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lokisgoodgirl · 2 years ago

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Husband [Asgard!Loki x Fem.Reader]

A link to my Masterlist is HERE Summary: After a lifetime of longing, it's finally time to seal the deal. Follow on to Heirs - but can be read as a one-shot (w/c 1.8k) Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Asgardian HC. Fluff & Smut.

The silk chiffon of Loki’s robe tingled against his skin, sash loosely bound. There would be no guards in the corridor that stretched to his chambers. Not tonight.

Pacing barefoot across the marble floor, he noted the squeeze of a damp hand intertwined with his. Steam from the palace baths dissipated from the air with every stride. There were no words needed, just the pad of your footsteps following close behind his own.

With a nudge of his head, Loki sent a wave of seidr rolling up your bodies. You giggled quietly, the delicate sound echoing. The god threw a glance over his shoulder, seeing your newly dried hair bounce as your steps quickened. “Hurry,” you chided, stifling another giggle. Loki turned on his heels, feet squeaking on the polished floor to a stop. You collided with his chest. “You do not command me, wife,” he warned, squinting theatrically before breaking into a smile. Loki’s heart leapt at your gasping laugh as he swept you off your feet, the drape of your matching robes scratching together. Your legs hung over one elbow, his hand securely fastened around your midsection. Loki would never forget the way your pupils dilated as you stared into his eyes, the whole world growing out of focus around what was in his grasp. Around you. “I love you-” he breathed, cutting himself off by leaning to catch your lips. The heavy wooden doors to his chambers opened of their own accord, recognising their master's presence. He let his tongue explore deeper with every powerful stride towards the matrimonial bed, slow and purposeful and all-consuming. Loki stopped, breaking the kiss to take in what lay before you both as the door swung shut. Dozens of tall candles adorned the arched windows, throwing an orange glow towards the navy dusk of Asgard sprawled below, just out of sight. White fur pelts draped across his bed, neat emerald sheets replaced with luxurious folds of cream and beige. Loki’s mouth twitched in mild disapproval. “Look,” you said, excitedly patting his shoulder and nodding towards a table by the fireplace. Lit by soft flickering flame, he saw the traditional finger-food of Asgardian gentry laid out on delicate piles. Each plate more tempting than the last. “Yes, very nice,” Loki hummed feebly, giving the scene a cursory glance before his attention was drawn unavoidably back to the pulse of your neck. Furious desire was thudding in him like the drums of war. It was becoming unbearable. His cock, violently hard and swollen and aching against his stomach. It had a heartbeat. Loki tightened his grip on your body in his arms, inhaling against the angle of your jaw. He sucked at the scent of your clean skin like oxygen, drowning. “Husband?” you moaned softly. She’s impatient. Loki felt every hair on his arms erect in unison.

One of your hands moulded to his cheekbone as you pressed your forehead to his, nuzzling his mouth until he relented. Your lips working against his own, Loki made the final steps to the bed before reluctantly lowering you to the pile of furs. He retreated, drinking in every inch of flimsy white chiffon that did nothing to hide the curves beneath. How she taunts me, he thought with a smile; pulling lightly at the sash around his waist, this wife of mine. The two of you were no virgins. But tonight, it felt like it was so. Wisps of half-forgotten memories twisted deep in the god’s mind; uprooted from their slumber. And another, and another. Like they belonged to someone else.

Lovers of every rank and station, known to him in dark hallways and golden bedchambers. The half-remembrances evaporated like smoke. But none like this, he thought with a comforting smile as his chiffon robe pooled around his ankles. He could feel the warmth rising in your cheeks, radiating from the coyness of your smile. None like her. Loki clasped his hands behind his back, raising his chin. He felt your appraising gaze dart up his displayed body, a series of rapid breaths beginning to pepper the air making his heart swell. Your gentle pants fluttered against his obliques, denying yourself the taste of his skin until the hallowed words had been spoken. They caught behind his teeth. The prince felt his abdomen clench, every muscle in his body resisting the urge to fall upon you. A wild tide on rocks.

“Will you accept me as your husband to your bed this night?” he uttered, laden with ceremony. You straightened in front of him, slow hands tugging at the fastening of your robe.

“Yes, my lord,” you answered seductively, looking him dead in the eye. “I will.”

The sheer fabric began to slip from your shoulders. The exchange was a formality. A tradition. But as Loki’s fingers wrapped around his straining cock, feeling fat droplets of pre-cum roll against knuckles; he conceded it was one Asgardian tradition he was glad to keep.

With an arm outstretched, you dropped the delicate robe onto the stone floor by his feet. Loki could feel the growl building in his throat. Low, primal. A shudder rolled over his biceps as you leant back on your elbows, drawing the soles of your feet onto the bed. He let his eyes run over the lines of your body, the flex of your thighs, the plump sweetness of your curves. She will be the death of me, he thought as he inhaled a staggered breath. No, he pondered after a beat, lowering to place his palms on either side of your shoulders. She is the beginning.

His fingers trembled as he placed one hand over your heart, eyes never leaving yours. “Do you trust me?” he murmured, barely audible. You frowned, glancing to where his fingers lay. “Always,” you whispered. The skin beneath his touch glowed green as Loki’s eyes fluttered shut. He opened them tentatively, softening. “The bond of my protection,” he explained bashfully, “now, if ever you need me, I will be with you.”

His heart dropped as your face scrunched, cupping his jaw. “You were always with me,” you said softly, straining upwards to place a gentle kiss on his parted lips. And in that moment, Loki knew. He worked his mouth across the curve of your cheekbone, wordless sounds of adoration soaking every step. “Lie back,” he whispered hot in your ear. His stomach flipped, realising as you reclined against the furs that he hadn’t been this nervous since the very first time. Or perhaps, even then. The god watched your eyes widen with excitement as he nudged your legs further apart with his knees. With aching intensity, he mapped each spark in your eyes as he dragged his cock along your soaking slit from root to tip. It nudged, gently.

“Loki," you gasped quietly, arching your back in frustration. He smiled, trying to remain serious. “What, my love?” he heard himself tease, inhaling against your neck with a shameless moan. Like pollen on a breeze, he felt your words soak through his skin. Through his soul. I need you. And, Loki thought, she means it.

He wondered if anyone else ever truly had.

The god raised his head, cursing the dark curls which fell forward from his braids against your face, obscuring the view. Your fingers combed past his shoulders, pushing the veil back. “There you are,” you whispered with a smile. He felt himself nod once, stare boring into your own. You nodded back, squeezing your knees against his trunk in encouragement.

Gasps filled the space between you as he eased the heavy tip of his manhood inside your channel. Inside the very essence of you that he had longed for. Every inch was a simmering feast of pleasure, the denial of centuries building to a single, strangled gasp of your name. Loki felt his brows slant, the sight of you beneath him almost more than he could bear. Careless lust rose in waves, firing through his bloodstream as he filled you to the hilt. Careful, he chided himself. Slowly. Every inch of your pussy was perfection, as he knew it would be. Every vein and ridge of his cock dragged tight against your flawless heat. A man could lose himself for eternity inside this pleasure if he wasn’t careful, each pull of your tight slippery cunt against his foreskin making him ascend. And not just a man, he thought through the drunken haze, a god. He choked with a rasping groan, letting his head fall into the curve of your neck. Loki began to pant as words of devotion licked the air like flames, your fingers trailing over the weaving curves of his ceremonial braids. “Don’t hold back,” you whispered wet in his ear, “not tonight.” Loki pulled his head back, a strand of saliva dangling from his lip as his brow furrowed. There was a new light in your eyes, something dark and hungry. Something familiar. Something him.

He tilted his head to the side, his eyes narrowed. “Wife,” he gasped through breathy pants and shallow thrusts, “are you asking me to-” “-fill me,” you groaned, an impish smile tugging your dimples, "heirs, remember?" Loki’s eyes rolled back as you bucked your hips up, thudding your pelvic bones together. The snug warmth of your pussy was unbearable.

The prince remembered the way you had come undone beneath his mouth earlier this evening in the palace baths. The way that your fresh cum had flooded his outstretched tongue. He felt his thighs tense. His balls, tight. “My love, I-” he gasped, feeling you tug a clutch of his hair. Loki hissed, his jaw set. “I’m trying to be romantic,” he spat, yanking his head away like a child. He stared down with fiery determination, the flash in his eyes punctuated with a punishing thrust of his hips. You moaned approvingly below him, a teasing grin stretching across your face. Loki’s heart melted. My wife, he thought lovingly; before slamming his cock deeper with a squelch. He felt the scratch of your fingernails over thick shoulder muscle, the tightening of your thighs making him judder. “We have our whole lives for romance, Loki,” you cooed, the syllables staggered between each slap of his hips, “tonight I...uhhh- just want you to f-fuck me, f-finally.”

The god released the growl that had been marinating in his throat, stretching a hand above your head. He gripped a clutch of furs tight in a fist. “I fucking love you,” he rasped, beginning to roll his hips in targeted, deep thrusts. “I- oh g-god, fucking lo-love you, my p-prince” you whined, catching his mouth in a messy kiss.

