going to let you be forgotten.”

“I would’ve been okay, Steve. Birthdays were just… never really a thing in my family anyways.”

Steve can tell they were going to go back and forth all day, arguing over whether or not he should be celebrated, and if he needed someone by his side, if he doesnt change the subject, so he asks him, “What’d you wish for?”

“Can’t tell you that or it won’t come true.” Billy hums, thoughtful, and he says, sounding like his sister, “And it’s sort of dumb anyways.”

“Hey, I’m sure it’s not dumb. If it’s something you want, it can’t be.”

Billy looks up at him, a little smile on his face, and explains, “I don’t know it’s just, I’m going to be sick for the rest of my life, I’m stuck in the hospital for another month at least and my dad disowned me, but, my wish still wasn’t for any of that to change.”

“What was it then?”

Billy takes a deep breath, a noticeable flush to his face, “I wished that I would have the guts to finally do this.”

For a second Steve wonders what he’s talking about, worries briefly that he was going to use the distraction and the relaxed attention from the nurses on his birthday to make grand escape from the hospital or something, until Billy leans up and kisses him.

It’s chaste and it’s sweet, everything that he’d expect from anybody that wasn’t Billy Hargrove, and everything that Steve could ever have wanted. He sits down on the bed beside Billy to make the angle easier on the both of them, not breaking the kiss for even a second, bringing his hand up to cup Billy's cheek, and deepening the kiss.

They’re interrupted by the squeaking of tennis shoes on the waxy hospital floors in the hallway, the kids coming back already, so Steve pulls away, just as flushed as Billy was now and keeping one of his hands resting on top of Billy’s, “Happy birthday, Billy.”

[qqueenofhades]

Did Ivan and Fedyor ever have, like, one of those big first fights where there is this uncertainty of "are we over now?" ? I mean, they would be alright in the end, but between Fedyor's overthinking and Ivan probably not having a lot of experience with relationships, there would be room for them worrying for a time after it.

Sequel to this and prequel to this. Set, as usual, in Phantom!Verse.

Moscow, 2013

June 30, 2013, is not a good day. In fact, it might be the worst of all the days of Fedyor Kaminsky’s life to date, and it is made absolutely no better by the fact that he’s long known it was coming – he just hoped, however vainly, that it wouldn’t. Three weeks ago, on June eleventh, the Duma unanimously passed the law formally entitled “For the Purpose of Protecting Children from Information Advocating For a Denial of Traditional Family Values,” with only one abstention and no dissenting votes, and President Putin is going to ceremoniously sign it into law today. It’s more pithily known as the “anti-gay law,” and it basically prohibits anything related to acknowledging that homosexuals exist in Russia. Fedyor has been anxiously following its progress with his activist friends in their group chats, all of them praying for some last-minute miracle to swoop in and knock it off course. Now that’s not going to happen. He has no idea what is going to happen, but to say the least, it won’t be good. He’s taken some body blows before, but this one sucks.

Fedyor vacillates wildly between wanting to watch the signing ceremony just to scream obscenities at it, and wanting to hide under the covers with the pillows over his head and cry. He texts frenetically with his friend Lyosha, who lost his position at Perm State University a few months ago for daring to do research about LGBTQ people, and is already planning to head into exile abroad. Does he have to do that too? Fedyor has lived in Russia his entire life, even if he has traveled internationally and has lots of foreign friends. He could stay. He could try to fight this thing somehow. He could do more. He should do more.

But how?

When Ivan gets home from work at six o’clock that night, that’s where he finds Fedyor: sitting on the living room floor under a quilt and neurotically eating chocolate biscuits, texting and crying. He drops his backpack and rushes over. “Fedya? Fedya! What’s wrong?”

“He signed it,” Fedyor says flatly. No more elaboration is necessary. “So now we’re fucked.”

Ivan looks troubled. He rocks back on his heels next to Fedyor and searches for the words. Then he says, clearly trying to be helpful, “Maybe not. Nobody has to know about us. If we just keep on like before, go about our daily lives, it will be all right. We are not important people. Why would they bother with us?”

“What?” Fedyor wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and lurches upright, shedding the quilt and a shower of cookie crumbs. “What are you talking about? Just – deny ourselves and go back in the closet and pretend we’re not here, that those assholes won? Go out, but make sure I never hold your hand walking down the street or dare to pretend that we are together? I don’t want to be afraid every second we’re out in public, Vanya! I don’t want to be wondering if maybe they’ll look at my emails or cook up some other reason to come after us! Lyosha already got fired before this even officially passed, and – ”

“Lyosha was a radical beforehand,” Ivan says dismissively. “It wasn’t because of this, I’m sure. So what? He’ll get a fancy position somewhere else. The West will love to take in the gay Russian, persecuted by the barbaric Putin regime, to show off how humane and enlightened they think they are. He will be fine.”

Fedyor looks at him as if he has two heads. “That’s how you’re reacting to this?”

“What am I supposed to do about it?” Ivan shrugs. “We have to make the best. What else are we going to do? Leave Russia?”

“Maybe we have to. What other choice do we have?”

“Stay?” Now it’s Ivan’s turn to sound like he’s talking nonsense. “Russia is our home!”

“Look, Vanya. I know you and I think differently about things, and we’ve gotten used to that. But I can’t – I physically cannot – stay in a place where I am criminalized for existing, for loving you, for being afraid that something will happen to us. We have to go.”

“No.” Ivan’s voice is colder than Fedyor has ever heard it. He sounds like a stranger. “No, we don’t. That’s crazy talk. Where would we go? America?”

“At least America doesn’t have this law!”

“America has no law that is helpful for us!” Ivan shouts. “And I’m not going there. The end! You make that choice, Fedya. Exile, or me?”

There’s a horrible silence in the wake of that pronouncement, as they stare at each other and Ivan instantly looks like he wants to bite it back, but it’s too late. Fedyor turns on his heel and marches away in frozen silence, refusing to utter a single word to Ivan for the rest of the night, even as Ivan tries to apologize and coax him into speaking again. Finally, taking the hint, he takes his things and silently goes to sleep on the couch, and Fedyor lies in their bed, staring at the ceiling and tossing and turning. Ivan didn’t mean that, right? Or maybe he did? Flee Russia, start a new life somewhere across the sea, but leave his boyfriend behind? Until recently, he thought Ivan Sakharov was the love of his life. Maybe he isn’t. Or even more terrifyingly, he is, and Fedyor will have to give him up anyway.

The rest of the week is just as bad. Ivan leaves early for work and keeps to himself when he gets home, while Fedyor starts Googling the U.S. asylum-claim process and reaching out to North American-based friends who can help with logistics. He spends hours on the computer, takes reams of notes, and doesn’t feel any better. Is he planning this for them or for him? He needs to answer that question like, now, and yet the prospect fills him with sickening dread. He cries himself to sleep with the bedroom door shut, and hears awkward shuffling in the corridor outside, like Ivan is listening and desperately wants to come in, but doesn’t think Fedyor wants him there. That’s even worse.

Finally, on Saturday night, Fedyor decides that they can’t go on like this. He drags himself out of his cave of blankets and cooks a nice supper, while Ivan goes for his usual afternoon workout at the gym, and when he comes back, he blinks. “Fedya? What’s this about?”

“We need…” Fedyor’s throat is a desert. “We need to talk about us.”

Those six little words are usually the kiss of death in any relationship, and he has no idea what’s about to happen next, but Ivan’s face wrenches in half like a torn piece of paper. He opens his mouth, shuts it, shakes his head furiously, and comes to a sudden and unassailable decision. With that, still in his gym clothes, he drops his bag and goes to one knee on the creaky wooden floor of their kitchen, in this humble sixth-floor Moscow flat that is the first place Fedyor ever knew pure and perfect happiness. “Okay,” he says. “How is this for a start. Fedyor Mikhailovich Kaminsky, will you marry me?”

Fedyor stares at him, utterly blankly, seized with the horrible fear that Ivan is making fun of him. “Have you – are you – are you serious?”

“Yes.” Ivan reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small box. “I wanted to do this in a different way, but maybe this is better. Fedya, I don’t – I can’t – I don’t want to live without you. I’ll even move to America if you want to. I’m no good without you. I can’t. Please.”

Fedyor continues to stare at him. Then finally he moves closer, as Ivan holds out the ring with a look of utter, silent entreaty, his heart wrung out and raw in his eyes. “Are you – ” Fedyor’s voice is a whisper. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Ivan says again, strong and steady. “More than I have ever been about anything.”

Fedyor starts to answer, and simply can’t. He starts to shake from head to toe, and Ivan scoots forward, still on his knees, and wraps both arms around Fedyor’s waist, burying his face in Fedyor’s stomach. Fedyor clutches hold of him and sinks down, the two of them barely making a sound. Finally, he whispers, “You hate America.”

“I don’t,” Ivan says. “Not really. But either way, I love you, Fedya. And I’m choosing that.”

Fedyor grips Ivan’s face in his hands and kisses him thoroughly, then remembers that he still technically hasn’t accepted his proposal, and he should do that. He holds out his right hand so Ivan can slip on the plain band, with the promise to buy him a nicer one once they get to wherever they’re going. He’ll help with arrangements, he promises. Whatever Fedyor needs him to do.

They board an Aeroflot flight, Moscow Sheremetyevo–New York JFK, on the evening of August 3, 2013, with all their worldly belongings either in the cargo hold or waiting to be shipped over by Fedyor’s parents. They hold hands in the terminal, unobtrusively, and when they get on the plane. And even as the jet engines roar into takeoff and the lights of his homeland fall away into the clouds for what might be the last time in who knows how long, Fedyor Kaminsky can’t help but feeling, once again, ready to start anew.

[marlahey]

under the same roof part two: an old friend

a harry styles rpf part two of six  ratings/warnings: the stalking comes to an alarming head via chase, suggestion of violent intent, aggressive emotions, fuck the patriarchy notes: things get serious, intimacy occurs, we all suffer. moments were edited or cut to reinforce the utter lack of actual romance in a real stalking situation, but I promise we’ve made up for it in later parts!  fun fact: on a lighter note, this series should probably just be titled: sweet things that have actually occurred to annie that she forgot she wrote in and so suffers in every edit session. 

masterlist | part one | part three (14.12.2020) ... • friday, 4th january 8:34 pm • Blood roars in your ears as you sprint through the parking garage, but the sound isn’t loud enough to drown out the pounding footfalls that aren’t your own. Every gulp of air burns your throat but you can’t stop, you can’t even slow down. The hum of industrial ceiling lights overhead is the only other sound. No one would hear you scream.