Loki pulled away from you, shaking his head with a broken sigh. He could feel the most powerful orgasm he had ever experienced building in his belly, your soft moans sending his soul to new planes. It was perfection, the two of you. Nothing would ever compare. Nothing ever should. “Not your prince-” he grunted, knuckles whitening against the furs as he spun out the feeling as long as it could last. Edging himself. “-husband,” -was the last word Loki heard before climax deafened him.

Tags @lokischambermaid @meowmeow-motherfucker @gigglingtiggerv2 @imalovernotahater @avengersalways @littledark11 @lokikissesmyforehead @simplyholl @fictive-sl0th @thedistractedagglomeration @loopsisloops @glitchquake @jaidenhawke @silverfire475 @morriggannlostinfandoms @marygoddessofmischief @sebstanwhore @xorpsbane @peacefulpianist @yelkmelk @wheredafandomat @mistress-ofmagic @acidcasualties @ozymdias @your-taste-on-my-lips @lokidokieokie @kikster606 @peachyjinx @tbhiddlestan83 @trickster-maiden @skymoonandstardust @justjoanne242 @sidepartskinnyjeans @ladyofthestayingpower @wolfmoonmusic @brittbax @smolvenger @superficialdomina @kaleenjackson @fictional-hooman @psychospore @littlespaceyelf @itsybitchylittlewitchy

#loki x reader #loki smut #loki laufeyson #loki fanfiction #loki fluff and smut #loki imagine #loki fanfic #loki odinson #loki x reader smut #loki x you #loki x female reader #loki x you smut #loki marvel #loki gif #loki #loki laufesyon x reader #loki odison x reader #lokismut #loki oneshot

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fortuneforsaken-if · 6 months ago

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if you're not following my main blog (which you should, i make funne joek sometimes lol) then you should know that my kitten massacred my charger cable to the laptop and i've yet to get a replacement.

in lieu of an update, here's a concept piece about how you would've met maluset for the first time in game. it's scrapped now for something better (hopefully) but it's still an okay piece of writing if i do say so myself. think it was some sort of a fever writing so let's not look too close okay.

It's cold. The mansion is always cold, of course, but this feels unnatural. Like the sun itself blotted out, a chill that seeps into your bones, a freeze after submerging in icy water.

No. You stop your steps and scan your surroundings. The mansion is quiet as well, void of the hustle and bustle of the maid always scurrying around. Something has shifted.

"What the fuck is going on," you hear the voice from atop of the grand staircase, the keeper of your chains aggravated as they tie the sash around their bathrobe. "What the fuck did you do?" They hiss, each step down the staircase filled with anger, theyr eyes on you in accusation.

But you didn't do this, did you? A cursory glance at your hands, and they're shaking. Why? Why can't you stop them? A tug at your heart could be anything; fear, exhaustion, panic, but those are emotions you've long buried. No, there is something else too. A familiarity, a longing, you felt it for the first thousand years, but it has since lain dormant.

"I-" you begin, interrupted by the rumble you feel underfoot. It's minimal at first, barely there for you to sense, but it grows stronger, stronger, until a vase perched on a side table crashes into the floor.

The heir grabs onto the bannister and curses. Another figure falls against the bannisters upstairs, a familiar, exhausted visage now with frantic eyes looking across the room, eyes meeting yours in question.

It peaks and recedes, slowly, shakes becoming tremors, and tremors becoming subtle vibrations. The heir stomps up to you with a finger raised, but they get no word out before Rami is down the stairs and grabs their arm. "Wait, do you see -"

"Rami, you're my brother, but I will break every single one of your fingers if you so much as touch me aga-" and he does, grabs them by the head and turns them to look at the front entrance, the massive windows that show an opulent garden outside.

Or they should, but there is nothing. Only darkness.

Oh. You feel the realization creep up your neck like a soft desert breeze, warm in midst of the cold that has otherwise settled. It cocoons you like your mother's hugs, protective, adoring. Alive.

"What the fuck," the heir offers eloquently yet again, bare feet stomping to the door and yanking it open. Light that should spill out from the open door sits still at the threshold. "That's not normal," Rami mutters, but you can only stare into the abyssal darkness.

At the sand collecting at the porch, grains coming together to form a vortex before it solidifies into a figure.

The heir stumbles back with a cry, landing on their behind as they scurry back. You stand still, hands ny your side, but you want to reach. You want to welcome an old friend, but you get no chance.

He's here. After so many years, he's here. The robes fall effortlessly over his shoulder, the moving glitter of starlight the only differentiating element from the darkness beyond. A divine vision clad in shadows, the human features swirling as if not keen on being in that form. You see the galaxies in his eyes consolidate into an iris, the full weight of it set on the heir sprawled in the ground.

"Ashar tehk nuḥ senet akhet."

Your breath stutters at the inhale. It's been so long since you heard your tongue spoken, the words like an old-forgotten hymn you thought you'd never hear again.

I have come to retrieve the one you have stolen from me.

You could think he came for a relic, or anything else of material value. The spark of hope you've nursed flares to life when he turns his eyes to you, the vastness behind them softening as he takes you in, his shoulders easing only a fraction. Another gust of a warm breeze flows over your cheek.

He really did come for you.

#ramblings.#maluset.#drabble.#the pacing is off tbh #and i feel it's way too flowery #but idc lol it's a concept #also hiii sorry for silence! been working on the main project :) until charger death

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genderlessghoul · 1 year ago

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Hiiiiii my darlings, we all know I love love love to talk about the ghouls, my babies, so today I wanna take a look at the different ghoul costumes and talk about the evolution of their costumes.

Opus Eponymous :

The first ghoul costumes, I really like what they did with them despite the fact they probably had a very limited budget to work with (which shows in Primo's costume ngl). They're pretty simple and they will set the example for the next few eras. The masks are nothing complicated but I do like that they have some structure despite being completely blank. I like the shape of the capelet a lot, it reminds me of gothic architecture. The arm "wraps" add some nice shapes in the design and I really like the leather on the bottom of the robe and on the capelet. They're of course wearing grucifix necklaces, as they will up to Meliora.

Infestissumam :

We still have a robe, like the Opus design. The rope as a belt has been replaced by a wide fabric belt and the capelet design was changed for a much simpler one. We get the introduction to the elemental symbols, which are stitched on the waist sash. Each ghoul's respective element is highlighted by a lighter colour. The masks are now starting to get more inteicate designs, this version being inspired by the last mascarade costume of king Gustav iii.

Meliora :

We can still very much see the influence of the Infest design in Meliora's, despite the loss of the hood and capelet. The top went from a full robe to a mid-thigh jacket but kept the belt sash. The elemental symbols are no longer stitched on it, replaced by a logo that I think is meant to be a mix of all of them, but I could be wrong. The elements are still found on the costume as a patch on the right side of the chest. We have new metal masks, full faces with horns and without any mouths.

Prequelle :

A true departure from the previous costumes we had seen so far, the only element still remaining being the masks, which are almost the same as Meliora except for the cut-out mouth. We also have a different mask design for the ghoulettes. The cut of the jacket is more reminiscent of Terzo's uniform than it is of the previous ghouls, which is also inspired by king Gustav iii. It also matches most of Copia's outfits during that era. Despite not looking much like the previous version, it was (and still is) a huge hit with the fans.

Impera :

Forget everything you thought you knew about the ghouls, Impera throws it out the window. The shape of the masks that defined two eras is completely gone, replaced by steampunk inspired helmets. The robes or long coats are now military style jackets. The tight Prequelle pants replaced by Jodhpurs. Every metallic piece that was once silver are now bronze. I've talked to great lengths about the Impera costumes and why I love them so much. Them being so different is a big reason why.

#the band ghost #ghost bc #nameless ghoul #nameless ghouls #swiss ghoul #phantom ghoul #dewdrop ghost #rain ghoul #mountain ghoul #cirrus ghost #aurora ghoulette #cumulus ghost #meerkat talks about ghost costumes

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angelseraphines · 2 months ago

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THE PHANTOM MENACE | CHAPTER ONE

“the vow of a father.”

the message arrived at dawn.

the holocomm pedestal glowed softly in the center of the study, casting its radiant light against the high ceilings and the frescoed walls, each surface still blanketed in the lavender gloom of early morning. outside the tall windows, coruscant’s skyline hovered far beyond, pale and distant, wreathed in mist. light crept in only gently, lasting and frigid.

lord naem rharrellis did not move.

the projection of governor sio bibble shimmered above the platform, distorted faintly by atmospheric interference, though his tone was steady.

“the blockade remains unbroken,” the governor said. “the trade federation claims legal authority, but the starfreighters are being denied passage. the outer systems are watching closely. we have reason to believe the chancellor has dispatched two jedi to negotiate.”

the message ended there.

the governor’s figure vanished.

naem stood motionless, his hands clasped behind his back, his robes of midnight-blue senator’s cloth falling in weighted folds down to his boots. for a long time, he did not stir. he only stared past the now-empty pedestal toward the far wall of the study, where the shadows ran deepest.

a painting hung there.

it was tall, narrow, framed in etched silver-leaf, set into the wall as if it had always belonged. the brushwork was fine, luminous in its precision. in it, lady darmah sat in half-profile, her figure framed beneath the flowering canopy of a nova tree. she wore a gown of nacreous lavender, her head slightly tilted toward the girl on her lap, vasharre, turned toward the viewer with one small hand on her mother’s wrist, the other extended toward a curl of blossoms above. her hair, already long and dark, shimmered with the faintest hue of violet in the sun-struck paint. beside them stood kraen, proud and straight-backed at age five, a ceremonial sash knotted across his chest, one hand raised as if mid-salute, the other resting protectively on his sister’s shoulder.

enshid, the youngest, had been added after the original commission. she was seated in the grass near darmah’s feet, her head bowed slightly as she looked up at her sister. her hand was full of fallen petals. the light in her pale eyes was small and perfect and too brief.

naem’s breath caught somewhere behind his ribs.

he remembered how melancholic the household had become in the days following their deaths. how the corridors that once echoed with music and soft footfalls had gone silent. how the birds had refused to sing in the atrium garden. how he had ordered the curtains opened every morning and then remained indoors. how he had not touched his wife’s side of the bed. how the funeral pyres had turned to ash in the royal quarter’s sacred grove, and still he had felt none of it was real.

there had been a grand funeral.

naboo was a world of ritual, and house rharrellis, one of its oldest, honored all the rites. but the pageantry of the procession, the chants, the music, it had all fallen empty on his ears. all of it had felt too distant, too gilded. he had spoken the final words, but his voice had not felt like his own. it had sounded hollow, ceremonial.

he had not grieved before the crowds.

he had stood tall.

he had bowed his head.

and when he returned to this room, when the doors had closed, when the scent of jasmine had been replaced with the smoke of incense, he had fallen to his knees before the painting and said nothing at all.

now, years later, with war whispering again, with the trade federation strengthening its hold, with the word jedi echoing in the back of his mind, it was not power that provoked him.

it was memory.

and memory gave way to something more.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

the summer celebration began with the rising of the burning sun.

within the western courtyard of the rharrellis estate, light poured down like warm gold. the marble stones beneath the guests’ feet shimmered with soft mist as attendants scattered rosewater from silver pitchers, filling the morning air with perfume. ribbons of pale lavender silk had been strung between the upper balconies, each strip inscribed with poetry in flowing naboo script. petals lay scattered across the long reception table, where dishes of candied fruits, violet cakes, and stewed plums awaited the touch of eager hands.

lady vasharre stood at the base of the central fountain, where garlands of purple nova flowers had been woven around the basin’s edge, her hands folded properly in front of her. the silk of her gown caught the morning light, pale lilac threaded with silver. shimmering jewels had been sewn into the collar and cuffs, and a wide sash of translucent blue silk crossed her waist and was pinned with a brooch in the shape of a starburst. around her neck hung a nova star pendant ornate with polished mother-of-pearl and white-gold chain, modest enough to suit her age but the gemstone unmistakably precious.

her hair had been curled in the early morning. ebos had done it with patience and oil, smoothing each lock into soft, dark spirals that now brushed the tops of her shoulders. the front of her hair had been pinned back with twin clips in the shape of moons. her cheeks were pale and soft with powder, though the flush of excitement had already begun to rise.

his daughter stood without speaking.

not out of fear or apprehension, but from something deeper, an understanding, perhaps unconscious, that she was expected to hold the naboo court.

and so she did.

kraen ran circles around her, half in mischief and half in ritual. he had been made to wear a formal jacket, blue velvet, crested with the house sigil. but already he had pulled one sleeve loose and undone the knot at the collar. he held a carved wooden practice saber in one hand and was taunting one of the guards near the garden steps.

amid the courtiers gathered in the central garden, one figure stood apart with a magnetic ease hiarmen rharrellis, the niece of the senator and recently married daughter to the aged patriarch of house mindorón. her gown glinted in reflections of metallic steel, cut fashionably low at the sleeves and adorned with chainwork across the back, a striking contrast to the pastel silks worn by the younger girls. she had entered adolescence with a swiftness that caught many of the ministers off guard, her soaring frame, her aloof manner, the uncanny manners with which she regarded both nobles and servants alike. she said little, offering only curt nods when addressed, but her dismal eyes missed nothing. already, she moved like a shadow of her late mother, drawing glances without needing to earn them. she stood near one of the citrus trees, half-listening to the musicians, her fingers gliding absently across the stem of her crystal flute. she had declined to perform this year. no one dared ask why.

padmé naberrie stood by one of the tables, speaking calmly with a pair of older women studying, fellow peers of hers at the theed university. she wore soft sky-blue and her brown hair touched with gold had been drawn into long braids threaded with fine silver. when vasharre looked her way, padmé smiled, a warm, regal smile, and crossed the stone walkway to join her.

“you’re doing well,” she said, brushing a speck of sugar from vasharre’s sleeve.

“i haven’t done anything.”

“that’s exactly why.”

vasharre smiled softly.

padmé gave her a small squeeze at the elbow and turned as havric tyrn approached from the fountain’s edge.

he bowed low, his teenage frame tall and angular in ceremonial dress, dark-haired, his expression unreadable.

“my royal lady,” he said, voice suave and charming.

“lord tyrn,” vasharre replied, her voice careful.

naem watched all this from the arched balcony overlooking the court, his hands braced on the marble railing, his senatorial cloak hanging still at his sides.

he had remained inside longer than usual this morning.

yet now he watched his daughter’s fifth birthday unfold before him, watched padmé by her side, watched kraen tearing through the citrus grove, watched the old ministers gather around the chancellor’s envoy, watched havric nod politely to the stewards, watched the light catch in the silver thread of vasharre’s dress.

and though the grief buried itself in his chest like a stone, for the first time in many months, he let himself feel something else.

not happiness.

not even pride.

only contentment.

only the transient, precious solitude before the world would turn again.

the court harpists had taken their place beneath the flowering arches of the east pavilion, their instruments carved of whitewood and bone-polished shell, strung with threads of auric fiber that caught the sunlight in a prism of color with every stroke.

the music they played shimmered, soft and complex, a melody built on layered naboo modes once performed only at coronations and royal funerals. each note was deliberate, slow, regal in tempo. it rang through the courtyard not as entertainment, but as ceremony.

lord naem rharrellis recognized one of the harpists at once.

she was seated nearest the colonnade, the silver of her gown folded neatly around her, the dark cascade of her hair fastened with opaline pins. her features were composed and lovely, calm without indifference, framed by silver eyes that seemed ever so slightly disinterested in the grandeur around her. she did not speak. she played with extraordinary discipline. and though she had not yet lifted her gaze to him, naem could not help but observe the precision of her presence.

lady narrhyne dulitha of senconot. once the last daughter of a ruined house. now, the dearest concubine to sheev palpatine of naboo.

naem said nothing, only watched a second longer before turning back to the guests arrayed across the courtyard. he did not care for narrhyne’s sudden reappearance in court society, nor did he care for the way her name had returned to the registries of influence after decades of political obscurity. but he understood what it meant. palpatine, ever calculating, had restored her not for only romance, but for optics. for lineage. for loyalty.

a servant approached with a glass of cool wine, which naem accepted only to occupy his hand. he barely sipped it. his eyes remained on the proceedings below, on vasharre accepting a poem-scroll from one of the visiting historians, on padmé gently correcting kraen’s posture during a bow, on the ministers of culture gesturing toward the musical ensemble.

the colors were brilliant. the light flawless. no detail had been spared.

but naem felt none of it.

he had made up his mind weeks ago.

he would resign his senatorial seat.

not in disgrace. not in weakness. only in honesty. he had served naboo with full devotion. had carried his house’s legacy for four decades in the galactic senate. had drafted treaties, quelled disputes, and kept his hands clean where others bartered souls for power. but grief had hollowed something in him, and though he masked it well, he felt it now more than ever. as if his spirit had begun to dissolve, one decision at a time.

and if there was one man he trusted to guard naboo in his place, it was palpatine.

naem turned at the sound of a new arrival.

he did not need to be told who it was.

sheev palpatine stepped down into the courtyard with the ease of one born to glide through ceremony. he wore pale robes of political white, the folds edged in stately gray. his presence was subtle and unthreatening, and yet every head turned as he passed. the ministers bowed. the aides smiled. even the children paused in their running.

he moved toward naem with a familiarity born of long years.

“naem,” palpatine greeted. “your estate has never looked finer.”

“nor has your tailoring,” naem replied dryly, extending a hand. “though i doubt you came to discuss marble and stitching.”

“no,” palpatine smiled, taking his hand briefly. “i came to wish your daughter a happy fifth year. and to remind you, though it seems unnecessary, that she grows more lovely by the hour.”

naem gave an indistinct smile.

“she favors her mother.”

“then she is doubly fortunate.”

they stood, the sunlight reflecting softly across the stone, the sound of the harps still playing behind them.

“you’ve made no mention of your return to naboo,” naem said.

“the senate was eager to rid itself of me,” palpatine responded. “they worry i’ve grown too fond of faraway systems.”

naem did not laugh. but he tilted his head somewhat.

“perhaps you have.”

palpatine’s eyes. clear and unreadable, watched the children in the court below for a beat longer.