You’d heard the second car door after yours, and the initial footsteps. A quick turn of your head was your worst fear realized: the blue-eyed man beelining towards you, so quickly you’d barely had a chance to try and outpace him. A heavy hand landed on your shoulder as the man grabbed a fistful of your cardigan before yanking back on the fabric. Twisting desperately against his hold, you’d heard a faint pop-pop-pop as the stitching around your collar snapped and gave. You’d practically fallen away from him before scrambling upright, sliding with little traction on the dusty concrete beneath your feet, and bolting towards the open center of the lot. Your breath pours out into the air. There are no security cameras. Why are there no security cameras? A white, hot panic inside your head makes it hard to think, but you must. You can’t take the lift as it leads to a dead end, so it’ll have to be the stairs. The torn neck of your sweater leaves one of your shoulders naked to the cold. You came so close to draping a scarf around your shoulders before you left your apartment this morning. Had you kept it on, you could have been dead by now. You tear through the door to the stairwell at the other end of the garage and take the steps by two. At any moment an obstacle could arise—a locked door, a dead phone battery, a hard fall on the stairs—and that would be it for you. You’d be a gruesome headline or a face on a milk carton. You would never see your siblings, or India, or Chowder, or your parents ever again. Hot tears sting the corners of your eyes. On the last flight of stairs before the lobby, the sound of the stairwell door slamming echoes up the passageway. You look instinctively. A black, gloved hand is making its way up the railing. You almost lose your balance bursting through to the lobby, and even though your legs are screaming, you do what all the brochures have ever told you to do and break into another full-fledged run to the lift around the corner. You wish you’d chosen a building with a doorman or security desk—some kind of human checkpoint. “No, no, no,” you beg under your breath, launching an arm between the closing doors. You stumble, half expecting it to be empty, and find yourself face to face with Harry.  His eyes skim you over, widening from behind his glasses. You’re still clinging to the doors of the lift. Down the hall and around the bend, the door to the stairwell bangs open again; you wince. Harry’s eyebrows knit together. Thinking on your feet, you lurch inside and drag your hand along the keypad, illuminating just about every random floor up to the penthouses in the twenties, but not eight, and nothing before it. Harry’s eyes dart between yours and the doors. The footsteps in the hall behind you grow louder. You smash the close door button a dozen times, but something in you knows it’s a lost effort. You rush forward and tuck yourself into Harry’s side, tearing his name tag off and stuffing it in your bag. He startles, twisting to look at you, but you stick to your guns and slip your arm around his back. A moment later your eyes meet in the vaguely distorted metallic reflection above the keypad. Harry’s eyes are full of questions; a plea is in yours. For a second time, the doors of the lift begin to close but are stopped by an interjecting hand. A third body enters. It is him. That yellow-grey hair, the wrinkles and the scar on his lip, the worn, leathery skin… Immediately, the man turns to stare at you, and scoffs. You jump, your hand instinctively grasping the back of Harry’s jacket. You will your knees to be still. The lift doors close. It is silent until the car lurches upward. Suddenly you feel a warm, heavy pressure across your shoulders. In the reflection of the doors, you watch Harry’s arm wrap around you. He squeezes once. Your frantic gaze is pinned down by his much more fixed one. He feels so solid pressed into your side, and his eyes are solemn behind his glasses. More serious, maybe, than you’ve ever seen in the last year.  Harry’s lips quirk—the suggestion of a smile—before he looks down at his feet: a ruse of casual nonchalance. Your stomach twists.  The blue-eyed man sighs impatiently. Harry moves his hand to your waist and pulls you even tighter into his side. The car bounces to a stop on the sixth floor with a ding. As the doors glide open, it dawns on you that you had not thought this all the way through to the end. Do you go with Harry? What if you put Sylvia in danger? What if the man follows you? Harry’s arm drops from your shoulders.  The same white hot panic from the garage sears behind your eyes. Is this it? Is Harry about to leave you alone to your fate?  You almost miss his hand reaching back for you, like it’s something he does all the time. Harry squeezes, hard enough to nearly be painful. It starts you into motion. Your legs feel stiff and inflexible like they can’t remember how to walk as he pulls you along, keeping himself between you and the blue-eyed man. You’re off.  The doors close.  Harry glances over his shoulder, your hand still tight in his. He gently guides you to walk in front of him, and you shudder at the thought of the man still watching. You do not hear a third pair of footsteps trailing you, and you do not dare turn around to check. There’s something eerie in walking down a hall identical to your own but knowing that none of these doors are yours.  “This is me.” Harry’s voice is low around the jingle of his keys as he nods to the only door in the hallway hung with a wreath. You say nothing as he steps aside to let you through. He peers into the hall one last time once you’re both inside before locking the door, deadbolt, and chain guard. You lean your back against the wall with your arms across your chest, clutching your sides. He looks over at you slowly, hesitates, and takes a step toward you. His Adam's apple bobs. Suddenly the air leaves your lungs entirely and you begin to heave. You feel as though you’d been sprinting on a treadmill for an hour and then stopped immediately, which keeps you from realizing that Harry has been saying your name. Tears gather in your eyes again; if you allowed yourself to blink, they would spill over. You begin to sink against the wall. Harry catches your elbows in his hands, but you keep sinking anyway. He follows you all the way down to the floor. “Sorry,” you gasp. “You’re safe.” Harry just shakes his head. “I’ve got you.” You nod and try to send a few deep breaths to the pit of your stomach, then clear your throat. “Call the police.” Harry doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s on his feet, flicking on light switches and digging his phone from out of his bag. You hear, “Yes, hello. I’d like to report… following my neighbor.” Your mind reels.  Harry’s voice sounds almost distorted, like you’re underwater. “In my apartment with me.” You catch, “...followed her into the lift,” as well as “Yes,” and “No,” to a series of questions before he reappears with a concentrated frown, watching you. “She’s safe.”  You pick yourself up off the floor and Harry gestures to the small two-person dining table. He angles his cellphone down to his chest as he’s pulling the chair out for you. “Do you want to speak with them?” he whispers. You take a deep breath and nod, holding out your hand. Your fingers tremble, so you place it face up on the table instead and turn on the speaker. He may as well find out now; you can’t imagine having to explain all this a second time.  “Hello?” “Hello, my name’s Officer Warren. We hear you’ve had quite a scare tonight. I know it’s hard, but try to stay as calm as possible and just answer a few questions for me as best you can.”  The fact that the dispatcher is a woman comforts you. “Okay.” “Are you injured?” “No.” “Can you just confirm your full name for me? And your address?”  You rattle off your details, noting with strange detachment that you and Harry live precisely two floors apart. His flat is 6F; yours is 8F. “How long have you lived there?” “Almost a year.” “And how long have you been in the UK?” “About two and a half years. I’m a student at UCL.” “I understand you’re with a neighbor. Do you feel as though you’re in immediate danger?” You look up at Harry before your eyes dart to his front door, hesitating for longer than you want to. “No.” “Can you tell me what’s happened?” You close your eyes. “A man tried to grab me in the parking garage.” “Was this a man you’ve met before?” “He’s been following me since June. I see him everywhere I go. It happened the first few times in public places like on my walk home or when I go jogging, but then I started seeing him everywhere.” Your eyes open again. “Like, I’ve seen him on campus and in restaurants where I was eating. He was walking behind me the first time I ever went to Ilford for work, which is completely out of my way. He took the same tube as me once and tried to grab my hand.” You hear Harry’s knuckles crack across the table from you. “And how long ago was that?” “December twentieth.” “Have you ever come to the police with this information?” “Yes. I filed a report at the Lavender Hill station on the first of October and we went through some headshots but none of them were him.” You hear a series of keystrokes. “Yes, I see your file here. And can you describe what happened today?” “I was picking up some archives at the Ilford Historical Society–” “For school?” “Yes. I’m a research assistant. They have a postbox under my advisor’s name. I usually pick up the archives for the week on Thursdays, but I didn’t get around to it until a few hours ago. It’s usually just three or four storage boxes but today there was a sealed yellow envelope—” Your voice runs higher, choked. You turn away from Harry as you swallow another wave of emotion, but your voice is hardly any different when you begin speaking again. When you turn back, Harry’s hand is a little closer to yours on the table. “Today there was this big yellow envelope with my name handwritten on it and I figured it was just something from my advisor, so after I carried everything to the car, I opened it, and it… there were all these pictures of me.” “Are you able to tell where these photos were taken? What you were doing in them?” Your bag sits half open on the table beside you; you can tell without looking that Harry’s followed your eyes to the mustard yellow envelope poking out the top. You don’t want to open it again. You don’t have to. The images are burned behind your eyelids. “There’s one of me on the tube looking at my phone. Another one of me leaving the shops. There’s a few at the gym.” You sniffle. “Most of them are taken through the window of my flat. They must’ve been across the street because you can see me through the blinds and I’m—when I don’t…” You stare at the edge of the table. “When I’m undressing.”  You lean your forehead into your hand. Harry is stock still across from you. The pause before the officer speaks again feels like it stretches forever. “Can you tell when the most recent photo was taken?” It takes a beat to admit, “It’s from two nights ago,” and the words taste bitter in your mouth. The clack of a keyboard is audible again through the phone.  “You said you’ve been to the Lavender Hill station before? Have you reported these photos yet?” You gather your thoughts. “I was going to go straight there, but I wrote these long descriptions of all the past times I’d seen him. The officer I spoke to the first time I went in, she told me to write down absolutely everything I remembered, so I did—the times of day I’d seen him, where I was, what I was wearing… She said having my own record would help my chances of opening an investigation. I keep all of that at home in my flat, so I decided to go home and grab my notes to bring with me to the station, along with the pictures. I borrow my best friend’s car to commute to Ilford, so I drove straight home.” “And what happened when you got home? In the car park?” You take a deep breath. And then another. Your eyes squeeze shut again. “Take all the time you need.” “I turned into the car park… I pulled into my usual spot. I took off my jacket and left it in the passenger seat, thinking I would come back to it in a minute. I got out of the car and locked it… ” You swallow dryly. “I heard a car door shut behind me. I turned around and saw the man—I recognized him.” “Do you remember what he was wearing?” “He was wearing, um, black gloves, a grey sweater, black jeans, and I think his shoes were black too.” You frown at your hands. “I could hear how quickly he was walking up behind me. I tried to get away, and he—” You swallow. “He grabbed me. Or at least, he tried. He tore the seam of my sweater and I managed to like, pull away. And then I just ran. I was too scared to try the lift so I just took the stairs all the way up to the lobby. But he followed me.”  Your eyes flicker up to Harry absently before you go on. “Harry was in the lift—the—my neighbor, so I ran over and put my arm around him to make it seem like I wasn’t alone.” Harry nods at you from across the table.  “And the man was able to follow you into the lift?” The tips of your fingers ache at the memory of slamming desperately into the close door button. “Yes.” “Did he try to communicate with you in any way?” You shake your head and then remember she can’t see you. “No. He was just staring at me.” “Has he ever approached you or tried to make contact before?” “Just the one time on the tube and the pictures.” “Were you followed out of the lift?” “No.” “And you’re in your neighbor’s flat now, is that right?” “Yeah.” You run your sleeve beneath your nose with a sniffle. “And the man knows which floor you got off at?” ”Correct.” “Do the windows in both of your flats face out on the same street?” Your stomach drops. “Yes… They do.” “I want you to remain calm and stay on the line, can you do that for me?” It’s deadly quiet as you and Harry look at each other. You feel eerily as though you’ve wound up in a Hitchcock film. “Yes.” “Move away from the windows and find a place in the flat that’s not visible from the street—” The legs of Harry’s chair are scraping the floor before you get the chance to react. “...and do not turn out any lights or change the way any of the blinds are positioned.” “C’mere.” Harry’s voice is gravely urgent. He leads you to the kitchen with a hand between your shoulder blades, and brushes past you to lower the blinds of a small window above the sink. Your eyes widen as your hand reaches toward him. “Harry—” He glances back, too late. “Don’t… ” You stumble. “Don’t fix any more of those.” He nods once.  “Yes, don’t touch the blinds. Don’t change anything that would make it look out of the ordinary. If someone has been staking out your building from the same place across the street every night, you could give yourself away and put you both at risk.” “Okay.” Harry leans against the sink with his arms crossed, and you mirror him.  “Since you already have a file on record and the whereabouts of this man are still uncertain, it might do more harm than good to have you come in again for questioning at this hour. But we’ll need you to come by first thing in the morning. You absolutely cannot go back to your flat tonight. He knows very well which unit is yours, and he’s clearly found access into the building somehow. Do not turn on the lights, do not fuss with the blinds, do not go to retrieve any belongings. If it’s something dire, an officer can escort you.” “Okay.” “And don’t leave the building, either. If you need a place to stay, there’s a section of the precinct that can hold you till morning. An officer will have to drive you there, too.” “Okay,” you parrot. “Listen carefully. It’s not forever, but right now we need you to keep yourself absolutely out of sight. Anything that could result in your being followed… Well, we would strongly advise against your taking unnecessary risks. We obviously want to keep you and anyone else involved as safe as possible.” “I understand.” “A patrol officer is en route to your address. He’ll stay posted outside the building for a few hours. If something happens, don’t hesitate to call. Is this a number we can redial if need be?” You look up to Harry; he nods fiercely. “Yes.” “Try to get some rest. You’re safe now, and we’ll see you first thing in the morning.” “Thank you, officer.” You pass Harry’s phone back to him before digging through your bag to retrieve your own. The dial tone rings in your ear as you turn to face the living room. You’re sent to voicemail. “Uh… hi, Mom. It’s me. Just give me a call back when you get this, okay? I—um… Everything’s fine I should just… give you an update, so. Anyways. Talk soon. Love you.” You set your phone down on the counter, but can’t manage to meet his eyes. Some part of you had been worried that he would judge you—or worse, pity you. He doesn’t speak, nor does he try to touch you. Your eyes are pulled towards two sets of rainbow-painted handprints stuck to Harry’s fridge—one large, one tiny. A wave of nausea washes over you at the imposition you’ve entitled yourself to, the risk involved, the implications.  “Thank you.” Harry jumps at the sound of your voice. “For everything. I should—” you loop an arm through the strap of your bag— “I should go.” “Woah, woah, woah… ” Harry catches your arm before you can take three steps. You freeze. He releases you immediately. “And go where? You heard the officer, yeah?” He’s shaking his head slowly. “You can’t go back to your flat.” “I did hear her,” you counter. It comes out more curt than you had meant it. “There’s a safe place for me to sleep at the precinct… Thank you again, I can show myself out.” “That’s ridiculous—” You turn away and he says your name, once, imploring. It’s more of a plea than a demand, keeping you still. You still have your eyes on the door, but since you’re no longer moving, Harry goes on.  “You can stay here, it’s fine. I’ve got a spare bed n’ all. You can sleep in Vi’s room.” Your resolve wavers. His voice is a pitch softer as he asks, “What is it?” Your mouth hangs open a moment before you can find the right words. “I don’t—we don’t…” We don’t know each other seems far too accusatory with everything that’s transpired between you, especially after tonight. You grind your teeth, reeling the words back. Harry’s fingers touch your elbow, hesitating, and when you don’t pull away he wraps his hand gently around your arm. Tears well up in your eyes and you can’t blame them on the guilt, fear, or relief alone… all of it at once leaves you itching to escape.  “We’re practically strangers,” you settle on finally. “I put you in danger, and I put your family in danger—” Harry’s thumb rotates in tiny circles in the crook of your arm, a touch so light you can barely feel it. You think unbidden of the lift on New Year’s Eve, and the brush of his lips over yours. You want to fall headlong back into that memory—to abate what is shaping up to be one of the worst nights of your life. “I’m Harry.”  You blink. “What?” He smiles at you—a quick, sanguine flicker of a thing. “I’m Harry… Styles. I’m twenty-six. I graduated from Kings with a Bachelors in Art History and Psychology. I’m an Administrative Assistant to the Director of the National Gallery—” his smile is real now, wider— “But sometimes I pick up shifts keepin’ an eye on the gallery for the extra few quid… I have a daughter named Sylvia. She’s almost five. I get her every other week. I grew up in Cheshire. I have a sister named Gemma and my mum’s name is Anne.” You sniffle. “Why are you telling me all this?” “So you and I aren’t strangers anymore.” You have no idea how to respond. “You’ve never been here before,” Harry continues. “If someone’s been keeping close tabs on our building, then maybe this is the safest place for you right now. If I felt you were putting my daughter in harm’s way—” you open your mouth to speak and he raises a finger— “I would ask you to leave… As it is, if you go now, I feel that I would be putting you in harm’s way… And I don’t want to.” The two of you stand at a stalemate. “Please don’t make me.” Harry lets go of your arm and eventually backs up to lean against the sink again. You could leave if you wanted to. Eventually you sigh and drop your bag down to the kitchen floor with a thud. “Are you hungry?” Harry asks. “I was gonna fix something for myself anyway.” You shake your head. “I don’t think I could eat anything right now.” The more powerful urge is to erase this night from memory, to scrub away the feeling of a rough hand on your shoulder. You absently rub your thumb into the sleeve of your shirt where the grime from the door to the stairwell had smeared. Your shoulder is still bare from the gaping hole. Harry tilts his head, as if he’s going to say something more, but you blurt, “Could I use your shower actually?” “Of course.” He leads you to the end of a brief hallway with three adjacent doors, only one of which is open. “Be back in a sec.” Harry emerges moments later with two folded towels, then flicks on the light as you trail behind him. Your eyes are immediately drawn to Harry in the broad mirror that covers the entire wall above the sink. His bathroom is virtually identical to yours, but it’s striking to see his familiar reflection somewhere outside of the lift.  Harry pushes aside the curtain to the shower. “Fuck.”  He sets the towels down on the toilet seat and hastily gathers up the army of rainbow rubber ducks lined along the rim of the tub, before yanking off a plastic water wheel suction cupped to the faucet. Clear synthetic stickers in the shape of cartoon rocket ships and planets cling to the shower wall which Harry peels off in a stack before scooping out a myriad of other colorful knick-knacks from the bottom of the tub. “Harry, you don’t have to do that.” “I’m just now realizing how mad this must look to someone who isn’t the parent of a four-year-old—” “Harry, please. You’re already doing so much for me. You don’t need to remodel your bathroom.” “Alright, well… ” Harry rises, brushing his hands down the front of his suit trousers with flushed cheeks and glasses halfway down his nose. He cards his fingers through his hair. “Just be careful not to step on those little sparkly buggers. They’re the most painful by far.” “I’ll keep that in mind.” You have to suppress an laugh at the image of him having stepped on every last toy in the tub enough to compare. “So, like, the red is hot and obviously the blue is cold but it’s very sensitive so I find it’s best to just leave it at about three o’clock—wait you…” Harry shakes his head with a frown. “You probably have the same one, don’t you?” You nod, wringing your hands. “Do you have a shirt or something I could borrow for after?” “Of course,” he almost cuts you off, disappearing into the hallway. You perch on the edge of the tub and run the faucet to adjust the temperature. There’s three raps on the door. “Come in!” you call. Harry squeezes through the door and you catch his eyes in the mirror. “Let me know if these fit.” You watch his reflection lift the clean towels, put down the bundle of clothes, and restack the linens on top with the ease of someone who’s clearly used to taking care of someone else. “Thank you, I’m sure they’ll be fine.” He nods and closes the door firmly behind him. Sylvia’s bath wrap, bright yellow and embroidered with her initials, hangs by its duck shaped hood on a hook next to the door. Steam is starting to rise from the shower. You take a deep lungful and step in carefully. Although childrens’ soaps and clutter are unfamiliar, the water pressure is the same as the shower in your apartment, if not better. It pounds down against your back and shoulders, and for a minute you let yourself just stand in the hot spray. It takes several seconds of inner coaxing before you can close your eyes and tilt your head back beneath the water. A hardened blue stare flashes in your mind’s eye, but you push it back determinedly. You think of Harry’s clear, level gaze. You think of the way he’d looked as he pinned a poppy to your chest—as he’d drank from that half-empty bottle of Prosecco.  So you turn your attention to the soap instead. It’s strange to see the source of several of the mingling scents you’ve picked up from him in the lift over so many months, and even more strange to pick the bottles up and use them on yourself. But there’s something cathartic in the act of scrubbing yourself raw, especially the spot on your shoulder where you had to wrench yourself away from that painful grip. By the time the last of the shampoo and soap are swirling down the drain, buoying a tiny rubber duck that Harry had missed, you finally feel a bit more like yourself again.  The towels are in easy reach. You wrap your hair in one, wind the other around your body, and tiptoe across the bathmat, wading through a junkyard of toys. A hotel toothbrush packaged in plastic lays atop the pile of clothes Harry had left, so you quickly brush your teeth before giving the bathroom a cursory tidy. You have to roll up the cuffs of his sweatpants to your ankles. You can barely see your own reflection, so you crack open the door to air out the steam a bit. Somewhere a kettle shrieks. You creep into the hall, clutching a neat bundle of your clothes and set your things down on the chest table in the entryway before joining him in the kitchen. Harry has changed out of his work suit and into a plain white tee shirt and grey sweatpants. Sundry, mismatched tattoos are scattered all along his left arm and it catches you by surprise. No rings. You have no idea what to do with yourself, faced with the reality that you’re standing in Harry’s flat, wearing his clothes, smelling like him. You lean gingerly against the counter, sort of surprising yourself as you blurt out, “I thought you said you were hungry?” Harry freezes, like he is both realizing you’re there, and also that he contradicted himself. “Lost my appetite I guess. Tea?” “I’d love some, yeah. If there’s enough water. Thanks.” “Sure.” You watch as Harry pulls down a veritable armada of teabags. “Gotta be prepared,” he says with a vaguely self-deprecating smile. “We take our tea seriously over here. These—” Harry gestures—  “haven’t got caffeine.”  Something tells you that an entire bottle of cold medicine couldn’t knock you out tonight. “Whatever you’re having is fine.” Your phone vibrates against your hip and you pull it out to skim the text from your mom. Hi honey. Sorry I missed your call, hope everything is alright… It’s late for you now so I’ll try back in the morning. Hugs. You pull your bottom lip between your teeth as guilt taps you on the shoulder. You’re drained and it would be lovely not to rehash tonight’s events for a second time when you know it would do nothing but worry her. Since you’re in reasonably good hands, you lock your phone and shove it back into the pocket of Harry’s sweats. “How do you take it?” Harry murmurs. “With a little bit of milk, if you don’t mind.” He places your tea on the counter beside you before adding the milk. “I don’t mind,” he mocks your accent gently, and it bothers you how good he is at it. Harry passes you the mug. You raise it to your nose and inhale the steam. “Thank you, Harry, for being so… okay with all of this, and for just like, making me feel… ” You trail off, shaking your head. “I wouldn’t have thought it was possible to have, like, an ounce of normalcy tonight after all that.”  You tuck a strand of wet hair behind your ear. Harry pushes his glasses up his nose with his thumb and idly plays with the tag hanging by a string over the side of his mug. “I’ve heard you take responsibility a dozen times tonight for the danger that someone else put you in,” he says after a minute. His eyes are vaguely unfocused, and trained on the blinds. “Tonight was not your fault. Like, you were smart, brave and all that, but you shouldn’t have had to be.” He takes a sip. “I’m glad I was there.” Harry doesn’t say anything else. It’s cathartic in a way you wouldn’t have expected, to hear him state it back to you so plainly and without nuance. There’s not a thing you could say to that in defense of the argument that you are indeed to blame. But there were other choices I could have made. I shouldn’t have gone running that morning. I should have known to be more vigilant, buying those groceries. It was reckless of me to choose sheer curtains. I should have apparated to class instead of taking the tube. The logic sounds absurd to you in a new way when held up to the light. You absently stir your tea; there’s an orange tabby painted on the ceramic. “Chowder!” Harry’s eyebrows fly up. “Sorry?” “My cat! He’s all on his own in my apartment.” “Does he have water?” “Yeah, and food. And he's a few years old so he’ll be fine. I just feel awful, he’s never spent the night alone.” You shake your head. “Sorry for making you jump, it just crossed my mind.” “No, it’s okay… Do you want—should I go up and check on him for you?” “No, no. That’s not necessary. I’m just, you know, a terrible cat mom.”  “Ha!” Harry barks. It’s the loudest sound you’ve ever heard him make. “You don’t even want to… Oh Christ,” he shakes his head, creasing with laughter, “You have no idea.” “What?” You ask after a minute, unable to help yourself from joining in his laughter. His face is turning pink. “Do you have any idea how many nappies I’ve put on backwards? How many haircuts I’ve botched? I mean with my real, human child. I assembled both of Sylvia’s cribs upside down because the instructions were in Japanese. One after the other. It was the same fucking crib.” He deadpans your name at you. “Sylvia’s first word was fuck because Daddy couldn’t shake the habit of saying it all the fucking time.” “Oh my god.” “Yeah. We thought she was just a quiet kid, but then we were getting concerned that she wasn’t speaking by her second birthday. We took her to a speech therapist. So imagine you’re me, watching your daughter in her little highchair with her mum right up in her face, going, “Vi can you say ma-ma? And the child throws her binkie… and yells, Fuck!” You’re laughing so hard it’s completely silent.  “Didn’t say it.” He swipes a tear from the corner of his eye, and it bumps up his glasses a little. “Yelled it. Not a thing wrong with her… Oh,” Harry sighs. “Annie wouldn't speak to me for a week.” He shakes his head. “That’s incredible.” “So, like, newsflash… ” He takes a sip of his tea. “Nobody has any idea what they’re doing. There’s no such thing as a perfect parent or, um—cat mum as you said.” “So…” you venture after a pause. “Annie?” Harry laughs once through his nose, rolling his eyes. “Alright, alright. Fair.” He sets his tea down on the counter. “Thought maybe we’d get to have this conversation over Prosecco,” he says, chuckling dryly. “Sylvia was definitely… unexpected… ” Harry begins delicately. “But she’s, like the funniest person I know and also my favorite person on the planet. So… I dunno. It worked out.” He clears his throat. “She was conceived on the night I met her mum at a pub in Essex and that was that. Haven’t really looked back. Annie—Vi’s mum—is an amazing person. We were never in love or anythin’ even close, but she’s the best co-parent I could ever dream of.”  “Vi’s a cute nickname.” “S’her first name, actually.” Harry smiles over the rim of his mug. “Lanh Vi.” His voice dips low and elongates the first syllable. “Lanh means gentle, happy. Vi is a family name. Annie wanted to give that to her parents, a proper Vietnamese name on her birth certificate. Sylvia’s sort of a good compromise for when she goes to school.”  Harry stares at some middle distance, smiling like he isn’t even aware he’s doing it. “Annie’s parents took a little convincing that any of this was going to work out—mine too—but I love our unconventional little family, and I’m really looking forward to her wedding. Sylvia’s in store for two really incredible mums.” He looks back at you and shrugs. “It’s not such a bad life. Sometimes I wish there was a more exciting answer.” “That doesn’t seem like a bad life at all.” The corners of Harry’s lips drop a little the moment you open your mouth. His head is tilted slightly as though he’s trying to gauge your reaction. You try to mirror the same, reassuring smile he’d given you earlier, then cover a yawn with your hand. “What time is it?” you ask. Harry checks his phone. “Half ten—or just gone.” “No it’s not,” you frown, but he holds up his phone to show you. “Oh god…” “Time flies when you’re talking about parenthood.” He takes your empty mugs, setting them carefully in the sink. “Thank you.” Without turning around Harry announces, “I think I’m gonna have you sleep in my bed and I’ll take the air mattress in Sylvia’s room.” “No.” You shake your head. “Harry I swear if you insist on that, I’m calling a taxi to the police station.” “No, honestly… They’re the only two rooms in the flat with the blinds consistently drawn, and her room’s empty most nights anyway since I’m such a pushover.” It takes a moment for that comment to sink in and when it does you feel your heart melt a little. “You’ll sleep much better in my bed than on my inherited air mattress from the nineties.” “I won’t,” you lie seamlessly. “I don’t sleep well in new places anyway, so at least one of us should get a good night’s rest.” “Whatever makes you most comfortable,” he relents. You’re glad you don’t have to argue about it. “Thank you.” Harry leads you to the linen cabinet in the hallway and removes a cardboard box from the very top shelf. An enormous dust cloud falls like an avalanche down his shirt and he coughs hysterically, scrunching his nose. “Last chance to change your mind,” Harry croaks, wiping his glasses on the front of his shirt. You shake your head and he turns to the door across from his, where his bed is half visible in shadow. The two of you shuffle into a cubby of a room, and Harry drops the box onto the plush pile rug with a thud.  Your neck cranes as you look around the tiny space, about as roomy as the lift. The walls are painted navy blue with silver and gold stars exploding in a galaxy across the walls, and your hand floats to your chest in memory of when Sylvia had pointed at you with a tiny finger, recognizing the shape at the end of the chain hung around your neck. Her bed frame is painted a deep, forest green and the two small pillows upon it are shaped like rain clouds. Plastic dinosaurs of all different sizes and colors line her windowsill. A small, homemade bookshelf is aligned by the bed. “You mind helping me spread it?” Harry’s voice brings you back down to earth, and you grab two corners of the plastic to lay out the mattress like a picnic blanket on the floor. It’s a tight squeeze, but at least it’s a queen. You look down at it with your hands on your hips, and Harry tilts his head, running a hand over his stubble. Harry steps back out into the hallway, ducking into his bedroom. You hear the creak of a closet door and shifting fabric as the beam of light from his room slants across the hall into Sylvia’s, illuminating a diagonal path right up through the wooden slats of her toybox. There’s a small, familiar shadow outline on top. You crouch down to pick up Jojo and his mother in one hand, running your fingers over the soft velvet of their floppy ears. It feels a little odd, to be so comforted by a child’s toy that doesn't even belong to you, but here you are. “I see you’ve found an old friend.”  Harry leans against the doorframe, watching you. His arms are full with a clean sheet, spare pillow, and quilt. The fondness in his voice is hard to miss, but you wonder if it’s for his daughter, for the toy, or for you. “I would’ve thought Sylvia brought him to her mom’s, too.” Harry’s lips twitch with amusement before he puts the pillow and quilt on top of Sylvia’s dresser. “She used to take him everywhere.” He visits every corner of the mattress to tuck the sheet around. “Here, let me help you with—” “No, no, it’s always easier like this before you blow it up.” Harry steps into the corners of the room that aren’t completely swallowed up by the giant, deflated bed. He removes a paper lantern night light with constellation cutouts from its outlet, replacing it with the motor to the air mattress. “This part always takes a bit.” The small plastic box sputters into a whine and the mattress begins to inflate. “Just give it a few minutes… S’ old.” Soft whirring fills the room before he speaks over it. “We almost lost him on a trip to Brighton once—” he nods at Jojo, still in your hands— “Vi was inconsolable until we found him wedged between the bed and the wall in the hotel. Managed to convince her that leaving him at home—or at least only to Bridget’s on the first floor while I’m at work—was the best way to keep him safe.” He steals a glance at you and unfolds the massive quilt on top of the bed as it rises, before fluffing the pillow and tossing it to one of the long ends. “Then she started insisting on leaving him here on the weeks she spends at her mum’s.” “How come?” Harry’s smile is somewhere between pointedly self-deprecating and unbelievably loving. “Says she doesn’t want me to be lonely while she’s gone.”  Before you can fully process all the ways your heart is both warmed and a little broken, Harry is disappearing into the hall again, returning with a throw blanket and fanning it out over the quilt. “Okay.” He pushes his glasses up his nose. “That should do it. Do you want another pillow?” He turns to you suddenly, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. “I have a couple more on my—” “No, no. This is more than enough… Thank you again, Harry,” You reassure him with the understanding that this is goodnight. Harry runs a hand through his hair and a little puff of dust is drawn out. “If you, um—If you need anything, I’ll be… my bedroom’s just there.” He twists around to point. “Don’t hesitate to like… yeah, wake me up if you need—if you feel… ” He laughs once at himself, exasperated. “Sorry, I’m tired.” You shake your head and smile sympathetically. “So am I.” “Goodnight, then.” Harry backs out into the hallway. He pauses in Sylvia’s doorway, his hand still on the doorknob. At that exact moment, the motor clicks off and the sudden silence feels unbearably loud.  “I want you to feel safe here.” The room is so still that you see the shadow against Harry’s neck bob as he swallows in the yellow light of the hall. His eyes are steady and clear. You take a breath in, and nod. “I do,” you say, steadfast. “I promise… Goodnight, Harry.” He shuts the door behind him. • saturday, 5th january 12:46 am •