“and what of you?” he asked. “you have not remarried. i hear whispers.”

naem’s jaw tensed.

“they are only whispers.”

“you’ve always dismissed rumor too quickly.”

“and you’ve always entertained it far too seriously.”

palpatine raised a hand in mock concession.

“surely the galaxy expects you to move forward.”

“the galaxy,” naem said, his voice even, “did not love darmah.”

palpatine said nothing to that. nor did he press the subject.

they stood in silence for a minute, the weight of it more truthful than anything spoken.

then a young steward approached, head bowed, and leaned in inconspicuously to naem’s side. his voice was low, respectful.

“my lord,” the attendant said. “three visitors await you in the northern conference room. they identified themselves as emissaries of the jedi order.”

naem glanced at palpatine, who had already begun to smile.

“it seems your celebration is drawing the most interesting guests.”

naem exhaled once through his nose.

“excuse me,” he said.

palpatine inclined his head.

naem stepped away from the balcony’s edge, descending the outer stairs with practiced composure, though his mind had already begun to sharpen. if the jedi had come, then the situation with the trade federation had worsened. they never sent knights unless diplomacy had already begun to fail.

he walked through the arched corridor of the estate’s north wing, the high windows casting long lines of light across the polished stone.

and somewhere deep beneath the layers of grief, ritual, and politics, something shifted. something began.

the force moved.

and naem rharrellis moved with it.

the eastern wing of the estate was far more desolate than the rest, colder, too, walled in pale stone and shaded by long curtains of deep green velvet that caught the light without ever reflecting it. the ceilings were vaulted, old in design, carved with sigils and star-charts that dated back centuries. the hallways here were reserved for diplomacy, for treaties, for secrets that could not afford to be overheard.

naem rharrellis walked through them with the gravity of a man returning to an archaic mask.

his formal shoes struck the marble evenly as he walked, not rushed, not hesitant. the music of vasharre’s birthday, still faintly audible from the outer courtyards, seemed worlds away.

he paused before the door of the estate’s principal conference chamber.

a stoic guard opened it without instruction.

the room was lit by natural light from a skylight overhead. the windows had been drawn wide, casting bands of sunlight down over the central table, where three figures stood waiting. they had not seated themselves. of course they had not. jedi rarely did unless instructed. they stood in silence, their presence quiet but unmistakable.

naem entered alone.

his eyes moved first to the figure nearest the window, tall, composed, unmistakably familiar in bearing.

“master jinn,” naem said.

qui-gon bowed his head with a faint smile, the warmth in his expression touched by something more somber beneath.

“lord rharrellis,” he said, voice calm. “you have my thanks for receiving us.”

“you are always welcome,” naem replied, stepping forward and folding his hands before him. “it has been some years.”

“too many,” qui-gon agreed, before gesturing toward the others. “may i present master mace windu of the high council… and my padawan learner, obi-wan kenobi.”

naem’s gaze moved to the second jedi.

mace windu stood in composure, the authority around him palpable but not theatrical. his robes were formal, though less ornate than the attire of most galactic diplomats. the violet blade at his belt needed no adornment. his nod was brief.

“senator rharrellis,” mace said, his tone clipped and stern.

naem inclined his head in return, noting the gravity in windu’s posture, not rudeness, but purpose.

and then his eyes came to rest on the youngest among them.

obi-wan kenobi.

younger than naem expected, but not an adolescent. well-built and focused. the auburn braid at his shoulder marked his rank clearly, though he carried himself with balance that suggested something more advanced than years might allow. his eyes, cerulean, met naem’s directly, but did not stay for long.

the boy bowed with perfect decorum.

“my lord,” he said, his voice polite, deeper than expected.

naem observed him a while longer, but said nothing. only a glisten passed behind his eyes.

this was the first time they met.

it would not be the last.

qui-gon stepped forward then, his tone adjusting subtly as he moved into formal address.

“we come not merely to pay respects,” he said. “though we would offer them gladly, on behalf of the temple. the force has brought us with purpose.”

“the jedi do not visit old friends for pleasantries.”

“no,” qui-gon said. “not in times such as these.”

mace took one step closer to the table.

“grandmaster yoda has sensed something. something long-stirring. a call in the force that resonates through your house.”

naem did not respond at once.

“your royal family,” windu continued, “is among the oldest in the galaxy to maintain its force lineage. jedi, temple scholars, galactic record-keepers, the name rharrellis has passed through all of them.”

“there are no noble houses with a deeper link to the order than that of house rharrellis,” qui-gon added. “your uncle, grandmaster soluke, trained me in my youth. his teachings remain foundational among us. it is through him the council recognized the strength of your bloodline. and through him… that we look to it again.”

naem stepped slowly to the head of the table, resting one hand on the carved edge.

“what exactly have you seen?”

qui-gon’s expression was grave.

“a presence. two, to be precise. strong in the force. very strong.”

“your children,” windu said. “kraen and vasharre.”

the words did not shock him.

not fully.

naem was mute for an instance longer than necessary.

“kraen is the heir to my house. he has been trained for statesmanship, not asceticism.”

“he is more than capable of both,” qui-gon said. “and the girl, your daughter…”

he paused. not out of uncertainty.

“she is… powerful. even now.”

naem’s gaze flashed to him sharply.

mace said nothing.

obi-wan, who had spoken nothing all this time, stood stationary, watching as the two jedi knights discussed this matter with the senator.

“this strength is not uncommon among your family,” qui-gon continued. “we do not take it lightly, but we do not take it as surprise. yet the way it moves in them… it is rare.”

“rare enough to merit a visit,” naem said, half-remark, half-question.

qui-gon’s eyes drifted downward.

“grandmaster yoda believes it may be connected to the prophecy.”

an eerie silence fell between them.

naem’s hand tightened somewhat at the edge of the table.

he knew the prophecy.

all elder houses who bore legacy in the force did.

“a chosen one shall come, born of no father, and through him will ultimate balance in the force be restored,” mace said, the words falling like incantation. “yet his path shall not be walked alone, for only through the wisdom and discipline of the forceborn shall balance be truly fulfilled.”

naem’s mind roamed once in thought.

it had been years since he had heard those words aloud.

they were spoken rarely now, even among the temple’s most devout. a riddle of the past. a prediction half-buried by history, half-dismissed by logic.

but it had not always been so.

his father had spoken of the forceborn before his death.

not idly. not in passing. he had believed, to his final breath, that the time was nearing. that the force would soon demand its answer. and if the rharrellis house had been destined to shape galactic peace in centuries past, why not again?

“you believe,” naem said slowly, “that my son is the forceborn.”

qui-gon nodded his head once.

“perhaps.”

“perhaps?”

“there is clarity in the force. but not certainty.”

mace folded his hands behind his back.

“we do not presume the outcome. only the obligation to seek it.”

naem said nothing.

his eyes drifted for a fleeting moment toward the shuttered window.

beneath it, the light fell in strips across the floor, bright, unmoving.

he did not yet respond.

but the room had changed.

the future, long ominous, had spoken.

naem rharrellis stood at the head of the council table, the folds of his formal robes casting deep shadows beneath the golden light of the skylight. the carvings along the conference walls, symbols of the elder houses, chronologies of nobility and service, glinted softly in the hush. but none of it registered.

the words dangled in the air.

both of his children.

kraen and vasharre.

the jedi had come not only to speak of the force. not only of prophecy. they had come to take.

and naem had buried enough.

he turned away from the table, not abruptly, but with the stable control of a man reining in something bitter behind the throat. his steps were slow, the heels of his boots echoing softly against the stone floor as he walked toward the tall arched window at the far end of the chamber.

when he spoke, his voice remained level.

“my wife died in the second month of the last cycle. my youngest daughter before the third was complete. they had not been ill once in their lives previously. and yet…”

he let the sentence drift off, unfinished.

mace windu said nothing.

qui-gon, standing nearest to the window, lowered his gaze, not in submission, but in respect. the troubles of the past clung to the room akin to a shroud. grief did not have to be spoken to be felt.

naem kept his back to them.

“i have two children remaining. two. i will not surrender both to the temple. not now. not so soon.”

his voice was firm now. low. edged with something deeper than politics. this was not a refusal born of pride. it was one born of loss. the kind of loss that had no shape, no solution, only aftershocks.

he turned back toward them slowly, hands clasped behind him again, as if holding them together kept his grief from spilling.

“do you know what it means,” he said, “to sit at a table with empty chairs? to hear your son and daughter speak and know they are speaking to ghosts?”

obi-wan kenobi shifted, and not out of discomfort. his hands remained folded before him, but his posture straightened, as if struck by clarity. he did not glance to his master for permission. he spoke with a calm, even cadence, one that gave no offense but offered something new.

“my lord,” obi-wan said, “what if the council trained only one child?”

naem narrowed his icy eyes.

“one?”

obi-wan nodded once.

“kraen or vasharre. not both. the other would remain with you. the heir continues. the house endures.”

mace windu turned his head now, slowly, deliberately, and regarded the young padawan with measured focus. his arms remained crossed, his expression unreadable, though a slight shift in the air marked his disapproval.

“that is not the precedent of the council,” he said.

“it is not the precedent,” obi-wan agreed, “but it is not forbidden.”

“attachment leads to corruption.”

“and extinction leads to to the collapse of legacy,” obi-wan replied without flinching. “if both are taken, the house of rharrellis may fall. if one remains, the line persists.”

naem’s gaze moved to him with a new kind of scrutiny. the padawan was younger than the others, but he was not reckless. his voice was too calm, too practiced. he spoke not with arrogance, but with reflection. naem recognized the tone. it was the sound of someone who was sensible beyond his years.

qui-gon placed a hand at his side, glancing once to his apprentice before speaking.

“he speaks wisely.”

mace windu’s absence of oration wavered for several beats longer.

he uncrossed his arms slowly, one hand resting near his waist.

“if we begin selecting only those whose families approve,” he said flatly, “then the will of the force becomes subjugated by politics.”

naem stepped forward now.

“this is not a question of politics. this is a question of survival.”

he walked to the table again, standing at its head, and for a period of time, he allowed his eyes to close.

when they opened, they were peaceful.

he thought of kraen, bold, storm-eyed, impatient with ceremony, yet commanding in presence even as a child. the guards often said he would have made a better commander than a senator. he fought in mock duels with carved sabers twice his size and never once let himself lose.

he thought of vasharre, softer, yes, but never weak. she had learned how to speak before she had learned how to run. she listened before she answered. she knew when to hold her tongue and when to use it like a blade. her grace was not performance. it was inheritance.

but she was not meant for the life of a jedi knight.

he could not let her go.

“kraen,” he said at last, “is the elder. he is stronger, more physical, more willful. he does not fear hardship. and if the prophecy truly is forthcoming, if this forceborn is to emerge from my line… then let it be from him.”

no one dared to moved.

“he will go with you,” naem said. “vasharre will stay on naboo as the heiress to house rharrellis.”

the jedi did not answer at once.

qui-gon stepped forward, placing both hands before him, fingers lightly interlaced.

“we will honor your choice,” he said after a pause.

but there was something in his voice.

a softness that had not been there before.

not reluctance. not resistance.

only a trace of something that did not match the certainty of his words.

and naem noticed.

the silence would return. not the strained pause of negotiation nor the expectant hush of judgment, but the final stillness of a choice made. it lay thick over the chamber, over the ancient table and its inlaid crests, over the slanting light now deepening to amber across the polished floor.

naem rharrellis stood with his hands folded before him, his expression carved from something colder than stone. not indifference. not resolve. only that singular expression born from a man who had made peace with an impossible decision.

his voice, when it came, was hushed. but not unsure.

“vasharre,” he said, “must never be told.”

the jedi stood across from him in silence.

“she must never know of her connection to the force,” he continued, slower now. “not from me. not from you. not from anyone. she is not to be trained. not to be tested. not to be watched. she is to live her life in the house where she was born. she will be raised in politics, not prophecy.”

obi-wan’s gaze remained fixed ahead, unreadable.

qui-gon was motionless.

mace windu offered the vaguest incline of his chin.

“your terms are understood,” he said.

naem’s eyes did not waver.

“you will leave now,” he said. “and return tomorrow.”

“tomorrow,” qui-gon repeated, not as a question, but as confirmation.

“yes. at midday. you will collect kraen then.”

his voice faltered almost imperceptibly on his son’s name, but he held his ground.

“my family must be allowed to enjoy this final celebration together. one more day. one final day in which we are still whole.”

no one opposed him.

naem’s hands fell slowly to his sides.

“you understand what you are asking of me. what i am giving you.”

mace windu nodded once.

“i will train him personally,” he said. “he will be guarded, educated, and shaped in accordance with the code. his name will be spoken with respect in the temple. and in time, beyond it.”

naem turned his head slightly, as if to look through the far wall.

not at the conference room.

but at everything beyond it.

the gardens. the court. the music.

the laughter of children playing under sunlight that would never fall the same way again.

“my son will leave behind his name,” naem murmured. “his titles. his bloodline. he will call no one father. no one sister.”

“such is the code,” windu answered, without apology.

“then so be it.”

qui-gon lowered his head respectfully.

obi-wan said nothing. he bowed without expression, but something behind his eyes changed, barely.

the jedi turned to go.

and the door sealed shut behind them with a faint, echoing click.

naem stood where he was.

alone in the chamber.

alone with the fading light.

the walls around him, once vibrant with the colors of his ancestors, now seemed paler, distant. the voices of the courtyard had dulled, as though the world beyond the stone had turned to glass. he drew a breath that did not quite reach his lungs.

he thought of kraen’s wild, uneven laughter, the way he had once fallen asleep with a training saber still clutched to his chest.

he thought of vasharre’s serene, elegant voice, the way her small fingers still curled around his hand during temple visits, her eyes always scanning the ceiling as if the stars might be carved into it.

he thought of darmah.

and of enshid.

and of the prophecy.

for only through the wisdom and discipline of the forceborn shall balance be truly fulfilled…

naem had never given himself over to visions. never claimed to speak for the future. but he had been raised with the the living force interwoven in his life. his uncle’s memory lived in spirit within the halls of the jedi temple, continued to echo in the skyscrapers of coruscant. and when his father, on his final breath, had whispered that the forceborn was near, that it would emerge soon and that the galaxy would not be ready, naem had listened.

and now the shape of that future had begun to move.

and in the vast emptiness of the room, naem rharrellis bowed his head.

he thought of shining stars.

and he grieved.

#star wars #star wars fanfiction #obi wan kenobi #vasharre rharrellis #rharrellis #anakin skywalker #qui gon jinn #mace windu #sheev palpatine #darth sidious #naboo #sith #jedi #the blackest day

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grapejuicestyless · 1 year ago

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i have had this idea for so long, but i really think you could do this justice. sort of like the film the holiday!!! but not really set in Christmas and more so through the seasons. harry moves out of the city (doesn’t need to be a singer and could just be a CEO) into a small village in a lovely cottage where all of the furniture is mismatched and there’s sash windows which are always open. He’s there for a few months before he starts to feel lonely so decides to bring in a lodger! He hand makes posters and puts them on the village hall board and … he finally gets a taker! It’s a quirky girl who is totally all over the place and she moves in .. the seasons change and so does their relationship.. friends to lovers OR ACTUALLY maybe it could be so interesting for it to be enemies to lovers! That could be fun to write. But idk I’ve been thinking about it for so long !!! They could organise a dinner party for friends one night or maybe Harry goes away to the city for a meeting and that’s where y/n realises how much she misses him / likes him. Definitely has to be fluffy but also needs to have some drama. I haven’t figured that out yet 😭😭😭 I’m so sorry for this really long rambly post but I wanted to give u as much of my brain as possible lol. I would LOVE LOVE LOVE to see what you would do with this / if it’s something you’re even interested in. Have a gorgeous evening / day / morning xxx love you!!💖💖💖💖💖

Bad People

Harry Styles x fem!reader

Summery: Harry and Y/n met by pure luck. Sharing secrets and laughing like little kids, ribs and cheeks hurting. Y/n is sure Harry is destined to be in her life forever. She’s just not sure when that became a bad thing.

FLANGST/FRIENDS TO ENEMIES TO LOVERS

The pale blue sky looked gray from certain windows. The glass was cracked and the stove stained with boiled over soup broth and old sprinklings of spices.

The birds sang solemnly, humming the tune to what I believed sounded like something you’d hear at a funeral. Here, the pavement was cracked and the stars were consistently covered with clouds. Snow, more often than not, fell heavily. From October to April. The nearby ocean nearly always too cold to swim in. The backyard pool cold and clean, still with nobody to inhabit it.

All the beauty ripped from the earth, and replaced with another kind of it. I wouldn’t mind it half as much, if I had someone to enjoy the snow with. To enjoy the polar plunges, the visible breath and numb fingers.

Like old times sake, snowmen and snowball fights. Sledding or fort making. Rosy cheeks and icy hair a memory of the past. Cheeks hurting from smiles, not the winter chill.

The laughter of my mother was long gone, and my brother outgrew his desire for a sibling as soon as he turned sixteen. Few friends, not any at least, that would enjoy the activities the white powder offered.

So now, I look out the window, nursing a glass of wine propped up on the windowsill. I don’t see the snow day ahead or pray for a white Christmas. I pray that one day, I’ll find someone to enjoy it with me. To soothe the pain little eight year old me suffered with the absence of her father, her distant mother and her selfish brother.

“Looking at it won’t make it fall any faster, Y/n.” The puff of air coming from my nose fogs up to cool glass, and my fingers leave prints along the center.

He’s not looking at me, he rarely does when we aren’t fighting. It’s like I disgust him. I feel like a fool every god damn time.

“Have you always naturally been an asshole or did you grow into it?” I don’t look at him, but I feel his gaze settle on my reflection in the glass. His voice alone urges me to take a large drink from the wine glass. The ruby red staining my top lip. I spread it around and taste the bitterness of it on my tongue.

He begins to leave, almost succeeding without a passing glance, but biting his tongue is something Harry nor I have ever been able to do. So it’s natural how he goes for the last word.