There had been a knock, of that much you are sure. One solitary rap jolts you from sleep, followed by the raucous succession of a dozen more as you sit up on the air mattress. It stops for a moment. Then starts up again. “Harry?” you whisper into the blackness, your heart suddenly pounding. In your groggy trance, you weren’t sure the first time you heard it if someone was knocking on the door to Sylvia’s room, but by the time your eyes adjust, you’re sure it’s coming from farther away. It stops. You’re still for a minute, careful not to rustle the quilt. There is no sound apart from a faint siren in the distance. You unplug your phone from where it charges beneath the nightlight, squinting at its bright little face. 12:46. Perhaps it’s a police officer? Surely they would have announced themselves, wouldn’t they? You slide down the mattress and creep up to the door, pressing an ear against the wood. There is nothing but the echo of your own blood rushing in your ear. You have to close your eyes and count to three before turning the doorknob. Harry is already in the hall, the door to his bedroom left gaping. He turns to you and immediately brings a finger to his lips. The sound of an open hand smacking against the front door is unmistakable. Harry inches towards the noise. He freezes suddenly, then twists to look at you, reaching his hand back with fingers outspread. Stay here. Harry rounds the corner out of sight until it becomes unbearable to stand there a moment longer. You tiptoe in his wake, and move at the same time he does. The only light in the flat spills from his open bedroom. Here in hall, the shadows are long and dark and Harry’s expression is harder to make out until he glances over his shoulder. He nods at you once before training his eyes on the door again. Your feet move of their own accord, as though they have unilaterally decided that the safest place for you is as close to Harry as possible. It seems jarring to you, that this man in a tee shirt and boxers is the same man who, not a week ago, seemed like a piece of art with his burgundy suit and damp curls; the memory of loose limbs and laughter clashes against the image of him fraught before you. Harry peers through the peephole. Your eyes are cemented to the back of his head and you begin to feel dizzy, only just realizing you’ve been holding your breath. He tenses. In a freezing rush of dread, you suddenly know exactly who is on the other side of that door. You know you shouldn’t panic. Harry raises a finger to his lips again in another soundless imperative and you know—from a place that feels somewhere outside your body—that the last thing you should be doing is opening your mouth. But this is a terror hurtling beyond fight or flight. Your primary functions are in a deadlock with a searing hysteria clamoring for you to scream, and something desperately carnal that believes you could only survive this moment if you were silent enough.  Harry is still gesturing at you to keep quiet. He turns his back to the door and approaches you, the weight of his gaze keeping you motionless. He reaches forward and presses his palm firmly against your parted lips. All of a sudden you’re just as close as you were in the lift four nights ago when he tasted like brandy and the beginning of something new. The look he had given you on New Year’s was playful and wanting. In this moment, however, a pair of hard and urgent eyes bore into yours, igniting the pit of your stomach with a different kind of fear. Harry wraps his free hand around your wrist. You blink and blink. Beneath the steel resolve in his face, a desperate question forms: Do you trust me? You want to answer but you don’t know how. So you just keep staring. He pushes you backwards, gently, leading you around the corner and down the hall, his hand cupped to your mouth all the while. Even if you’d wanted to glance at the front door, Harry’s gaze is a magnet to your eyes. He walks you all the way into his bedroom, until you feel the mattress on the backs of your knees. You’d fall if not for Harry letting go of your wrist to guide you down with a hand on your waist. His lips move soundlessly around the words, stay here, and you manage to nod. Only then does he release your mouth. Your eyes can only focus on the closet door directly in front of you. It takes every ounce of your concentration to just keep breathing so you don’t pass out as Harry doubles back out into the hall, leaving you on the edge of his bed. You can feel an outbreak of sweat around your temple and on the back of your neck. You know you’re shaking but that feels distant, too.  You have no idea how long Harry is gone, you just know he closes the door upon his return. You’re still trying to pace your breathing as he crouches down in front of you. He has his phone to his ear. You can only catch a few of his words at a time.  “My name is Harry Styles… previously reported an, um, incident involving… yes… no… returned… knocked on the door. No, he’s gone now… I waited, to be sure. But I—” There’s a pause. “I think he’s knocking on every door on this floor.” You hear something like a choked gasp. Only when Harry’s eyes dart to yours do you realize it was you.  You have put the entire building in danger.  “Yes, she’s still here.” His free hand reaches up to your knee as he listens to the dispatcher, but he seems to think better of it at the last moment, worrying the edge of the duvet between his fingers instead. “Right, yes. I understand. I will. Thank you.”  Faint ringing replaces the feeling of water in your ears.  “They’re sending someone,” he murmurs after hanging up. “He’s gone.” You hear that broken gasp again. “He’s gone, I promise.” Your shoulders cave inward when you feel the full, painful heave of your sob. Tears stream down your cheeks as you cover your face. Harry’s hand lifts again. You shrink away and he immediately moves from you to stand. “I’ll be—”  You seize at the first part of him you can reach, grasping a weak fistful of his soft cotton tee. Harry is completely still beneath your trembling fingers. He doesn’t pull away or move closer. He just hovers there, steady. “Please…” You want to ask him to stay. You want to ask for help. You want him to touch you so you know that you’re real—that you’re not in fact still trapped alone in the most terrifying part of a nightmare, but the words are unbearable.  The sound of your name in Harry’s mouth undoes something inside you. Through your tears you finally lift your head to find his eyes. His expression seems torn, like he wants to comfort you but doesn’t know how. You’re not sure which one of you bridges the gap, but your forehead lands in the warm slope between his neck and shoulder and that seems to be all the confirmation Harry needs.  His hands slide up your back to hold you as you all but collapse into him, crying with enough force that Harry draws you off the bed and onto the floor with him. He smooths one hand up and down the length of your spine as the other wraps so far around your back that you can feel his fingertips hooked over your hip. “S’ok,” he murmurs, his lips pressing into your temple like he intends to seal the words to your skin. Harry doesn’t try to shush you. “S’gonna be alright. ‘M here… I’ve got you. You’re safe… I’ve got you.”  When your wracking sobs give way to hiccups and finally to something halfway controllable, he stops talking and just holds you, rocking ever so slightly in a sort of motion that only a parent can do. You have no idea how long you sit like that, a tangle of limbs and soaked collars and cheeks, until you’re finally able to speak.  “I’m sorry,” you choke out. “You—”  “None of that,” Harry says immediately. You feel his nose dig into your hair, his breath warm as he sighs. “I mean it, alright? No more apologizing for any of this. Might have to make you a jar like the one Annie has for me in her flat.” The thought is strange enough to pull you, however briefly, out of your current misery. “You have an apology jar?”  He exhales sharply. “Swear jar, actually.”  Your laugh bursts out unexpectedly, sort of wet and weak, but there nonetheless. You feel the soft stroke of his thumb on the back of your head. “That’s more like it.”  You draw back and Harry’s grip tightens, just for a moment, before he releases you. He brushes your damp cheeks with the side of his palm before you can do it yourself. You see the same concentration he wore when he’d pinned that Remembrance Day poppy to your jacket. It takes effort to silence the instinct to be ashamed and keep his eyes.  “They said it might be a bit before an officer can get up here,” he says, searching your face. “They’re puttin’ together a couple patrol teams to canvas the building and stay outside the rest of the night.” All you can think to do is nod. “Can I get you anything? Water?” “Please,” you reply, grateful. “I should—” you make a vague gesture at yourself— “clean myself up a bit.” Harry opens his mouth like he wants to comment, but just nods instead. You use his shoulder to push yourself to your feet; his hand covers yours and you feel his thumb running across your knuckles.  You say, “Thank you,” but it’s not nearly enough. He squeezes gently, staring up at you and saying nothing. You walk on unsteady legs to the bathroom. You can feel his eyes on you even when you close the door. Lacing your fingers atop your head, you sigh at the tearstained, swollen-eyed version of yourself staring back at you in the mirror. After blowing your nose and splashing a few handfuls of water across your face, you join him on his side of the bed. His phone is in his hands. He finishes sending off a long, blue bubble of text before looking up and passing you a water from the nightstand. He runs the tip of his index finger around the rim of his own glass.

You bring the drink to your lips, then lower it immediately; the glass clacks against your teeth with the tremor of your hand. You can feel Harry’s eyes on you even though he doesn’t turn his head. Again, you try taking a sip with the same result and sigh. “I think I’m gonna try my parents again.” “Sure.” You set your water on the nightstand and head to Sylvia’s room, shutting the door behind you. You take a deep breath before collapsing back on the mattress. The stars rotating on the ceiling like a merry-go-round make you nauseous so you unplug the nightlight before dialing. Your mom answers after the first ring, emphasizing your name like a scolding. “Hi, Mom.” “What are you doing up? It’s the middle of the night in England. Is everything alright?” “That’s actually what I need to talk to you about.” You hardly get a sentence in before you hear her rushing to get your dad and the three of you have an hour-long, emotional crash-course on the last five hours of your life. There isn’t too much to fill in as you’ve kept them more or less updated on the blue-eyed man and your previous trips to the police department. You assure them that you’re in one piece and that you couldn’t have wound up with a more generous host, but that doesn’t assuage your mom from insisting on speaking with the police herself. She makes you promise to stay on the line until the authorities arrive. Before long, you hear a light rap on your door. “Yes?” Harry cracks it open without peeking his head inside. “Police are here—take your time. I’ll go out and speak with them.” “Thanks, Harry… Mom, some officers just arrived I think.” You pinch your phone between your cheek and shoulder, softly close the door behind you. “I’ll call you back once we’re done with everything.” You rush through a quick goodbye and meet Harry in the entryway. He’s thrown on some gym pants and a sweater and his arms are folded across his chest. The fully-uniformed men seem bulky and out of place in the sixth-floor hallway, as though they couldn’t squeeze in Harry’s modest apartment. It’s not like you’re the one in trouble, but your heart skips a little anyway. “… every floor of the building and searched the surrounding perimeter with no sign of anyone matching the description, and from the security footage we seized, we can see that he pulled out of the car park about forty-five minutes ago.” “Okay.” Harry nods, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Alright. Great.” The officer who had been speaking turns to you. “And you must be the young woman who—” “Yes.” You jerk your head quickly. It’s more like an anxious spasm than a nod.  “That’s me.” “We were just filling your neighbor in that we were unable to find the culprit, but the building and surrounding area seem to be clear. If at all possible, we think it would be best for you to stay here just for the night, then come straight to the station in the morning to make a plan.”  You simply nod again. “I will.” “You’re flat 8F, is that right?” “That’s correct.” “Were any of these marks on your door before this evening?” The officer pulls a cell phone out of his pocket, unlocking it to reveal the last few pictures in the camera roll. Your stomach drops. He flips through several photos of a long, black streak above the handle of your front door, and a sizable ding in the wood by the door jam. The impact was hard enough to scratch the paint. “No,” you manage. “I don’t recognize those. Did he, um…” “The door didn’t give,” the officer says. It’s just reassuring enough to keep your knees from buckling. He turns to face Harry again. “And you’re certain that the man showed no signs of knowledge that she—that the two of you were in this particular flat?” “Yeah. I watched him make his way down, knocking on a couple more doors.”  “Was he stopping by every door?”  Harry takes a moment to think. “No,” he replies. “It seemed a bit random if I’m honest.” “Right. Well, keep an eye out for any unusual activity in the next few days, especially on this floor. Don’t hesitate to let us know if anything changes.” The officer looks to you again. “In the meantime, we’ll see you at the station tomorrow?” “Yes, um… ” You clear your throat as your cheeks warm. “I’m sorry. Would one of you be willing to speak with my parents on the phone? They’re a bit worried and want to talk to a professional.” You hold up your cell. “Of course.” After dialing for him, you hand the officer your phone and he begins to engage your mom in what sounds like a very animated, reassuring dialogue. You and Harry are leaned against opposite walls in the hallway, spaced out in exhaustion. You cover a yawn with your hand and catch him doing the same. Do you dare check the time? Your hands absently pat your front and back pockets, and you frown in trying to recall where you’d last set your phone. You roll your eyes in glancing up at the officer pacing in the entryway on the phone with your mother. “S’ just gone two,” Harry mumbles. You make a light noise in the back of your throat. “I’m sorry, Harry.” “That’s a tenner in the apology jar.” You breathe a laugh without humor, shaking your head back and forth against the wall. “I just can’t wait for this day to be over,” you whisper. “Would you like to speak with her again?” The officer’s voice clips into your half-conscious conversation. You hold out your hand and tuck the phone between your cheek and shoulder again as Harry thanks the officers one last time before showing them out.  Apparently satisfied with the conversation she’d had with the police, your mother circles back to the matter of your current state of limbo. “You’re sure you’re comfortable staying with this neighbor? Where are you sleeping?” You can practically hear the alarm bells from across the Atlantic. “It’s fine, Mom. We’re friends… sort of.” Friends that drunkenly make out in the lift. “He has a spare mattress. I’m staying in his guest room.” She digests this information in silence. “I’m alright, I promise. It’s just for tonight.”  There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. “I want you to call us, alright? No matter what time it is here or there, I want you to check in with us every day until we know for sure you’re absolutely safe.”  “I will,” you vow. “I’ll call you in the morning, okay? I’m exhausted.”  “Right yes, go get some rest. We love you.”  You swallow with a little difficulty. “Love you too.”  Harry’s idling by the sink with your empty glasses.  “Sorry about that,” you say, and then wince when he gives you a sidelong look. “They can be a bit protective.” He shakes his head, his expression somehow more grave than you were expecting. “I know exactly how they feel.” Harry rubs his eyes under his glasses. “I’m sorry,” he says into his palms. “I’m knackered.” “Yeah, of course… Get some sleep.” You hesitate. “You sure there’s not anything else I can get you?” “I’m sure.” He pinches softly just above your elbow. “See you in the morning.” Harry disappears into the hall. You listen to the sound of his bedroom door click shut before tilting your head to the ceiling and letting your eyelids close, literally twenty feet below your own apartment. You could probably throw a basketball higher than that. You sigh and look back down at your phone on the counter, quickly drafting a text to India and then deleting it. For a minute you stay like that, a statue in the pale light of Harry’s kitchen—the relic of a girl who woke up this morning unscathed. It’s probably for the best that you get some sleep tonight, but standing in front of the nursery with your hand on the doorknob, you can’t bring yourself to face the pitiful air mattress again. You turn to Harry’s bedroom door in defeat. Who on earth are you trying to fool? Heart hammering, you swallow your pride and crack open the door to Harry’s bedroom, stepping gingerly inside. It shuts behind you with a delayed click-click, impossibly loud. Nothing apart from blackness is visible before you, but suddenly comes the sound of a long breath in from somewhere in the room. Blankets rustle. Your fingers tighten on the doorknob behind you. With a tink, soft, yellow light spills over every surface in Harry’s bedroom. His nose scrunches and eyes squint. His hand flounders once against the nightstand before he locates his glasses, pushing them swiftly onto his face. Harry’s expression relaxes as he props himself up on one elbow to get a better look at you. Your face stings with heat, but you hold your ground. His eyes are soft, careful, yet strangely unaffected. Without a word, or the slightest suggestion of ambivalence, Harry reaches out an arm to the opposite side of the mattress, and tosses the corner of the duvet halfway down the bed before meeting your gaze from across the room. It feels like a weakness, to cave and accept his offer. You want to explain yourself, suddenly, but there are no words for this time of night and the chasm you’re hanging over by your fingertips. So you approach the bed in silence and slide beneath his covers.  Backs turned to each other, you curl up so far from Harry that your knees hang over the edge of the bed. You hear the cool sliding of blankets once more before absolute stillness. The last image of your day is the dim, golden glow of Harry’s lamp vanishing on the ceiling. • saturday, 5th january 4:07 am • It’s disorienting, adjusting to a room you can immediately tell isn’t your own, momentarily teetering between asleep and awake. It’s even more disorienting when you realize that you are not alone. There’s a knee between yours and a heavy arm slung over your waist. You’ve migrated to the center of the bed somehow during the night, flipped on your back. But what draws your attention the most is the warm breath in the curve of your neck. “Harry?”  It was the asleep-half of your brain that had thought to croak his name. You don’t know what kind of reply you’re expecting to receive in this blue, small morning hour. Perhaps you won’t get one at all. Perhaps you’re dreaming. You stare up at the ceiling.  If you close your eyes now, would you even remember this come dawn? But the grip around your waist tightens, just for a moment, before you feel his body slide up against yours, a sigh fanning over your cheek.  “Yeah.” Harry’s voice is low and gravelly, but unmistakable. You can feel the rise and fall of his chest through the fine cotton of the shirt he’d loaned you, and he sounds surprisingly alert. A small silence lingers. “Alright?” Your eyes stay trained on the ceiling. Are you?  Part of you wants him to clarify the question: are you alright after everything that happened tonight? Are you alright… with this? “Yeah,” you breathe.  Harry doesn’t say anything else. For a moment you think he’s fallen back asleep but then he shifts closer to you. You watch as the shadow of his arm reaches over your body for your hand—you had left it open and maybe a little vulnerable beside your head on the pillow. You can feel the calluses on Harry’s fingertips as they slide up your palm and find the space between yours. You don’t dare turn your head because there is a question in your eyes that you realize you can no longer ignore, and you are afraid of his answer. So you close your fingers around his and do not speak. Harry exhales. You’re hyper aware of the way his body relaxes as he squeezes your hand. You take a deep breath. You know it’s no use wondering whether or not Harry is going to remember this in the morning. Even if this is a dream, you cannot deny that you’re warm and you’re safe and that you will remember, possibly forever, regardless of whatever happens or doesn’t happen between you. It’s a vaguely scary thought.  You close your eyes.

[1234-angelika]

Blank Slate

an:Wow, this one's a long one! As always, I'm excited to share this with y'all. This is the third installment in the Happily Ever After series for Hotch. Hope y'all enjoy!

words:1.5 k

warnings:canon-typical violence, mentions of divorce (super slight)

summary:"It is a risk to love. What if it doesn't work out? Ah, but what if it does?"-Peter McWilliams

masterpost|taglist|have an idea

A few weeks ago, Aaron asked you out, but being swamped with back-to-back cases made it difficult to plan a date.

You were in your office playing music that you weren’t really listening to and doing paperwork. It was a quiet day, a welcome break from the recent chaos. Then, just as you began settling back in, a knock on the door sounded through your office.

“Come in!” You called out, looking up from your work.

In walked JJ, case files in hand. One look from her, and you knew.

“Another case?” You asked, knowingly. Internally cursing yourself for jinxing it.

“You guessed it. Conference room ASAP.” She said, dropping the case file on your desk and walking out.

You headed to the conference room in a hurry, only grabbing a pen and a spare sheet of paper before breezing out of your office. Not even bothering to close the door behind you. Once you arrived in the conference room, after taking your seat between Hotch and Derek, the team started to go over the files.

“The crimes are within a seven-mile radius.” JJ said, starting the conversation.

“Well, that’s something.” Said Derek.

“Yeah, but the neighbourhoods are all completely different,” You said, pausing to look over the file before continuing. “They range from poor to rich, industrial to residential.”

“The physical locations are dissimilar, but the operating zone’s well-defined.” Said Aaron, trying to keep the facts straight.

All the while, Garcia was working to remotely access the computer of one of the victims, Rossi, on the other side.

“Okay, I’m in.” She said, typing away at her laptop.

The next little bit was spent going over the files and last accessed pages on the victim’s computer.

“Let’s talk about what we know.” Said Hotch, bringing the focus back to the facts.

“All right, Victim One, Travis Bartlett, was last seen at a gay bar. He was shot at night in a park.” Said JJ, pausing to change the picture on the screen before continuing. “Victim Two, Lily Nicks, a 34-year-old prostitute. Her throat was slashed. Victims Three and Four, June Appleby and Troy Wertsler, were shot in their car at a parking lot outside of a movie theatre.” She paused again, changing the picture. “And Victim Five was a 28-year-old single woman, Kayla James, killed in her home. She was bound, suffocated with a bag over her head, evidence of rape.”

“And then the sixth victim is Zoe.” Said Emily.

“Victimology, weapons used and COD are all different. I mean, it’s hard to imagine it’s even the same UnSub.” Spencer mused aloud.

Dave interjected, “It can’t be a coincidence that Zoe goes to Kayla James’ house and gets murdered.”

“All right, let’s say it is the same killer. Does anybody see a pattern?” Aaron asked.

“Well, maybe. Okay, in the first crime, he shoots the victim. The second crime, he rapes a woman and slashes her throat, that’s more personal. In the third crib, he escalates to killing two people. In the fourth, he escalates even more by raping a woman, binding her and suffocating her.” Emily offered.

“So if it is the same UnSub, you could argue that there’s a progression of violence with every kill.” Aaron stated.

“It could be an anger excitation offender getting more daring with each crime.” Said Spencer.

“I think I got something here, look at this. The slashes in the prostitute’s throat, they’re all shallow, unsure cuts.” You said, looking through the pictures again. “The Kayla James crime scene, a telephone cord, rope, and duct tape were used. It’s like he couldn’t decide how to bind her.”

“So without a gun, he’s sloppy, inexperienced.” Said Aaron.

“The young couple shot in the car. That crime scene remind you of anything?” Asked Derek.

“Yeah, they were shot with a .44 Bulldog, just like the Son of Sam used on his victims, which were also young couples in parked cars. It might be nothing, but you’re right, there is a parallel there. “Spencer answered the question with ease.

“With the second victim it’s hard not to think of Jack the Ripper. The obvious similarity being it’s a prostitute whose throat was slashed.” Emily added, spitballing with the previous theory.

“Kayla James was bound, tortured, raped with a plastic bag over her head, like BTK.” So you said, continuing the theory.

“Okay. Then what about victim number one?” Emily asked.

“Garcia, what neighbourhood was he found in?” Asked Rossi.

“At a park in the Kingsbury Run area. “Garcia answered immediately.

“Zoe reminded me last night that Cleveland’s most famous serial killer was the Butcher of Kingsbury Run.” David said, pausing before continuing. “He found his victims in gay bars, shot them and dumped their body there. Travis Bartlett was last seen at a gay bar and his body was found in Kingsbury Park.”

“So these are copy-cats of famous serial killers?” Asked JJ.

“He’s a serial killer studying serial killers.” Said, David.

Deciding that was enough, Aaron stood abruptly and said, “See you in Cleveland Dave.”

The case was long, and it had a rough start. Only ending after the UnSub was captured with his girlfriend, she offered information that sealed the case. The plane ride home was quiet; everyone was mentally exhausted from the case. You were in your usual seat beside Aaron. Stuck in your thoughts, absentmindedly, you snuggled further into his shoulder. Idly, the two of you chatted quietly for most of the flight, a lot of the chatter revolving around your pending date.

Because the return home was so late, you and Aaron decided to have your date in—at his place—instead of going out. The paperwork from the case was done quickly in anticipation of the date that was coming up. Just as you were finishing up, a knock came through the door and then it squeaked open. Aaron stood in the doorway, briefcase and bag in hand.

“Are you ready to go?” He asked.

Standing up, you replied, “Yeah, I just need to grab my bags.”

Grabbing them, you walked towards Aaron and shut the lights off in your office before quietly shutting the door behind you. As you were walking down the corridor, Aaron quietly said, “most of the team is still here so, I’ll leave now. Wait at least five minutes before following.”

You nodded in understanding; the reasoning for the secrecy was sound. The ten minutes passed quickly as you spent them mindlessly thumbing through your phone. Finally, emerging from the hallway, you bid everyone goodnight on your way to the elevators. You were plenty distracted but no so much that you missed the ‘discreet’ looks the team was sharing across the bullpen. As the elevator doors closed, you smiled to yourself. They’re profilers; of course, they know what’s going on.