“Theres only so much wine, Y/n.” He teases. I down the rest while he walks away. The sigh that leaves my mouth after I feel the ghost of him leaving me isn’t only for air, but because suddenly the room feels lighter.

It’s funny, how someone so special can leave such a disgusting taste in your mouth. Hatred doesn’t just happen. It creeps, seeps, saturates. It’s a pesky little thing that starts small until finally you can’t ignore how bothered you are. It’s vile and cruel. A poisonous little thing that no one is immune to. It’s a sad yet funny thing. To remember that it wasn’t always like this. I didn’t always hate my old friend, bounded to me through the home we share. I once enjoyed the company of Harry styles.

It was nearly a year since I’d moved in. A year since the snow turned to thick ice and roads became bare with people too afraid to try and navigate through the harsh winter.

Nearly a year since I first saw the house at the end of the road, with a neat front lawn and a tree with hanging branches ready to snap.

A red scarf and red mittens is what I wore. With a faded brown coat and worn blue jeans. A hat on top of my head and a journal tucked underneath my arm. He had the greenest eyes I had ever seen. The stars in the night sky didn’t quite shine as bright as his eyes, I swore it to myself.

He had an english accent, one that I wasn’t familiar with. Peach fuzz and dark chocolate curls a mess on his head. When I told him my job, he laughed, but something about his shocked expression after told me he didn’t mean it cruelly. Rather, that he was shocked, or just piecing the puzzle together.

“I’m my mother’s daughter.” I told him, “She always had a thing for poetry. The sappy ones with the tragic endings. I got it from her and I’m damn good at it.” I smiled at him then, and he smiled back bigger.

“It’s just funny. Moving somewhere so quiet for a job all about fantasy and adventure.” He explained, already guiding the two of us through the wide doorway. I set my boots in the old entryway which it seemed he had turned into a mud room. I admired the shade of green on the wall and nodded along. My cheeks hurt from smiling.

That night, while settling into my new space, I shared with him my life. My goals and dreams. With his toothy smile and boyish eyes, he made it so easy to trust him. I sat on my newly made bed and he sat in my spinning chair by my desk. Moving it back and forth, swaying slowly. A cigarette started dangling from his pocket, I still remember the way he took it between his thumb and his index finger. Rolling it around, debating whether or not to light it. It was like he didn’t know he had it.

“I didn’t take you for a smoker.” I laughed at him, he laughed back. Shy almost, only looking at me for a moment.

“M’not. A few here and there. Helps to wind down.” When he ran his hand through his hair, I remember seeing all his rings. A rose and two with his initials. One looked like a lion. That one was my favorite.

Other than his charming smile and infectious laughter, I knew nothing of him, I had come to realize. Here he was, knowing about my family and friends. My job and my hobbies. All I had asked him was his name.

When I asked him, he was just as talkative as I was. A sparkle in his eyes when he talked about his job. I remember specifically, how they lit up extra bright when he mentioned his mother, Anne, and his older sister, Gemma. I learned about his job too. Harry had everything he could ever truly want. The money, the power, the glory. His office at the top floor overlooking the bustling city that never sleeps. Families dancing around the square and traffic backed up into the city line.

The sad thing was, that even with all this pride he got to carry with his reputation, the city was no home to him. The summer held no comfort. Not the same now that he was long out of school. The heat was simply uncomfortable. His lavish suit sticking to his skin. Even the air conditioner couldn’t soothe the pounding of his head against the strong New York heat.

His nose stung in the summer. The warmer it got, the worse it smelled. Garbage littering the streets no longer covered by thick snow. Tourists and their children filling up all his favorite places of relaxation. Each carrying their own scent from home. The calming pine from the North or the tangy citrus of the west coast.

Harry felt no true love for his home anymore. No real attachment. There was no smell of home, and there certainly wasn’t any old faces with their gravelly voices and thick accents. If it weren’t for the business there, he would’ve fled somewhere else long ago. Somewhere quieter. Somewhere that felt like home. If he could, he would have tucked himself back into the small home his mother raised him and his sister in. He would’ve curled up happily in his twin bed and looked out the same crooked window each night and feel happy with only that.

He tells me that when he got in the car waiting for him at the airport, he was tempted to tell the driver to take him home, to see if it would make him smile. He’d seen the gag used in all the old rom-coms he and his mother used to watch. The short blonde running from the love of her life only to be led back into his arms. But Harry know’s better. He tells me so. So when the driver asks him where to, he tells him the address.

He told me about his work life. How there was a branch out in the UK. The one that started it all. And as his success grew, so did his aspirations and his needs. London no longer provided him with the luxury and opportunity that New York could. So he swapped out his office for a penthouse and acted like the smell of burning garbage and mysterious wet spots on the sidewalks didn’t bother him.

It’s a vicious cycle. To outgrow, to long for, to move, to hate all over again. Thats how he decided that London has just what he needed. His business within reach and smaller towns surrounding its borders.

“And what about now? Are you happy?” Harry crinkled his eyes then, smiling a nodding along. He didn’t even mind it then, when I would interrupt. In fact, he welcomed it. Claimed he loved hearing me talk.

I agreed with him when he said that the grass is greener down here. The stars are just that much brighter and theres not a single car honking their horn past nine. All things that left him feeling a whole lot calmer than the chaos of the city.

Here, Harry told me he didn’t mind not living in a lavish penthouse just a few blocks away from his work. Here, he was hours away from the city. He stays in a medium sized cape cod styled house, pre-decorated from the past owners who didn’t care to take their things when they left for something bigger. It sticks out from the rest of the homes nearby. He wonders how something so different ended up within the same area. And he smiled and sat on the floor when I laughed and told him he’d already lived quite the life for a nearly-thirty year old man.

When silence took over after over an hour long conversation, I bit at my nails and looked at the floor. Suddenly, it came to me.

“Harry?” I had asked. He hummed, looking at me. Even if I hadn’t looked back, I could still feel his eyes on mine. “What made you want a roommate?” When my eyes flickered up to his, I saw no hate, or disgust, or shame. Nothing that I am familiar with now in Harry’s eyes. I saw curiosity, warmth and happiness.

“I like the quiet. I like being able to sleep without someone yelling down the hallway. I like how green it is over here.” I nodded, waiting for him to continue. “But the quiet get’s lonely. And while I like the quiet, I hate being alone.” And it made me smile back then. Maybe it still does thinking about it know. He had been helping me in finding a home, some place warm to stay. Meanwhile, I had been able to give back. Give him what he wanted. At the time, my heart warmed.

For a long time after that, Harry made my heart beat fiercely. He brought me flowers and made us pancakes. Freshly picked blueberries from the local market. He cracked jokes and I repeated them back between our broken laughter, imitating his english accent.

He was a charming man, with an energy that invited and kept you drawn to him. Everyone wanted to be around Harry. The men and the women. Always wanting a piece of the pie. I felt rich in life, that while others had to work for a lifelong friendship with him, naturally, we fit together. We worked.

He entered my life by some kind of coincidence. I needed a place to stay and he was offering a room up.

When he brushed his thumb over my knuckles and kissed the skin, I believed we would be like this forever. Just the two of us.

When he whispered to me that he loved me that same night, I thought it was something he would never take back. Something that would never change. His warm breath and glistening eyes. He was red and shiny. A bottle of the cheap champagne sat on the table and an empty glass beside him. I let his lips trail around my hand and laugh at his antics.

“Harry.” I mumbled into the darkness, he doesn’t move. I silently giggle again after he puffs air out of his own nose onto my hand playfully. His shoulders shake with his own fits of laughter, “Harry.” I call out again, and my eyes are met with his dazzling emerald ones. I almost got lost, forgot how to talk looking at him.

My palms were sweaty with nervousness then. My heart beating out of my chest. I wanted more than anything to tell him everything. As a poet, it should have been easy to put my thoughts out in the open air. But they hadn’t sat within me for long enough to curate a straight forward answer.

How would I even manage to start on how beautiful I thought his brown hair was? Perfectly colored like milk chocolate treats that curled over his forehead. Or his toothy grin which pulled butterflies from the pit of my stomach and made me feel lighter? I couldn’t find just one thing to focus on. And the words that came out of my mouth tumbled out quickly.

“You’re my best friend.” I hoped that he would’ve been able to see how much love I held for him in my face. How even in the dim lighting of only the fireplace and the fading lamp in the corner, he could see how they sparkled just for him.

He pulled his hand away after that, clearing his throat and nodding. But he smiled so softly after that I didn’t see how his eyes welled up with tears. I only saw his perfectly pink lips and his rosy cheeks. For once, I wasn’t focused on his eyes, and I paid the price.

He never made pancakes for us after that night. Nor did he ever pick flowers from the fields or crack jokes until our stomachs hurt. My hand was never slotted between his and my head didn’t rest on top of his shoulders. He was colder, more distant. Quiet.

But the quiet grew old for us both. And the slipping away hurt more than anything I’d ever experienced. I was everyone else in his life. Fighting for a spot in the light so he would see me, smile at me, acknowledge me.