You made your way to Aaron and his awaiting car. After placing your bags in the back, you, not as gracefully as you would’ve liked, clambered into the passenger’s seat. As the car took off, it really made you think. Never in your wildest dreams did you think you would be in this position, on your way to your boss’s house for a date with him.

He parked in front of his house, quickly opened your door for you, and grabbed your bags from the back. The keys jangled noisily in his hands as the two of you walked up the front steps. As soon as you stepped inside, a homey feeling washed over you. His house definitely did not reflect the personality he projected. You stepped further into the foyer as Aaron disappeared around a corner. Looking around—not snooping—your eyes landed on some pictures, carefully arranged on the wall. Walking closer to take a look, your heart stopped in your chest when your eyes landed on a photo of Aaron with a woman, Haley, and a little boy, Jack. Your heart broke for Aaron for the loss of his family, the life that he wanted.

Just as you were about to move on, you felt Aaron’s presence behind you. Mind running a mile a minute, you didn’t think. You just reacted. You flung your arms around him and surprised him with a hug. He was quick to catch himself and you so the pair of you didn’t go crashing to the ground. After the hug, you decided on what to order for dinner and what movie to watch.

The wait for the food was filled with more getting to know you chit-chat and small talk, not quite ready to venture into the deep end. The food arrived quicker than expected, and you got ready to settle in. After getting comfy on the couch, you both enjoyed the food, the movie, and each other.

Definitely one of the best first dates you’ve ever been on.

taglist:@honeyofthegods

@sparklykeylime @multixfandomwriter @myescapefromthislife

[spiltscribbles]

Prompt #37 for you, dear: Things you said with the tv on mute 😌📺🤫

Notes: Okay angel, you have an official IOU from me for a one shot that’s total fluff!!! I love you!!!! Thank you to the gorgeous bitch that is Bethany for making this better than it ever could’ve been <3 <3 

A Reblog is worth a thousand Stars

.-

Things you said with the TV was muted  |  Send Me A Prompt

.-

Sirius’s never been much for silence. He was brought up in the heart of London in a household always filled to the brim with guests that his parents deemed worthy enough to intermingle with the ever so illustrious Black name, and then in Hogwarts there was always the chatter of other students or the mysterious sounds ringing from the forbidden forest. Sirius’s always needed that extra layer, that muffled background noise to help ground himself, to help not get lost in his own thoughts of inadequacy or regrets over his vast array of stupid decisions that he’d make in a thoughtless spur of passion. 

If he’s really forced to think about it, the only time Sirius’s ever been comfortable blanketed in quiet was during the few times he spent his school hols in the Welsh countryside. But Sirius tries not to, think about that he means. Because then he’s back in bed, curved against Remus, one of his arms stuck underneath him while the other traced elaborate designs against his sun dappled skin. And it’s hard to reminisce on those sorts of memories, the ones that remind him about burnt toast mornings in their Camden flat and the taste of blackberries on Remus’s lips and the way they had always found solace in folding into one another after a long day out on patrols or raids of a Death Eater hideout. Well, found solace until they had suddenly, abruptly not. Before Remus had begun spending his full moons away, out on covert missions given by Dumbledore and never repeated about to Sirius. Before a thick, uncomfortable tension had clogged between them on the breakfast table that they used to stretch across to interlace their hands with one another’s. Before secrets infested every nook and crevice of their relationship, burrowing through it like deadly, invasive pests— rotting away at the one thing Sirius held with reverence and an aching sort of love that he’s only ever felt towards Remus. 

The night Remus left was only surprising in how long it took their bending to turn to a break that couldn’t stitch back up with heady kisses, and ardent declarations and tender caresses that always were that bit lighter for how afraid they’ve always been to hurt the other. It was early June and it was like every ounce of Sirius was being rinsed of resolve, like the moonlight itself  was bleeding out with the desperation and yearning and pain painted so evidently on each of their faces and what measured their movements when in relation with the other. It was in the midst of an argument, because of course it was— because that had become their only form of communication in those final fleeting weeks in-between the fucking and the cautious glances volleyed around like they were back in sixth year and first beginning to tend this tentative, little flame between them, a flame that became a supernova that swallowed Sirius whole without his permission. Remus had made a crack about Sirius needing to get him a leash if he was so convinced that he wasn’t being forthcoming about his whereabouts, and Sirius had snapped back saying that at this point he wished Remus was actually just sneaking around to shag Dearborn, and then Remus had just slumped over, lying against the wall as if it was the only thing keeping him up anymore.

He had circles as dark as the velvet night sky beneath his bright eyes, and he had such a rigid sort of posture once finally standing back up that it makes Sirius wince even remembering it, and just looking at him in such a state felt like the deepest betrayal. All Sirius knew, all he’s ever known and all he will know for the rest of his days is that he never wants to be the one to make Remus look that defeated or exhausted or just plain sad ever again. Remus had packed his few belongings in the old luggage he’s had since first year in a matter of minutes, and marched out the door without ever looking back, and Sirius hadn’t seen him until after the dust had finally settled in the wake of the end of the war. Remus is the one thing Sirius has always known he never deserved, and now— six weeks removed from the defeat of Voldemort by the hands of a still recuperating Dumbledore, Sirius knows that truth is as inherent as ever.

It was Lily who stayed up with Sirius on nights he couldn’t go back to bed in fear of being met with Remus in his dreams— her missing him in a different but just as painful way. It was Lily who told Sirius about the borderline sadistic recruitment efforts Dumbledore had Remus operating— making him relive his worst nightmare every full moon with the man who had turned him when he was no more than four years old. And it was Lily who called him and James a pair of “bloody prats,” because she had never doubted Remus for even a moment. So it only made sense when it was Lily who tipped her chin in that imperious way of hers two weeks before, and proclaimed that they’d be having a Christmas together as a family. Which meant that Sirius has just spent the last three— Merlin forsaken—  days awkwardly avoiding Remus in the most stilted and uncomfortable manners every time they ran into one another in the Potter cottage, and it meant that Frank, Alice and Neville took one of the guest rooms, while Sirius readily offered the only other one to Remus, and now he’s slumped downstairs, staring at the strange Muggle box that Lily had bought and what James, Sirius, and— and well the rat, had spent an entire afternoon toying around with— pure blooded to the core. Lily and Remus had only left them to it while going off for tea and scones at the cafe down the way, laughing at them all the while.

God does Sirius wish that golden splendor had never faded.

At the moment, the Muggle box is playing a barrage of clips of an incredibly pretty lady, one with dark hair and violet eyes. She looks like she could be a Black, honestly— it’s disarming. He’s sure he’s seen her before.  Sirius furrows his brows that bit more, surprised just how familiar she actually looks, and is shaken when he hears a soft, rasp of a voice— the most resplendent voice he’s ever heard— speaking from behind him. “Liz Taylor.”

Sirius turns around, frantic, as he takes in the sight of him, up close after so long, and Sirius stares, wide eyed and greedy, like he always is when around Remus. “Pardon?”

“The woman on the telly, that’s Liz Taylor. My mum was positively obsessed with her.” Remus’s arms are crossed leisurely against his chest as he lies against the doorway, clad in a white T-shirt and a pair of fading, plaid pajama bottoms. His bottom lip is worn dry and his hair is disheveled and sticking out on impossible angles, and he’s the most gorgeous thing Sirius has ever seen. Even now, even after so many months apart and even while he’s obviously lost in thought about his miraculous mother who had passed away from a Muggle disease their seventh year, taking a part of Remus’s heart right along with her. Even amidst all of it, Remus Lupin is the most startlingly beautiful thing Sirius has ever witnessed.

Sirius can’t stop his gawking, it’s like a warped image of that night over five months ago now, and it fills Sirius with a sort of dread he’s become far too accustomed with feeling when around Remus. “Oh, right,” Sirius says, more because he feels like it was his turn to say something, even if it is stuttering and dumb.

“You remember Christmas break of seventh year? When she made us watch her favorite film? That starred Liz Taylor.”

Sirius’s throat feels dry, can’t believe that Remus is speaking with him at all, wonders how he’ll actually be able to string two words together in any sort of coherency. “Yeah,” he clears his throat. “Yeah, yeah. The one about the bloke who wanted to marry her but got that other bird pregnant.”

Remus’s answering grin is small and mild and a bit threadbare, but it’s a Moony smile, so Sirius will devour the vision of it with hungry piety.

“I think the critics might have an issue with your distilling one of the greatest critiques of American capitalism into a tawdry love affair, but that’s the one,” Remus says as he picks up the clicker and mutes the box, perched on the other end of the couch’s armrest. And it’s so far removed, but the closest Remus has been able to stand being around Sirius in too long and it pumps him with a sort of staggering, hesitant hope that he has no right in indulging himself with— to feel the levitating, helium like sense of it pulsing in his chest and coursing through his veins.

“You know me Moons, just wanna get to the dirty bits.” He tries for broke and casts him a half smile, feels it like a punch in the gut when that doesn’t affect the detached way Remus stares at him from his perch. “But the bloke was fit at least— I recall saying that he looked a bit like you.” That, for some mad reason, makes Remus toss back his tawny head— silver in the moonlight— and laugh hysterically. “I’ve finally done it, made you go barmy.” Sirius marvels, goading but also partially meaning it.

“Of course you’d think Monty Cliff looks like me Sirius, he’s only the most tragic git in cinema history.”

“Since when are you the dramatic one Moons?”

Remus stills for a second— probably over the use of the familiar pet name, but he doesn’t say anything of it, just gives him a one armed, what can you do shrug. “’S true, he got in a nasty accident with Liz in the car when they were out drinking one night.”

“Oh— That’s rotten luck.” Sirius says, still feels a bit delirious with the fact that Remus is even speaking to him at all.

“Quite.”

“Did he die?”

“No, not fully. They were able to stitch back up his face, but he never actually recovered, was haunted by it really. I guess folks used to say that there was the beautiful before, and then the monstrous after, scars and all. So he spent the next decade drinking himself to death.”

Sirius’s insides go cold, flashes of Remus’s own habits bubbling to the forefront of his mind, but he sweeps it away and only nods, thinks he understands the shifty way Remus is behaving now, considering the obvious parallel to his own accident as a lad and how the Wizarding world has regarded him ever since.

“That’s shit Remus.”

He hums, noncommittal as he studies a point over Sirius’s shoulder. “They still call it Hollywood’s longest suicide.”

Sirius suddenly feels sick to his stomach, knows that if this was even just half a year ago, he’d be gathering Remus in his arms now and kissing away the lines melting into his face, and telling him in a gargled repetition that he loves him and he loves him and he’s always loved him. He’d tell Remus how damn beautiful he is and how bright and brilliant and remarkable of a person he is. And Sirius would fall asleep with Remus’s head resting on his chest and the blanket pooling around their hips and it would feel splendid just for that slice of eternity.

But this isn’t half a year ago. This is now, and now is composed of them broken up and awkward and left them unable to even hold each others gazes for longer than a few seconds at a time, lest the hurt becomes unbearable.

“He sounds like someone I’d get a pint with If I’m being honest.” 

That miraculously seems like the right thing to have said because Remus smiles softly as he stands up. “Sure you two would’ve had a marvelous time, his boyfriends called’m a miraculous lay.”

Sirius laughs, loud and abrupt and a bit like a bark. “Come off it.”

“Poor Liz, she was mad over the shirt lifter.” Remus pulls a face and sticks his tongue out, cheeky in a way Sirius has missed beyond words. “But never mind the history lesson, I just came down for a glass of water, don’t let me disturb your telly watching.”

“You didn’t!” Sirius says hurriedly, forcing himself not to actually leap up and corner him. “I mean—“ he coughs, tries evening out his heartbeat.  “You’re never a bother Remus, you know that. You know I’d rather talk to you than just about anything else,” the silent, save for fucking you, doesn’t have to be said, but Sirius reckons Remus caught the implication if the slight flush to his ears is anything to go by.

“Right, well I should still get back to bed. Tomorrow’s actual Christmas Eve and Lily’s practically branded the damn schedule onto my hand.” Remus turns to the kitchen, and it’s all too much like before, but Sirius won’t let him— can’t let him— go off and leave him behind. If there is one inarguable truth in Sirius’s life, it’s that he loves Remus John Lupin more than all the stars in all the damned galaxies combined, and losing faith in that has only ever caused him the worst sort of pain. So he doesn’t let him go, flings himself forwards and encircles one of Remus’s bony wrists with a loose hand, can practically hear his pulse pounding in his ears.

“Wh— Sirius—“

“Are we ever going to be alright again,” Sirius asks outright, probably the stupidest thing he’s ever done but he doesn’t care, is sick of feeling so damn lost and wrong footed and lonesome without him. 

Remus slowly pivots back around, lips set in a firm frown and brows beginning to knit. “What do you mean.”

“Don’t Remus, please, just don’t. If it’s no then please just put me out my misery. I can’t do this sodding in-between shite, this purgatory of nothing and everything. I just can’t.”

The silence that drapes over them seizes with a tension Sirius hadn’t felt since the night Remus had left, and it probably doesn’t bode well, but Sirius doesn’t care, wants an  answer damn it.

Remus only stares at him, measured and noncommittal and with an almost aloofness that Sirius had successfully penetrated by the end of their first term in Hogwarts. It’s really something awful being on the other side once more.  “You thought I was the spy.” He says in a deadpan, void of any warmth, and cleared of even the Welsh lilt to his words that always shone through when he was relaxed, and wasn’t afraid of being cast off as just some country boy.  He sounds methodical, by rote. He sounds like he doesn’t dare allow any emotions to bleed through because he’s afraid what Sirius would do with them, and that realization, above anything else, is what punches him right in the gut.

“I thought everyone was the spy,” he tells him, isn’t above from graveling at this point. “Hell I thought I was the bloody spy for a moment there! Under the imperius curse, or was obliviated or—“

“That’s different Sirius,” Remus interrupts, seething, and tearing his wrist away from Sirius’s light grasp. “Think about why you would presume me to be working for the dark side over Peter!”

Sirius flushes, is getting angry now, hating that Remus wouldn’t even hear him out. “Because you were in the top of the class, and that fucking rat barely knew how to transfigure  a throw pillow to a damn porcupine!”

Remus’s face— a face Sirius knows better than the back of his own hand— twists up in derision, lips curled and nose wrinkled and pinning Sirius with a one eyed squint. It’s completely inappropriate timing, but Sirius wishes he could show Remus just how thoroughly he pays reverence to him and that face. “Well lucky him he was born a pure blood.”

And that, that snide remark is what makes Sirius jolt back, as if he’s been slapped open handed right across the face. Like the one and only time his mother had done so when she caught him and Regulus dressing up in her heels and jewels and lipsticks when he was seven years old. This, this insinuation by Remus is just as striking and probably ten times as painful. “Don’t. Don’t bring blood politics into this Remus. You know I don’t give a buggering fuck about any of that trite.”

“Then what?” Remus almost yells now, face reddening and stepping close enough to Sirius that he has to tilt his head back just so, just enough so that they’re eyes are boring into one another properly once more. “Was it the fact I’m a fucking werewolf? Huh?” He grabs for Sirius’s front, hands knotted in the material of his shirt, and careful not to touch him. It’s a familiar action when Sirius thinks back to the final couple months of their relationship, Remus had always just grabbed onto Sirius’s clothes— wrinkling his jackets and Henleys whenever they kissed goodbye. Sirius had ultimately thought it was because of the guilt eating up inside for his turncoating ways, but now recognizes it for what it was and what it is. He sees that it’s Remus trying to grapple for something, anything. It’s Remus trying to ground himself by touch, and by Sirius, to feel still amidst all the chaos. 

Sirius puts his larger hands against Remus’s wrists once more, doesn’t let him drop his gaze. “Fuck you Remus.”

“Is that it? You got sick of fucking a halfbreed? Figured that if I was just like the lot who actually were enthralled by Grayback that it’d be fine if you could end it.”

“Shut the fuck up!“

“Just say it! Say you didn’t trust me because I’m a werewolf and you believe that propaganda that we’re some sorta inherently dark creatures. Tell me you gave up on me because of that. Just give me an answer Sirius!”

And it’s like Sirius can’t breathe, doesn’t know where to begin his rant. Whether he should shout at Remus for being a self loathing prat, or shout at Remus for thinking so low of him, or maybe shout at Remus for trying to pretend as if he wasn’t the one who gave up on them first. In the end, he does none of that. 

It’s pure instinct when Sirius plunges forwards and crashes his lips against Remus’s own, trying to infuse the love and adoration and acceptance he knows Remus has never allowed himself to truly feel, and is relieved when his lead-like insides lighten just a fraction when Remus opens his mouth and grabs for Sirius’s face, and kisses him that much deeper. His tongue plunging into Sirius’s open mouth and the familiar slide is so achingly welcome Sirius swears he could fall over in gratitude, frantically palms up and down Remus’s lightly muscled back for purchase, and ultimately just gives up and drags him to the sofa, doesn’t let their lips separate for more than a breath at a time.