Part of me wondered why he never asked me to leave. To pack my bags and find another innocent man to love because he wouldn’t tolerate it anymore. But he never did. Harry hated being alone and I knew better than anyone else. I knew it because I was his best friend at some point. We shared the same breaths and drank from the same glasses. I wore his shirts and he used my hair clips. He kept me around not because he still wanted me, but because he still needed me. And the realization of it all hurts worse than the silence because it’s then I know that I’ve really lost him. It leaves me with the question, ‘What have I done to deserve this?’

I think back on that night when our world shifted on its axis and I go over every word that was said. I check for any signs of discomfort or anger and I find nothing. It plagues me with a new insecurity.

Maybe it wasn’t something I’d said, maybe it wasn’t something I’d done. Maybe the warmth from the champagne grew cold in his blood and the false euphoria from it all cleared from his peripheral vision and he realized that I was no longer enough. I was not what he wanted. The idea of his roommate becoming his only friend too pathetic for a man with such power.

Soon after, I stop putting up a fight. I stop fighting for a spot in his life and I stop trying to win back a man that was never mine. I figured at least if he could never be mine and I would never be his, at least I still got to see his pretty face everyday. And I could imagine that we never drifted.

I wake in the night, I pace like a ghost. The tears running down my cheeks are hot, burning my skin until my throat dully aches and my chest is red with flakes of nail polish and the dragging of my nails clawing at my chest.

I am sobbing, broken and tired. I dream of a life that is not as miserable. I dream of a life where I no longer doubt the things I love. Where I don’t have to question my friend’s loyalty.

He knocks on my door, leaning against it in only his flannel pants. He has tattoos that compliment his skin so well. He looks like a painting. I’m relieved to see him again. Even if it’s under these circumstances.

I wait for him to speak, even if it’s merely a mumble. Even if I cannot understand.

“Can you stop crying? I can’t sleep.” He requests. My lips part and I swear my lungs collapse within my chest. I can’t breathe and somehow I remain composed.

“Okay.” I say quietly, nodding along and trying to find his eyes. They look at the floor, and his face is contorted like it pained him to say that to me. Like it was against his will. But he doesn’t even look at me.

When he leaves, I collapse, shoulder shaking with rage, sadness, confusion instead of the contagious laughter that once rang out through the halls.

I decide then, July moon shining through the sash windows of my room that I couldn’t continue holding onto Harry. My heart still beats for him and my eyes still sparkled when his own lingered for just a moment longer on me, but I couldn’t like him.

Hatred doesn’t just happen. It creeps, seeps, saturates. It’s a pesky little thing that starts small until finally you can’t ignore how bothered you are. It’s vile and cruel. A poisonous little thing that no one is immune to. It’s a sad yet funny thing.

After that night, his selfish wishes turn to bitter comments which turn to vicious attacks at my confidence. And my resilience and devotion to silence, to ignore the cruelty of it all is worn thin. My bitten tongue is freed and I am betrayed by my own words. My own comments targeted at his deepest hurts. It’s a mutual hate between us, a mutual dislike.

We live within the same four walls, the same windows and creaky roof over our heads. We cook in the same kitchen and we sit on the same couch, but we cannot stand each other anymore. The house is no longer filled with love, and the warm heat turns to bitter cold. And yet, neither of us have the guts to leave.

We sit here, in a life thats so mean to us just because we are afraid of the loneliness that is surely to come with the other’s absence.

We are here, but we aren’t present. It makes me laugh, it makes me wonder.

Who could ever leave me? But who could stay?

The candles burned down to the floor, wax melting over the wood as the lights set a warm, homely mood for the night. The late December rush throughout the town turned to the few and far between searching for last minute supplies to ring in the new year. It’s peacefully still outside, and the dining room looks so nice I forget why the candles burn and our nicest plates are set out.

Harry insisted on having a small gathering with some of our friends to celebrate the new year before he went away for sometime for work. Being roommates, despite our lack of interest in establishing our own friendship, his friends become my friends and mine become his. It’s a fairly large group that was once two. But have now become so closely intertwined that it seems hard to differentiate who was friends with who first.

There was wine, pastas and breads. Hams and potatoes. Drinks and endless desserts. It felt nice, to have all those people we cared so deeply about chip in and help to create such a lovely meal for the few of us.

Hearing that first doorbell ring to see all of our friends stood proudly on our crooked doorstep made my heart flutter. Sarah, Mitch, Pauli, Elin, Charlotte, Nyoh. All holding various foods to add to the never ending supply on the multiple tables set in a row.

“Harry! Y/n!” The enthusiasm from our friends seemed to lighten the mood, letting the heavy feeling of heated arguments and constant anger slip down my back and into the farthest part of my brain.

It was times like these where I’d forget how to hate. How to spread anger and disgust to someone who clearly showed none of it in return in these times. Here, Harry was talkative. Always plastering on a fake smile and wave.

He was good at pretending. And while the walls of the house had seen a different story, those around us were innocent, forever unknowing of how Harry constantly belittled me, bothered me. Of how I was no better. How my tongue was sharp and my words shot to kill.

Nobody minded the difference in height of the dinning room table against the kitchen table. How one was round and the other a rectangle. Both covered by one long table cloth. Nobody minded the soft music in the background or how the light wasn’t the brightest. The soft flickers never mentioned.

We let the candles burn until they had nothing left to give, and we ate until it was bare and our stomachs hurt. Here, I never felt like I was trapped. Here, I remembered why I came to live with Harry in the first place. And I was thankful. It was times like these I couldn’t help smiling like an idiot. Cheeks sore and eyes crinkling. I would laugh at just about anything, trust anyone and agree with everything.

“When are you going to tell him?” An elbow to the ribs pulled my gaze from the end of the table, my smile dropping for only a moment at the sudden shock.

“Sorry?” I mumbled softly into Sarah’s ear. Her eyes glimmered with something mischievous, like she knew something that I didn’t. She licked her pink lips and looked briefly back to the end of the table. All the way over by the dining table, sat a few feet away and a couple inches higher, was Harry. Laughing and talking with Pauli and Elin about anything and everything. I couldn’t quite make it out over the soft chatter of Mitch and Charlotte and the clinking of forks on plates.

“Harry!” She called softly. When my eyebrows furrowed she rolled her eyes, sighing heavily.

“I don’t get it.” Forking another bite of vegetables into my mouth, I watched her fight for the right words to say. Her lips finally settling on the soft smile I knew very well.

“Don’t play dumb, Y/n. I know that look. Better than anyone. Thats how I look at Mitch.” She playfully nudged my shoulder. Did she believe that I held any romantic feelings for Harry? I couldn’t, it was impossible. Right?

His rude remarks and his mean demeanor. Sure, at one point my heart beat for the brunette with an infectious smile and shiny green eyes, but now it was a memory of the past. Another pretty face who had thrown away all of his charm and care and exchanged with unwavering cruelty.

“Oh, no. Sarah, I don’t think about him that way.” I tried to wave her off, trying to sound the least amount disgusted by her assumption. I couldn’t help but wonder why she thought that.

“I don’t believe you.” She sounded smug, crossing her hands on my thigh and giggling. “You don’t have to. I believe myself.” Brushing her off, I take another bite of any remaining scraps on my plate. Trying to avoid conversation.

“Come on, you seriously don’t see it?” She sounded exasperated now, even more so when I nodded carelessly. She was getting tired of my avoidance to the conversation, my disinterest in her false discovery. Still, the longer she pushed, the more I felt the heat rush to my face. The more my cheeks burned and my skin tingled.

“I’m serious, Sarah. I don’t look at him in anyway. He’s just my roommate. Nothing more, nothing less.” I lean back, volume brought down to a mere whisper with the dying laugher at the other end of the table.

“Well, he’s your friend at least, right?” The lump in my throat was unswallowable. With the growing tightness in my throat and the clamminess of my palms. I wanted nothing more than to slip away and pretend this never happened. So, I bite my tongue and nod, eyes flickering to Sarah while I do so. I pray that she doesn’t see the tears welling in the corners and how glossy they’ve gotten in such a short period of time.

“Yeah, he’s my best friend.” The lie stings, burning as it comes out. Partially because I hate lying to my dear Sarah, but mainly because at some point it was the truth.

Harry was my everything at one point in my life. He might as well have hung the damn moon and stars. I thought the world of him, wanted nothing more than to feel his arms wrapped around mine all the damn time. And it killed me that we’d gotten so far away from that idea that I had to lie about even being acquainted with him.

“Word of advice.” She started, eyeing Harry carefully. My eyes remained glued to the table, fork wobbling between my pointer finger and my thumb. “Best friends don’t look at each other that way.” And when she finished what she wanted to say, I swear my heart just about stopped. All color draining from my face and my eyes rapidly blinking away the tears by now.

Setting my fork down, I ignore her playful smile and the nudge of her shoulder into mine. I look for another face to converse with, to make me begin to forget everything I was trying so desperately to escape. When I search the table, it seems like each person has found themselves in deep conversation with the other. All but one.

And his green eyes capture mine in a way I haven’t known in so long. I’d forgotten what it was like to be the center of his gaze. How thrilling it was. With my eyes, glossed over and heart beating through my chest, it seemed impossible for me to ever consider looking away. His chocolate brown curls and sweet pink lips in a gentle smile. It was consuming and alluring. Irresistible even.