“I love you, I never stopped loving you Moons,” Sirius tells him as he practically rips Remus’s shirt as he pulls it off and Remus collapses over him, now straddling Sirius’s lap and kissing a path across his jaw. “Don’t ever think otherwise.”

Remus pulls away, only for a moment, but it’s enough to see the watery gleam to his eyes and the doubt that passes across his face. Though Remus doesn’t let him look for too long, plunges back forwards to kiss him in a cacophony of lips, and teeth, and spit. His cold hands glide against Sirius’s abs beneath his own t-shirt, and Sirius is practically arching up with wanton intent. God he’s missed this, missed Remus and the way they fall against one another, and missed the way they’ve always just fit so innately.

“I—I still love you too Pads,” he says against Sirius’s neck, practically shaking but it’s enough to clear Sirius of all his worries and all his doubt. If there’s anything that couldn’t erode, its the foundation they built with one another and that’s enough, maybe that’s all they need to begin healing once more. Sirius knows that there’s countless conversations and apologies and that they’ll need to take this one step at a time, but here, now. This gives him hope that Remus is just as willing to work on it as he is, and that’s all Sirius needs to know.

He slides a hand up Remus’s thigh and dips a thumb into his waistband, asking for permission, and almost laughing at how eager Remus is to the question, eyes fluttering shut prettily as Sirius slips a hand into his front, cheeks blazing when he realizes Remus wasn’t even wearing any pants. 

“Moony,” he moans, tossing his dark head against the sofa and praying for strength from fucking Merlin himself. 

Remus actually does laugh, kisses the juncture of Sirius’s neck and shoulder before he starts rocking back and forth, against Sirius’s rapidly hardening cock, and Sirius is already so pent up and hungry for this that he knows he’s not going to last long.

“Bloody slag.”

“Pot calling the kettle black—“ Remus’s eyes go blown suddenly, absolutely going mental at the pun and Sirius can’t believe the love of his life is such a damn wanker. 

“Oy, I’ll show you what this kettle can do,” Sirius snaps, playful as he flips their positions so that Remus is lying beneath him, canting forwards when Sirius unceremoniously grabs his cock and begins a slow, and steady stroke, absolutely fucking beaming at the small, cut off gasps and muffled whimpers Remus lets out. They should probably worry over someone walking downstairs for a midnight snack or smoke or something, but Sirius can’t be fucked to care, not with the gloriously golden sight of Remus Lupin flat out beneath him and panting and how Sirius knows precisely how to get him to whimper out in that particularly stunning way.

“Sadistic— Hah— Sadistic bastard,” Remus groans as Sirius begins to thumb at the tip and uses the pre-come to slide faster up and down his shaft, his own hips rocking faster against Remus’s leg to catch at the sensation.

“No arguments here,” Sirius whispers, dipping back down to kiss him as he speeds up the stroking, and gets some of his own friction as he rubs against Remus’s thigh in quick and graceless thrusts and it’s only a moment more before Remus is groaning out with his orgasm and another few thrusts of Sirius’s own hips  after that when Sirius joins him, practically collapsing over his body once he does.

“Oof, get off me you prick.”

“Too tired Moons.”

“You’re heavy.”

“Are you calling me fat?”

Remus laughs and Sirius wishes he could be wrapped up in the sound for the next eon to come. For now, he only licks off the come still sticking to his hand, and Remus wrinkles his nose in acute disapproval, but then he kisses him deep and thorough. So Sirius doesn’t take it to heart. 

Eventually they adjust themselves so that they’re each lying on their sides and peering at one another, gentle but with more stability than they’ve felt for nearly a year now. It feels like they’ve come to some sorta equilibrium about where they go from here, and it’s so bloody miraculous. It’s like their lives have finally been unpaused from the war and they have a thousand, glimmering memories waiting to be had. A future painted with a house of their own, and visiting James and Lily and the Sprog every night for supper, and maybe even having one of their own. A future Sirius lost hope in while they were apart but is now suddenly and painfully the brightest spot in Sirius’s world. 

[bluejayblueskies]

philautia

n. a love based on deep connection to one’s well-being and built upon a love for one’s self; a centered wholeness

Words: 2.3k

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Relationship: Sasha James & Tim Stoker & Martin Blackwood & Jonathan Sims, Past Tim Stoker/Sasha James, Minor Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood

Characters: Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood, Jonathan Sims, Sasha James

Additional Tags: AU - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Fluff and Humor, Statement Fic (but not in the way you expect!), Aromantic and Asexual Characters, Implied/Referenced Homophobia (very minor), Implied/Referenced Arophobia (also very minor)

Summary:

SASHA

So, according to Tim, I’m supposed to be recording a statement on, quote, my “most swashbucklingest experience as an esteemed member of the LGBT community.” He left this recorder on my desk and stole my scone. Timothy Stoker, I will not forget that.

---

Statements of members of the archival staff at the Magnus Institute, London, regarding certain facets of their aspec identities. Statements compiled by Timothy Stoker on 10th June, 2016. For personal use only.

Ao3 link in reblogs

Or read below:

[CLICK]

 MARTIN

 —really don’t think this is necessary—

 TIM

 Aaaaand we’re recording!

 MARTIN

 (exasperated) Tim.

 TIM

 Oh, come on Martin, it’s more fun this way!

 [MARTIN MAKES A NOISE OF DISAGREEMENT]

 TIM

 You cannot look me in the eye and tell me that this doesn’t appeal to your, and I quote, “retro aesthetic.”

 MARTIN

 (reluctantly) It… might.

 TIM

 See! So it’s perfect!

 …

 [HE SIGHS]

 Obviously you don’t have to if you don’t want to, Martin. I just thought it might be nice—to have something to look back on when we’re all old and sick of each other, you know? Here, I can go first.

 MARTIN

 Tim, you don’t have to—

 TIM

 (overlapping, adopting the ‘Archivist’ voice) Statement of Timothy Stoker, regarding the first time he went to Pride with his brother, Danny. June 10th, 2016.

 (cheekily) Statement begins.

 TIM (STATEMENT)

 (in his normal voice) I realized I was into blokes too when I was 15, you know. Think it took me a while because of the whole ace thing, though that took me until I was in uni to really figure out. I was still fine with sex, you know, always enjoyed it when it came up, just… never really wanted it with anyone in particular. So I suppose I’d assumed for a while that the things I was feeling toward other guys weren’t romantic because I never had the sexual parts to go along with them. (with wry humor) Almost ruined a few relationships that way, actually.

 But I’m getting a bit off-topic. Can’t be one of those rambling statement givers Jon hates. God, I can see his face now, that thing he does with his nose—Martin, you know the one, the- the way it looks like he’s just smelled something really, really rank.

 MARTIN

 I thought you said you weren’t going to ramble.

 TIM

 Cheeky, cheeky. Okay, where was I. Right.

 TIM (STATEMENT)

 Mom and Dad weren’t real big on the whole bi thing, so the first time I got the chance to go to Pride was in uni. The first time I got the chance to go with Danny was after he turned 18 and got his first modeling gig. At least, I think he was already modeling back then. Point is, we were both out of the house, and Danny had been dying to go to Pride with me ever since I sent him pictures of me and Sasha eating an entire box of rainbow-colored donuts that first year. I’d figured out I was ace by then, but it had been pretty recent, so when we got there, I found one of the vendors selling those big flags you drape over your shoulders and got an ace one. Felt a bit weird having the ace flag instead of the bi one like the other years, but I had worn that pink, blue, and purple button-down Sasha got me for Christmas once, so overall, it felt all right.

 And Danny—god, he loved it. Pretty sure he ate his weight in fried food that day.

 [HE LAUGHS]

 Almost got the aro flag he’d borrowed from Sasha dirty, actually, when he—

 (quickly changes course) Ah, nothing! Sasha, if you’re listening to this, absolutely nothing happened to your flag, and I definitely did not have it laundered before I returned it to you.

 TIM

 Aaaaand that’s it! Statement ends, I guess.

 See—easy! (a bit more seriously) But really—you don’t have to record one if you don’t want to, Martin.

 MARTIN

 …

 No, I- I want to.

 TIM

 Are you sure? I don’t want you to do that thing where you just do something because you think someone else wants you to.

 MARTIN

 I do not—!

 …

 Okay, okay, fine. Point taken. But yeah, I- I’m sure.

 [RUSTLING AS THE TAPE RECORDER IS PASSED FROM TIM TO MARTIN]

 MARTIN

 (with an audible smile) Statement of, er, Martin Blackwood. Regarding… a crush. No, no, wait—god, that sounds so juvenile. Regarding himself, and a person who- er, someone whom he—

 [HE SIGHS]

 Fine. Regarding a crush. Statement given June 10th, 2016.

 Statement begins.

 MARTIN (STATEMENT)

 I’m always a little embarrassed to tell people that I’ve never dated anyone before? Okay, a- a lot embarrassed, actually. I try not to bring it up, but people will say things like, oh, you know how it is to shop for a partner or meeting her parents is definitely nerve-wracking—which is wrong on, er, two accounts, actually—and then I feel more awkward not telling them that I don’t know, actually, because I’ve never been in a relationship longer than a week or so. Then, they’ll get all sympathetic, like it’s some- some tragedy that I’m not involved with someone, and that’s worse, because then they’ll offer to set me up with people, or say that they don’t understand why I’m single because I’m a catch or whatever, and I have to give them some excuse about not interested at the moment.

 It’s not that, not really. Dates with strangers, they- they just never work out for me.

 I think I fall somewhere on the aromantic spectrum? I didn’t think about it much until Sasha mentioned it once over drinks—I think you were there, Tim, although you were (laughs) very drunk by that point. I told her I hadn’t had a crush on anyone since sixth form, and she threw around a bunch of terms. I- I honestly don’t really remember, it was kind of overwhelming and (laughs) I was also pretty drunk as well. But yeah, it… it sounds about right.

 (hesitantly, as if bracing himself for impact) So… this person. Who I, er. Recently, that is, who I…

 [HE CLEARS HIS THROAT]

 It’s really strange, that’s all. And a- a lot. I—heh—I don’t really know what to do about it.

 MARTIN

…

 Uh, statement ends? I guess? I, uh, don’t really have anything else to say. (jokingly) It’s not like there’s any, er, follow-up or whatever. (to Tim) Was- was that okay?

 TIM

 (audibly smiling) Yup! Most excellent, Marto. (more seriously) You felt okay, right?

 MARTIN

 (huh) Yeah. Yeah, I- I did. A bit nice, actually. (quickly) As- as long as this stays in the archives, though. It… it is staying in the archives, right?

 TIM

 Oh, definitely. Right next to the section on love potions, I think.

 MARTIN

 Tim!

 TIM

 (laughs) Yes, Martin, it’s staying in the archives. Pinkie promise. Just you, me, Sasha, and Jon. (in the tone of a man who knows a great secret and wants nothing more than to share it) Speaking of Jon—

 MARTIN

 (quickly) Uh, recording ends!

 TIM

 (undeterred) —is he the—?

 [CLICK]

.

 [CLICK]

 SASHA

 Right. So, according to Tim, I’m supposed to be recording a statement on, quote, my “most swashbucklingest experience as an esteemed member of the LGBT community.” He left this recorder on my desk and stole my scone. Timothy Stoker, I will not forget that. It was white chocolate raspberry, and I’m stealing the money it cost out of your wallet.

 …

 Anyway.

[SHE CLEARS HER THROAT]

 Statement of Sasha James, given 10th June 2016. Subject of statement is… hmm. Let’s say… (laughs) A brief relationship with one Timothy Stoker.

 Statement begins.

 SASHA (STATEMENT)

 Tim, I know you’re listening to this, and I just want to preface this by saying that yes, it was Italian that we had for dinner that night, not Greek. You’re thinking of a different friendship-turned-hookup-turned-awkward-aftermath-turned-friendship.

 [SHE LAUGHS QUIETLY]

 Anyway, I guess the best place to begin with this whole thing is by saying that I’ve known I was aro since I was 16 and that I’ve never been very good at talking about it. I’ve ended plenty of tried and failed relationships with the it’s-not-you-it’s-me talk because I didn’t know how to explain that I just… wasn’t interested in romance.

 I wanted to explain it to you beforehand, Tim, I really, really did. We’ve had this conversation, I know I know—I won’t rehash it over tape.

 [SHE SIGHS]

 But the important thing is that I like you so, so much, and—god, this is stupid—I guess maybe I thought that it wouldn’t matter with you? That you could like me romantically and I could like you platonically and it would be fine. Like I said, stupid, but you asked me out to that Italian place—yes, Italian, for god’s sake, I had the chicken parm and you had some sort of lasagna abomination—and I just… couldn’t say no. And it was nice, really. I had a lot of fun.

 And then we slept together. And… that was really nice. But then, the next morning, the… the guilt set in. Because I felt the same as I always had about you—which is to say that I loved you, just not in the same way you loved me—and I became convinced that I’d gone and ruined the whole thing.

 Ignoring you for a week was probably not the correct response. (quieter) Yeah, definitely not my finest moment. But I’d gotten it in my head that the moment I told you that I didn’t feel that way about you and that I would never feel that way about you—or about anyone—you’d hate me. And you don’t have to say that you’d never hate me—I know you wouldn’t. I think I knew it then, too. But fear is a powerful thing.

 …

 Anyway, you know how it all turned out. You finally dragged me out to coffee and I finally told you why I’d been avoiding you and it was really, really awkward for about a month after that and then it just… wasn’t anymore. (audibly smiling) And you’re still my best friend, Tim. Even if you did steal my scone.

 [THE SOUND OF PAPERS RUSTLING AND A CHAIR ROLLING BACKWARD]

 Recording ends.

 [CLICK]

 .

 [CLICK]

 ARCHIVIST

 Statement of Kyle Henning, regarding a strange mushroom he found growing in his garden. Original statement given April 15th, 2011. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

 Statement begi—

 [DOOR OPENS]

 TIM

 Hey boss! Got a moment?

 ARCHIVIST

 (irritated) Tim, please at least knock when the door to my office is closed. I was just about to record a statement.

 TIM

 (unbothered) So if you were about to, that means you’re not recording one right now, which means you do have a moment.

 ARCHIVIST

 (flatly) Shut the door on your way out, Tim.

 TIM

 (brightly) Right you are, boss! Juuuust going to leave this here on your desk. Bring it back whenever you’re done!

 [PAPERS RUSTLE AS SOMETHING IS PLACED ON THE DESK]

 ARCHIVIST

 (dryly) I’m fairly certain that I’m the one who assigns you tasks to complete, Tim.

 TIM

 That you do! I guess I better get back to them then. Have fun!

 ARCHIVIST

 (firmly) Tim—

 [DOOR CLOSES]

 [HE SIGHS]

 ARCHIVIST

 Right. Well, given that this recording is essentially useless now and I hadn’t even gotten to the statement, I may as well start over. (mutters under his breath) Bloody waste of tape and my time—

 [CLICK]

 .

 [CLICK]

 [PAPERS RUSTLE. FOR A MOMENT, THERE IS ONLY THE SOUND OF BREATHING. THEN, JON SIGHS.]

 ARCHIVIST

 Before I begin, I would like to make it very clear that this is not an appropriate use of working hours or the tape recorders, which should be used for statements that won’t record digitally as per Elias’s request.

 …

 That being said, I am… not entirely opposed to this project. So, I suppose…

 [HE CLEARS HIS THROAT]

 Statement of Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London, regarding… regarding a black ring worn on the middle finger of his right hand. Statement recorded by subject, June 10th, 2016.

 Statement begins.

 ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)

 I’ve often been told that I am not a very open person. I don’t necessarily intend to be closed-off, but I’ve also never found the need to disclose every aspect of my personal life to everyone I come into contact with. And yes, Tim—because I trust that you and you alone will be listening to this tape—that is a perfectly respectable way to live one’s life. Not everyone needs to know what I ate for breakfast that morning or who my favorite primary school teacher was.

 …

 I… will admit, though, that in certain circumstances, I… could probably stand to be more transparent regarding aspects of my personal life. Perhaps that’s why Georgie bought me the ring.

 It wasn’t a special occasion. She just brought it back from the shop one day, a few weeks after a… particularly illuminating conversation about certain sexual identities, and dropped it atop my copy of Wuthering Heights. Honestly, I had no idea what it was at first. I- (heh) I tried to make a joke about unorthodox proposals, but I- I don’t really think it landed. Georgie just looked at me and said that she’d seen it on one of the online forums, that it was called an ace ring, and that she thought I might like it. I think I was more surprised about the fact that the ring fit perfectly than at the fact that she’d bought me the ring in the first place.

 So I wore it. And it felt… nice. Understand, I don’t keep quiet about my romantic and sexual identities out of shame or embarrassment or indecision; I simply don’t feel the need to announce them at any given moment. So I’ve always been fond of small things—pins and stickers and such—that I can incorporate into my life, insignificant enough that they aren’t readily apparent to anyone but me, as they’re for me more than for anyone else. My ring is one such thing.

 [THERE IS A MOMENT OF SILENCE. MORE WORDS SIT IN THE AIR, WAITING. EVENTUALLY, HOWEVER, HE SIGHS, AND THE WORDS REMAIN UNSAID.]

 ARCHIVIST

 Statement ends.

 …

 Right.

 (with something that might be a smile) As for your other request, I do have a prior engagement with Georgie and Melanie this weekend. Though if you’re willing to accommodate two more, I’m sure they wouldn’t be opposed to coming along. Georgie’s always telling me that Pride is more fun when you’re with a group, after all.

 End recording.

 [CLICK]

[auror-lovie]

I Loved You, Mr. Scamander; Ending 1

━━━•✦.✧. Author’s Note.✧.✦•━

Ending No. 1

Author’s Intended Ending

Taglist for this series is still OPEN!

━━━━━•✦.✧. Summary .✧.✦•━

With the right words, the right timing, and the right emotions, one could get even the most strong-minded person to follow them.

━━━━━•✦.✧. Add-Ons .✧.✦•━

Emotional Manipulation

Angst

A lot of hurt

━━━━━━•✦.✧.☾.✧.✦•━━━━━

A lot happened in New York that Newt didn’t disclose in his letters. (Y/N)’s main concern being the Auror from America, Tina Goldstein. It seemed to be all Newt talked about when they got to Paris.

“Tina was right here!” Newt exclaimed. “Jacob, she was here. Tina stood here. She has incredibly narrow feet, have you noticed?”

(Y/N) had seen that look before. It was the exact way he looked when he was with Leta. He was in love.

Newt, Tina, and (Y/N) stood in a nearby alleyway, looking out over the square where tree roots rose to form the birdcage elevator to the French Ministry.

“The box is in the ancestral records room. So, three floors down.” Newt informed. He rummaged in his pockets and pulled out a tiny bottle with only a couple of drops left inside.

“Is that Polyjuice?” Tina asked.

“Just enough to get me inside.” He looked down at his coat and found one of Theseus’s hairs on his shoulder.

(Y/N) gasped. “Newt! I hope you’re not doing what I think you’re doing.”

He added the hair to the mixture, drank the potion, and turned into Theseus, still wearing Newt’s clothes.

She sighed. “Oh no… We’re going to get in so much trouble…”

“Who-?” Tina asked, puzzled who this mystery person was.

“My brother, Theseus,” Newt replied, adjusting his clothes. “He’s an Auror.”

“He’s my boss…” (Y/N) admitted.

“And a hugger.” He added.

~*~*~

Theseus exited a meeting room, Victoria following close behind. They made their way towards Leta, who was waiting for them.

“What’s happening?” Leta asked, concern written all over her face.

“Grindelwald’s rallying. We don’t know where, but we think it’s tonight.” He explained.

Leta and Theseus kissed for a moment. ‘Please be safe.’ Leta thought.

They pulled away and Leta looked at Theseus and Victoria. “Be careful. Both of you.”

“Of course,” Victoria assured her.

“Listen, I want you to hear this from me. They think that Credence boy might be your missing brother.” Theseus whispered to Leta.

Leta looked at him in disbelief. “My brother is dead. He died. How many times, Theseus?”

“I know, I know. And the records, the records will prove that, okay? They can’t lie.” He continued.

“Theseus. Victoria.” Travers said sharply.

They shared a look before leaving Leta and joined Travers. “I want every person at that rally arrested. If they resist-”

“Sir, forgive me… but if we go in too heavy, don’t we run the risk of adding to the-” Victoria started.

“Just do it. I’ve had enough of you and Miss (L/N)’s insubordination.” Travers looked at Theseus. “Keep your Communications Liaison in check.”

Victoria was about to go after him before Theseus held onto her upper arm. “I’m more than just a Communications Liaison…”

Theseus released his grip and put his hand on her shoulder. “That you are. You are much more capable than him. More… Level headed…”

She sighed. “Sometimes I just want to- Oh no.”

“What is it?”

Victoria looked at her bracelet. She could feel the warm sensation emitting from the charm on her wrist. (Y/N) was here. And if (Y/N) was here, so was Newt. She walked to the railing, overlooking the floor below.

Theseus followed and caught sight of Newt- as Theseus- with Tina and (Y/N) walking, heads down, through the Ministry typing pool.

The brothers’ eyes meet. (Y/N)’s eyes meeting with Victoria’s. Newt grabbed Tina’s arm and made a sharp turn down a corridor, (Y/N) following close behind.

Theseus and Victoria set off in pursuit, leaving Leta and a furious Travers behind. Leta backed away from the throng and slipped through a side door.

The trio continued to run along a corridor lined with pictures, the Polyjuice Potion already wearing off. “I don’t suppose you can Disapparate on Ministry premises in France, can you?” Newt asked.

“No.” (Y/N) replied.

“Pity,” Newt said nonchalantly. Now the potion had worn off completely.

“Newt!” Tina exclaimed.

“Yes, I know. I know there’s-”

Every portrait along the corridor turned into a portrait of Newt. An alarm sounds:

Urgence! Urgence! Un sorcier suivi, Newt Scamander, est entré dans le Ministère! Emergency! Emergency! A tracked wizard, Newt Scamander, has entered the Department of Magic!

Theseus and Victoria finally get to the same corridor. “Newt!” Theseus called out.

“That’s your brother?” Tina managed to ask between breaths.

“(Y/N)!” Victoria called.

“And who is that?” Tina asked, looking at (Y/N).

“My best friend.” (Y/N) answered.

“As for my brother, I think I may have mentioned in my letters we have quite a complicated relationship.” Newt continued.

‘Wait, he sent letters to her too?’ (Y/N) thought, but quickly dismissed it before she could ponder on it longer.

“Newt! Stop!” Theseus’s voice echoed through the corridor.

Newt, Tina, and (Y/N) sprinted through a second door, which led into a mailroom. Two elderly porters were pushing mailcarts across the circular room.

“Does he want to kill you?” Tina asked, a bit concerned.

“Frequently.”

“Newt!” (Y/N) scolded. “He does not want to kill you!”

As they sprinted past the mailcarts, Theseus sent a curse after them, sending the mailcart boxes flying. Tina blocked the spell. “He needs to control his temper!”

(Y/N) pointed her wand. ‘I’m sorry, Thes…’ Theseus was then slammed down into a high chair that (Y/N) has conjured out of nowhere. Hands bound, Theseus flew backward on the chair into a meeting room, where he slammed into a wall.

Newt awed. “I think that might have been the best moment of my life.” Tina laughed but was on guard when she saw Victoria.

Victoria nodded at (Y/N). “Go!”

(Y/N) looked at Victoria before running off with Newt and Tina.

~*~*~

Newt, Tina, and (Y/N) turned a corner into a beautiful area in front of towering Art Nouveau doors carved to resemble trees. A very old woman sat behind a desk bar.

“Puis-je vous aider?” Can I help you? The old woman asked.

“Er-yes, this is Leta Lestrange. And I’m her-” Newt said nervously.

“Fiancé,” Tina said quickly.

‘Wait… Was she misinformed?’ (Y/N) thought with a confused look on her face.

An increased awkwardness between them as the old woman lifted an ancient book onto the desk and opened it. Her finger ran down the list of surnames beginning with L. “Allez-y.”

“Merci,” Tina whispered.

Newt grabbed Tina’s hand and pulled her toward the doors into the records room. (Y/N) once again following close behind. The old woman eyed them suspiciously.

“Tina, about that fiancée business-” He started.

“Sorry, yeah. I should have congratulated you.” Tina replied, sadness in her voice.

The doors to the records office opened. They enter briskly. The doors close behind them, plunging them into darkness.

“Lumos.” (Y/N) said softly, yet firmly.

An extraordinary acre of shelves stretched away from them, all carved to look like trees so that they seemed to be on the edge of the forest. Pickett poked his head out of Newt’s pocket and squealed in excitement.

“Lestrange,” said Tina. Nothing happened.

“I think you need to be a Lestrange to-” (Y/N) started before realizing that Newt and Tina were not there anymore.

Tina set off, Newt right behind her. They weaved in and out of the carved shelves. Some of which housed rolls of parchment, the occasional prophecy, other mysterious trunks, and boxes.

“Tina, about Leta-” Newt started.

“Yes, I’ve just said, I am happy for you.”

“Yeah, well, don’t.”

She stopped in her tracks and looked at him. “What?”

“Please don’t be happy.” That sounded better in his head. “Uh, no, no. I’m sorry. I don’t… Uh, obviously, I- Obviously I want you to be. And I hear that you are now. Uh, which is wonderful. Sorry-” His shoulders sagged as a gesture of hopelessness. “What I’m trying to say is, I want you to be happy, but don’t be happy that I’m happy because I’m not.”

Tina looked at him, confused.

“Happy.” Newt paused. She still had a puzzled look on her face. “Or engaged.”

“What?” Tina asked.

“It was a mistake in a stupid magazine. My brother’s marrying Leta, June the sixth. I’m supposed to be the best man. Which is sort of mildly hilarious.” He chuckled nervously.

“Does he think you’re here to win her back?” She asked, a feeling of defeat in her voice. “Are you here to win her back?”

“No! I’m here to…” He stared at her. “-You know, your eyes really are-”

“Are what?”

“I’m not supposed to say.” He trailed off. Pickett climbed out of Newt’s pocket onto the nearest shelf and didn't notice.

“Newt, I read your book, and did you-?” Tina rushed.

“I still have a picture of you. Wait, did you read-?” Newt asked as he pulled the picture of her from his breast pocket and unfolded it. Tina was inordinately touched.

He looked from the picture to Tina. “I got this-I mean, it’s just a picture of you from the paper, but it’s interesting because your eyes in newsprint. See, in reality, they have this effect in them, Tina… It’s like fire in water, in dark water. I’ve only ever seen that-” He paused, struggling to say what he wanted to say. “I’ve only ever seen that in—”

“Salamanders?” Tina whispered, a smile on her face.

All (Y/N) could do was just stand there and watch. Of course. Just from being around her, (Y/N) could see how Newt could fall in love with her. If Newt was happy, so was she. “H-Hey guys! I’ve been looking for you guys everywhere.” She stuttered. It sounded more confident in her head.

A loud bang erupted as the doors to the records room flew open. They jump apart. Two pairs of footsteps made their way into the records room.

Leta walked inside, Victoria at her side, desperate. This was Leta’s last chance to hide evidence about Corvus’s death. The doors closed behind them. She raised her wand. “Lestrange.” The shelves began to move.

The giant trees shifted all around them. They were almost crushed as the Lestrange “tree” flew towards them. They hop onto a shelf.

The towering stack stopped, swaying, in front of her. She stared as an empty shelf confronted her. A mark in the dust where a box sat, a slip of parchment in its place. She picked up the slip and read it aloud. “Records moved to Lestrange family tomb at Père Lachaise.”

Leta spotted Pickett hiding among the deed boxes on the shelf and smiled

“Circumrota.” Victoria said. The record tower turned, revealing Newt, Tina, and (Y/N) clinging to the shelves.

“Hello, Newt.” Leta smiled. "(Y/N)."

“Hello, Leta.” They replied.

“Hi,” Tina said awkwardly, yet kindly.

Victoria looked at (Y/N) who was clinging onto the side panel of the “tree” then looked at Newt and Tina. Oh.

•✦.✧.🔎.✧.✦•

The figures of fifty aurors appeared in silhouette among the mausoleums. “It isn’t illegal to listen to him! Use minimum of force on the crowd. We mustn’t be what he says we are!” Theseus advised. Though the emotions of nervousness, even fear, and on a few, a clear will to fight, to avenge were evident of their faces.

~*~*~

“The moment has come to share my vision of the future that awaits if we do not rise up and take our rightful place in the world.” Grindelwald started.

Rosier appeared onstage. Bowing, she presented the skull-hookah to Grindelwald. Total silence fell through the auditorium.

Grindelwald was illuminated by the skull’s golden light. He inhaled deeply through the tube. His eyes rolled up into his head. He exhales and a gigantic cloak spread from his lips across the high stone ceiling, bearing moving images.

The crowd gasped. Images of thousands of marching, booted feet, explosions, men running with guns. The vision of a nuclear blast rocks the amphitheater. The crowd felt terrified. There were screams, until the vision subsided, leaving murmurs of panic.

“Not another war,” Jacob whispered.

The vision faded and all eyes return to Grindelwald. “That is what we are fighting! That is the enemy! Their arrogance, their power lust, their barbarity. How long will it take before they turn their weapons on us?”

Aurors entered the auditorium unnoticed, fanning out among the crowd. Victoria and (Y/N) being in that crowd of Aurors. They stood next to each other, holding hands.

The crowd settled down, agitated- expectant. They were waiting for a new, extraordinary revelation.

“Do nothing when I speak of this. You must remain calm and contain your emotions.” He paused. “There are Aurors here among us.”

The Aurors looked around in panic. They were wildly outnumbered. The crowd turned hostile. “Come closer, brother wizards! Join us.” Grindelwald announced to the Aurors.

“Do nothing. No force.” Theseus instructed.

One of the young Aurors has made eye contact with a young witch. She was angry, fingering her wand.

“They have killed many of my followers, it is true. They caught and tortured me in New York. They had struck down their fellow witches and wizards for the simple crime of seeking truth, for wanting freedom.” Grindelwald watched as he deliberately played on an unstable young witch’s feelings.

The young Auror raised his wand a few inches.

“Your anger. Your desire for revenge is natural.” Grindelwald continued.

She raised her wand, but the young Auror curses first. To the horror of her companions, she fell, dead.

“Disapparate. Leave. Go forth from this place and spread the word: It is not we who are violent.” People nearby took the body and Disapparate, as did most of the crowd.

Theseus and the other Aurors watched the purebloods leave. Victoria squeezed (Y/N)’s hand before letting go.

“Let’s take him.”

They started to descend the amphitheater steps. Grindelwald turned his back on the advancing Aurors, relishing the fight to come. “Protego diabolica.”

He spun and drew a protective circle of black fire around himself. The exits closed shut. Some of his followers walked through the flames into the circle. “Aurors, join me in this circle, pledge to me your eternal allegiance, or die. Only here shall you know freedom, only here shall you know yourself.” Grindelwald sent a wall of flames into the air, pursuing fleeing Aurors.

In the attempts to defend herself from the flames, Victoria ended up falling with her arm stretched out. This caused her arm to sprain. She continued, but her movements were slightly delayed due to the pain.

“Victoria, you need to get out of here,” Theseus instructed.

She winced in pain, holding her left arm in pain. “N-No. (Y/N)’s here. I can still fight.”

“Stop doing that. Stop trying to save everyone. Stop trying to put everyone’s health and safety over yours! In another time and another place, I would praise you for this. Though right now, we’re in the middle of a battle. Get out of here.”

“But sir-”

“That’s an order, Victoria.”

“Then you promise me one thing, Mr. Scamander.” Victoria pulled on one side of his collar to her level and looked him dead in the eyes. “You make sure she gets out of here.”

He gulped. Theseus never saw her like this- even on missions. “I will. Victoria, I promise.”

~*~*~

(Y/N) made her way to the bottom of the amphitheater, close to the ring of fire. “Gellert Grindelwald!” She yelled, her wand pointed at him.

“Ah. Miss (Y/N) (L/N). A pleasure to meet you. The Ministry’s “secret weapon”. Wait- don’t you come in a pair?” Grindelwald said, sinisterly.

(Y/N) blinked. She was not phased by his words. Three years of Auror training and years of work in the field prepared her for this type of situation. Flattery would not get him anywhere.

‘Her mind is sharp and strong, but what about her heart?’ Grindelwald thought before choosing his next words. “Alright. Let’s not talk about our professions…” He paused. “My dear, did you ever think that the Scamander brothers would miss you? They couldn’t even love you.” Grindelwald taunted.

She gulped, the grip on her wand loosened. “That’s not true! They… They did love me..” (Y/N) exclaimed, her voice faltering towards the end.

‘There we go.’ Grindelwald walked closer to the woman. “Did they really?”

Her heart raced. Her breathing became uneven. Yet it felt like she couldn’t breathe at all. Her hands started to shake. She looked at her wand, then at the Scamander brothers (who were waiting and analyzing the scene), then back at Grindelwald. “Y-Yes they did.” (Y/N) stuttered.

Finally standing within arms reach of her, he slowly moved her hand that held her wand away- and she let him do that. He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Yes, but not in the way you wanted, did they?”

(Y/N) thought for a moment. She knew it was wrong, but Grindelwald’s words were so… tempting. His entire speech- he did have a point. And that’s when her walls- the walls that protected her and her feelings- crumbled. “No… They didn’t… I just… If I was just…”

The Scamander brothers had seen enough. It was not going the way they thought. “(Y/N), don’t!” Newt and Theseus yelled, making their way towards her.

Grindelwald sent up flames in their path, stopping them from continuing down the walkway. “Mr. Scamander, you and your brother are being quite rude. I’m trying to have a conversation with your lovely friend here!”

(Y/N) took a hesitant step towards Grindelwald. “I-If I join you… will the pain go away?”

He smirked, confident that he managed to gain another follower. “You’ll have that and so much more.”

She was about to take another step-

“(Y/N) please! Don’t leave us… Don’t leave me.” Newt pleaded, finally reaching the bottom of the walkway. Theseus, Leta, and Tina followed, stopping where he stood.

(Y/N) turned and looked at them. ‘Theseus. Leta. Newt. Tina.’ She gasped as the reality caught up to her. She would never be like Leta. She would never be like Tina. No matter how hard she tried, she would never be enough. The loves of her life, physically so close yet emotionally out of arm's reach.

Grindelwald walked around her then stood behind the heart-broken woman. “Look at them. Mocking you. Having no respect for your feelings. Can’t they see that they’re hurting you? The man you loved during your school years, just for him to fancy another. And even now, another woman has captured his heart. Then the brother! Oh, how smitten you were… Just for him to propose to the very woman that was the cause of your heartbreak the first time!”

“Grindelwald, enough!” Theseus yelled, pain evident in his voice.

“Please (Y/N), we can fix this!” Tina screamed.

Grindelwald patted her shoulders, “Think about all the times they hurt you…” He said before walking backing into the center of the ring of fire.

The shift in their friendship when Newt would give Leta his sweaters. All the times he would miss meetups because he was busy hanging out with Leta. The moment Newt started paying more attention to Tina. Hell, he’d talk about her all the damn time. All the times Theseus compared her to Leta. And the audacity of him to ask for advice on what gifts to get her. Were the years they were together mean nothing to him?

At the end of her montage, (Y/N) hadn’t even noticed the tears running down her cheeks. Grindelwald was right. With them, she faked happiness. Siding with Grindelwald would give her a chance at a new start.

“(Y/N), he’s manipulating you! ” Leta shouted.

“We didn’t mean to hurt you…” Newt trailed off.

“(Y/N), I would rather have you ignore me for the rest of your life than have you side with him! Stay with us!” Theseus admitted.

(Y/N) shut her eyes tightly, covering her ears in an attempt to block out their lies. Their sad attempts to make her stay. Their attempts of emotional torture. Tears ran down her cheeks- ugly sobs escaping her lips. All she wanted was for them to leave her alone. All she wanted was to run away.

“Newt loves you, (Y/N),” Tina let out, hoping that this last resort would work.

She heard that.

(Y/N) sniffled, uncovering her ears and wiping the tears from her eyes. “Not like he loves you, Tina… Remember? T-The salamanders…” She took a step backward, taking one last look at the people she held dear to her heart. “Leta, Tina… I’m not angry at either of you. Jealous, but not angry.”

She then looked down, the wand in her hand was suddenly captivating. “Theseus… Newton…” She trailed off before mustering up the courage to look at the men she loved.

Newt let out a whine. “What… What about Victoria?”

(Y/N) gasped softly. Victoria- her best friend. She shook her head before she could think about it any longer. ‘She wouldn’t miss me either… I was just a burden to her all these years.’

“Goodbye.” (Y/N) said quickly before running into the circle of flames.

“(Y/N)!” The four of them screamed.

“Tell Victoria I’m sorry…” She whispered as she Disapparated.

~*~*~

Grindelwald and his followers escaped, the flames extinguished, and Newt had chosen his side. The world was safe… for now.

Victoria, her left arm wrapped in a makeshift sling, made her way over to the four of them. She counted heads. Only four…? She looked at her charm bracelet. It had never felt that cold- even during the winter months. Why was the charm so cold?

“Where’s (Y/N)?” She asked, looking around in case she was in another area.

The four stayed silent. None of them wanted to break the news to her.

“W-Well?” Victoria stuttered.

Leta stepped towards her. “First, you have to know that none of us were the cause of whatever we’re going to say next.”

She gasped, “I-Is she…?”

“No! She’s not dead… She…” Tina trailed off.

“She what?” She asked, waiting for an answer. “Leta?” Victoria asked, only for Leta to look the other way. Tina had turned her attention elsewhere before Victoria could even ask her.

Victoria then looked at the Scamander brothers who were looking at each other. They were displaying miniature hand motions as if telling the other to say something. “Theseus and Newton Scamander… Either one of you better have a good explanation of why my best friend isn’t with you.”

“We tried to stop her, but…” Newt started while fiddling his thumbs, not being able to look at Victoria.

“But she was manipulated into joining Grindelwald.” Theseus continued.

Victoria gasped. The first thing she felt was pain, then it was quickly replaced with anger. Usually, (Y/N) would be there to stop her, but (Y/N) wasn’t there now was she? Victoria made her way to the brothers. She raised her hand, ready to slap Theseus’ face, but stopped just as her hand neared his cheek.

Theseus flinched, preparing himself for an impact that never came. When he heard soft sobs, he quickly opened his eyes to see Victoria crying.

That night, Victoria had lost her best friend to a monster. She dropped her arm and brought her hand close to her chest, the sobs getting more intense.

Leta and Tina made their way over to embrace her, whispering empty words such as “We’ll get her back” or “It’s okay. (Y/N)’s strong and smart. She’ll find her way out”.

Victoria sniffled. Her hair was a mess and her face covered with soot and mud. One of her arms hurt like hell, but none of those pains would ever amount to the loss of (Y/N). She finally looked up, her puffy eyes meeting the brothers’.

“I trusted you.” Victoria croaked. She brought herself to look at Newt. “She loved you… You know? Do you know how many times she’s cried on my bed in my room while we were at Hogwarts?”

She then looked at Theseus, “And you! You were her first boyfriend and I know that doesn’t entitle you to marry her or whatever, but for Merlin’s sake. Do you know how many times she’s come back to our flat at ungodly hours of the night, piss drunk trying to get over you?” Victoria ranted, getting out of Leta and Tina’s embrace. Years of emotional baggage finally fell off her shoulders.

Tina opened her mouth to say something, but Leta shook her head. Tina nodded and just let the scene play out.

“Victoria, we didn’t mean to-” Theseus started before Victoria interrupted.

“To hell with you, Theseus! You promised me that she’d get out of there! And you broke that promise…”

Theseus took a step forward with his arms open, going in for a hug.

���Please don’t. I need time and space away from all of you…” Victoria quickly stepped away from the four of them.

“This is the last time I’ll trust her heart- No, her life in the hands of a Scamander.” She said coldly before Disapparating.

[annab-nana]

Flowers Of Forgiveness - Colby Brock

You and Colby had known each other for five years, dated for two, and you’d think he would remember your birthday, right? Wrong and with birthdays being such a big deal to you, it hurt like hell. He messed up big time and it might be the last straw before your relationship crumbles unless he can manage to save it.

Requested by an amazing anon 💙

Warnings: some curse words; mentions of alcoholic parents

Word Count: 2.1k+

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

You look around the table to see who all is there. Tara is to your right, then it's Jake, Kevin, Reggie, Cassie, Devyn, Xepher, Griffin, Sam, Katrina, Corey, Mike, Aryia, and then there was an empty seat to the left of you. Colby's seat. You don't know why he isn't here yet. He couldn't have forgotten, could he? No, because last week he told you he cleared up his schedule for your birthday. So, where the hell was he?

"Excuse me for a second, guys. I am going to call Colby really quick to see where he is," You say as you stand up and walk out the front door of the restaurant.

"Hey babe!" you hear his chipper greeting flow out of the phone.

"Hey Colbs! Where are you?" you question. He must have got in some bad traffic and is just being held up a bit.

"I'm at my apartment, catching up on some Unus Annus videos." Your heart dropped to the pit of your stomach. He forgot your birthday. You had originally thought he was just being annoying or was trying to hide a surprise or something when he didn’t text you about it and avoided saying 'happy birthday' all day long. But he wasn't. He had forgotten it completely.

"Oh." The only response that came to mind spills out of your mouth.

"Yeah, what are you up to, babe?" He asks so nonchalantly.

"Um, I'm just out with the girls and wanted to check up on you. But I will let you get back to your videos," you say as tears brim your eyes. Your boyfriend of two years forgot your birthday.

"Okay, I'll talk to you later." You blink the tears that threaten to spill over away.

"Yeah, I might swing by your place before I go home. Talk to you later. Bye." Ending the call, you take a deep breath to calm yourself before heading back in.

"Okay, so Colby is just running late. He got caught up with some work stuff, but he'll be here soon," you lie as you sit down. You don't want to make the dinner awkward by saying that Colby forgot. You just want to enjoy the last bit of your birthday with the people who actually care enough about you to remember your birthday. You all order your food and talk and have a good time.

"I have to go to the bathroom. Y/n, wanna come with?" Tara asks. You nod before standing with her and following her to the restroom.

"Colby isn't coming, is he?" She asks as soon as the door shuts.

"No," you tell her the truth as the tears come back. "We've been together for two years. Friends for three before that and he just forgets. He has never forgotten before and he knows how much it hurts me when someone close and important to me does. My parents didn’t care enough to celebrate my birthday when I was younger which is fine, but Colby told me he would never do that to me. But here we are. He forgot."

"Oh y/n," Tara whispers as she pulls you into her tiny frame. "I am sure there is some reason for this, and you know better than I do that he is an idiot most of the time."

"Yeah," you laugh before going to the mirror to make sure that the few tears that did manage to escape did not mess up anything.

"I lied so that I wouldn't make anything awkward," you inform her as the two of you head back to the table and she nods understandingly. When y’all get back, the food had arrived, so you all eat. You thank everyone for coming as you leave the restaurant.

"Happy birthday y/n. I hate that Colby couldn't make it," Aryia tells you as he pulls you in for a goodbye hug.

"Yeah, traffic got the better of him, but we'll be doing something tomorrow," you lie again as you pull away from the embrace. After receiving many hugs and happy birthdays, you get in your car to go to Colby's.

Knocking his door, the anger and sadness in you boil. He swings the door open and lays his eyes on you, noticing how angry and upset you are.

"What happened babe?" He says as he opens the door wider to let you in. You walk in and turn to face him.

"What do you think happened?" you question him. His face drains of color as he thinks back on everything he has done to figure out what has set you off.

"Sweetie, I really don't know. Just tell me what I did," he pleads, completely oblivious to what was wrong.

"Did you forget something?" Again, he goes through everything he can think of and is stumped.

"I don't think so. I-"

"You aren't forgetting anything special. Like a holiday or someone's birthday..." you trail off, trying to get it through his thick skull.

"No, your birthday is tomorrow, and Kevin's is next week-"

"Oh sorry. I didn't realize my birthday was tomorrow. I thought it was on June 17th like it always has been for the past twenty or so years, but I must be mistaken," you sarcastically spit out. At this point, you were fuming.

"No, your birthday is on Thursday which is tomorrow," he retorts as you roll your eyes.

"Where is your phone? Have you been on that thing at all today? Normally your eyes are glued to it," you ask him. You can tell he is getting angrier with you, but at this point, you don't seem to care.

"No, I was taking a day away from my phone. I only answered important calls or texts but that was it," he informs you as he walks to where his phone was in his room.

"Tell me what today's date is, Colby."

"It's June 16th, I know it is because..." His voice fades out. He comes out of his room with his eyes on his phone.  "It's the 17th," he states bluntly before looking up to meet your sad and angry eyes.

"Y/n, I'm so sorry. I-"

"No Colby. You know how much birthdays mean to me. You know that. Do you know how embarrassing it was tonight when I was at dinner with all of our friends and the person who means the absolute most to me doesn't show? I hated being there and I couldn't even enjoy it because you weren't there."

"Did you tell them I forgot?" He asks me as he sits down on the couch, all ashamed.

"No, I didn't. Instead, I lied to all of them, but it was not to protect you and your feelings. It was for them so that they didn't have to feel awkward or feel bad for the girl that they were supposed to be celebrating. I told them you were caught up with work stuff and then got caught in traffic and couldn't make it. But Tara still figured it out. She was right. You are a damn idiot."

"No, I'm not!" He fights back as he rises to his feet in anger.

"Yes, you are," you laugh at him. "My parents even told me happy birthday this year Colby. They haven't done that since I was five. I guess they weren't drunk off their asses enough to forget it this morning." You take a breath before continuing.

"You must've not checked the group chat. They were all going off about my birthday and the dinner tonight. And you weren't on Twitter or Instagram either because then you would have seen your fans wishing me a happy birthday as well. People who don't even fucking know me knew my birthday was today."

"Y/n, I'm sorry. I don't know what to do."

"There's nothing you can do. You can't replace the feeling I have of not feeling good enough. You of all people know that when my parents forgot my sixth birthday, I was crushed. Then they forgot year after year after year. Then I met you and all of your amazing friends and you guys have made me feel so special and loved, especially on my birthday. You know that on anyone else's birthday, I make sure that they feel so loved and cared about because I know what it feels like to not be."

"I'm sorry, babe. I didn't mean to forget. It just happened."

"Wow Colby, that makes me feel so much better. You know what? I am sorry. I probably sound like such a diva for getting upset about this, so I'm gonna go-"

"No y/n, please don't go."

"I'm going to leave and go back home. Probably cry myself to sleep? I don't know. We'll see." You place your hand on the doorknob.

"I've noticed how you never miss a beat when it comes to work stuff. But this isn't the first time you've forgotten something with me. It's just the first time it was something important. Get your priorities straight Colby if you want to keep me around." And with that, you leave his apartment, get in your car, and head home.

After walking in, you do exactly what you didn't want and start crying. You slip out of the clothes you were wearing and wipe off all your makeup. Throwing your hair into a messy bun, you walk to your phone to see the many messages and missed calls from Colby which you choose to ignore. The constant buzzing gets on your nerves so much that you turn the damn thing completely off before falling asleep.

…

"Oh, I'm so sorry, y/n," Devyn says as she walks into the living room with a bowl of popcorn. She had texted you last night when you had your phone turned off because of Colby and was asking if you were okay. She knew you were lying about the work and traffic stuff too. You called her this morning and asked her to come over because you were in need of some girl time, especially with your Dev, and she happily obliged. You told her all about it, providing the details of your past and all, and then you two decided a movie would make you feel better, specifically your favorite Moana.

"Yeah it sucks, but I'm going to give him a few days. I'll still like text him and stuff. I just don't want to see him for a bit," you tell her as the movie begins. The two of you sit back and enjoy the movie and popcorn until a knock at the door interrupts you.

"I'll get it," you huff as you make your way to the door before looking through the peephole to see the last person you wanted to at the moment.

"Colby," you mouth to Devyn. She nods, pausing the movie and skipping into your room. You open the door just enough for him to see you but that's it.

"Hey," you speak softly. You know you probably look like shit, but you honestly do not care. He should see how he made you feel.

"Hey, umm, y/n, I am really sorry and I-" you couldn't help but notice him steadily trying to peek behind you. Does he actually think you have some guy over or something? Is he really that jealous and think that low of you?

"Forgetful and jealous? Man, you really have changed Colby."

"No, I'm... never mind. I am here to apologize. I was a shitty boyfriend yesterday. I still am one today and I'll probably never be the best boyfriend in the world, but I will continue to try to be the best I can be for you. I know this isn't much at all, but it is something. It shows I pay attention to some details," he says as he pulls a bouquet of flowers out from behind his back.

After getting a better look at them, you notice that they are daffodils, your grandmother's favorite flower which became your favorite flower. You might have mentioned that once, maybe twice, but it was a long time ago. The fact that he remembered it warmed your heart. You smiled at him before taking the flowers from his grasp.

"You aren't completely off the hook, but I forgive you. Come here," you say as you pull the blue-eyed boy into your arms, wrapping them around his neck. His arms snake around your waist and lift you off the ground slightly.

"So, I haven't lost you yet?" He questions in your ear and you giggle into his before he sets you down. You bring the hand that wasn’t holding flowers to cup his face.

"Nope, but I suggest you don't forget my birthday again," you whisper as you place a small kiss on his nose.

"I won't. I promise. Your birthday will forever be engrained in here," he tells you as he taps on the side of his head.

"Oh yeah, what day is it?"

"June 23rd?" He jokes and you roll your eyes.

"That's Kevin's birthday sweetheart."