A face that once disgusted me, shattered my heart, angered me and knocked me down with no air left to breathe seemed not all that frightening anymore. And the warmth that spread in my chest scared me more than anything.

I begin to realize, maybe Sarah was right. Maybe that was why I hated him so much. I didn’t hate Harry Styles. And thats why it hurt just that much more. I didn’t hate him at all, in fact. No, rather my poor heart couldn’t handle the heartbreak and deflected in the most malicious way possible. I missed my best friend.

“Y/n.” Sarahs voice pulls me from my haze, and my eyes are flickering over to hers quickly. Lips still parted and eyes still wide.

“You’re crying.” I hadn’t felt the salty heat dripping down my cheeks until she announced it. My skin too numb from embarrassment to even understand what was happening.

My tongue is tied, and my throat is killing me. I feel like I might vomit if I stay here any longer. I can’t be here any longer, I can’t do it. Not when I’ve just realized what I did. I feel what I felt all those months ago when Harry told me to stop crying. When he shut me out for good and became bitter. I feel all air leave my lungs and my knees wobbling. I am going to collapse.

“I just need air.” I say all too loudly, pushing out the chair clumsily and stepping back. The loud scratch of the wooden legs of the wooden floors turns heads and my heavy breathing tells me to get the hell out.

I pardon myself after that, waving off any concern from Sarah, and making sure nobody else saw my escape. Everyone’s still deep into conversation when I turn the corner. All but Sarah and Harry. But neither of them make a move to reach me. I let myself collapse on my bed, mascara running down my white sheets and back aching from how stiff I became at that table. I silently pray that I’ll sleep through the rest of winter.

When the dinner got cold and we’d all run out of things to say, we all look around and silently agree to part ways. It was nice to have some company, I enjoyed being around these people so much. My heart should have been full, yet it felt heavy and empty all at the same time. Littered with a guilt I wasn’t even sure was mine.

I’d seen the way she looked at me. Really looked at me. Glossed over eyes and a quivering lip. She was red with the rush of adrenaline in her blood. Anyone could see how quickly she began to breathe. It was like she was stuck, consumed by something so strong that it left her powerless, weak, crumbling quickly under an undetermined pressure. She started to cry, biting back a sob by biting harshly into her bottom lip, eyes shaking while she searched my face. I couldn’t help but wonder what had happened. Who had said what, and how I could help her.

I wanted to yell at whoever hurt her this bad. And the feeling of that in itself was unsettling. How my heart still longed to comfort, protect the heart of the girl who once shattered my own with her own words. More than that, I wanted to scream when nobody followed her when she ran. How nobody cared nearly enough about why she was so upset.

I couldn’t understand why I was so invested in her. Someone I was sworn to hate. Someone I had teased and fought for months and let hurt me constantly in retaliation.

But then again, we were no better than one another. We never were. Always saying too little and not opening up quite enough. Creating issues instead of solving problems. We were explosive, nobody could hurt me quite like she could and yet, I felt horrible that she was so upset.

Like the day I’d found her pacing restlessly across the floor. Skin blotchy and eyes puffy with tears. Throat sore with the violent sobs ripping through them. I’d wanted to hold her then too, but I was too bitter to do anything but tell her to quiet down. I felt the same guilt in my bones. And I make the same mistakes I made the first time. I watch her break down and sit with the uneasiness of it all.

Mitch lays a hand over my shoulder, his other arm wrapped around Sarah as he leads her through the door. His eyes look sad and tired. But his smile is genuine and filled with concern.

“Check on Y/n for us okay? Sarah thought it would be best to leave her be for now.” His hand left my shoulder and the door shut quickly after. Leaving me with the unbearable silence and loneliness I felt so frequently nowadays. It breaks down my walls and scares the shit out of me.

Maybe thats why I make my way to the kitchen, shuffling slowly along the floors and leaning slowly over the makeshift tables. A bottle of rouge in one hand, a pack of cigarettes in the other. I stuff them in my pocket and hold the bottle close to my side.

I’m slow, delaying the inevitable question. When I knock on the door, it’s quiet. Almost like I’m hoping that if it’s soft enough, she won’t hear and I can pretend she was ignoring me. But, she does hear me, and she calls out a raspy, muffled welcome, signaling for whoever was hidden behind the door to come through and take in her puffy eyes and wet cheeks.

My throat tightens when I smell her perfume. Something that I would have drowned in not so long ago. She has clothes thrown on a chair in the corner, the same one I sat in so many months ago. I’m tempted to push them off and just sit in the silence with her like we once enjoyed doing.

Her head is in her pillow and her arms are underneath her. She is unaware of who she has let in, but her silence and unmoving body tells me she’s lost all ability to care. I want to leave. I want to turn around and convince myself it was all a mistake. I’d checked on her and she was still alive and well. I’d done my part and I could go on guilt free and forget about how crushed she’d looked just hours before.

When I begin to turn on my heels and pray for this day to be over, I see something unforgettable. A small Polaroid from last year. Just weeks after she’d moved in and charmed me with her beauty and whit. She’s sat with her legs over my lap and my arms around her body. We couldn’t be any happier, and the memory makes my chest sting.

She still cared enough to keep up the old memories of us, even after all the fights and mean glares. Why did she have to keep the damn photo up?

Guilt consumes me once again, and I am faced with the sad woman in front of me, still in the same place as before and just as sad as before. My feet betray my mind, and soon I am stood beside her bedside table with a bottle of wine dangling between my pointer finger and my middle finger.

The glass knocks against her shoulder in a silent invitation. My eyes wordlessly asking her to follow. Her eyes are red, and her lips still shake. She looks completely torn apart, desperate and distraught. Disheveled even. But for some reason in my blurry head, all I can think about is how absolutely beautiful she is in the pale moonlight.

“Come on.” I ask her softly, offering her my hand. When she takes it, she’s nodding already. Trusting a man who deserves no second chances, no trust whatsoever for his cruelty and his inability to communicate. But she follows regardless.

I can’t help but realize how having her so close feels good.

He lights the cigarette for me and watches as I let it burn. My lips twitch as they wrap around the end, tasting the bitterness of its contents and the dry paper.

“How did we end up here?” I ask him, looking over the horizon. The waves are calming over here. They almost silence the ringing in my ears, despite the distance between where we sit, feet dangling over the empty pool edge and the large grass behind it.

He shrugs, snagging the cigarette from my hand delicately and taking a long drag from its end. We swap, my hands wrap around the neck of the wine bottle. It’s tinted green and nearly full.

“Unlucky people, I guess.” He looks at his feet. They dangle in the pool beside mine. You can see just how close we are in the turquoise tint. How the lights make us look less vibrant.

“I wouldn’t consider us unlucky.” I look at the sky, and I can feel his eyes on my face. It makes me swallow, how intense his gaze is. It almost makes it feel that much more real.

“Why’s that?” He asks, twisting the bud out on the cement. It stains the freshly cleaned grey stone an ashy black, but I bite my tongue.

“We had each other. Maybe we aren’t the best people, maybe we’re cruel, but I’d rather argue than live in solitude, right? Company can’t be bought. Even the most painful of it. That’s something real. Something without a price. And we’ve got it.” And it’s true. We fight and we throw shit. We stain the walls and rip the curtains. We start fires and try to blame the other. We make a mess and make amends. But a house isn’t a home without someone to share it with. And at least if we had to suffer to get there, we got it.

“Thats some of your poet shit.” He laughs sadly into the silence, looking at his feet. I laugh along, though I can tell he was only half joking. Then, I let the silence wash back over us. Forgetting how we almost had a full conversation.

“I’m not a bad person. I don’t know why I’m so mean.” He says sincerely. It’s sudden too. I can tell from the rawness in his voice. How his eyes tear up and his lips quiver. His voice cracks. Our feet hang off the edge of the backyard. It’s a quiet life. Even now. With our fights and all the fraud. But it’s never a lonely life, and we only have each other to thank for it.

I want to tell him I know, and I’m so sure of it. I’ve seen the real him, we might just not mesh together. But we once had, and that fact alone holds me back. He takes the lack of response and an opportunity to excuse himself. Pulling his body up by the arms and grunting through the sliding back door. I sit alone in the backyard for hours, body curling up into itself and layers of clothing becoming less than enough after some more time.

“I know.” I whisper into the silence. I know he’s not a bad person, I know it so well and I am so certain of it. I knew Harry once. He’s loyal and kind and the smartest man I’d ever met. And I miss knowing him like that so much.

I thought for a second tonight, I’d gotten part of him back. And maybe I had, but he left so soon I couldn’t really tell all that well. He’s left me back in the silence, wondering what happened to us, and what will happen to us. Why he came to get me, and why he even bothered to open up to me. But he never gives me the time to properly ask, even if I planned to.

I ring in the New Year alone.

The next morning he’s gone. Back to New York for his business in the big city and I am left to sit and think about what was said. A half empty bottle of wine stained with my red lipstick and glitter on the floor from old party poppers Charlotte and Elin had made sure to use before making their exit. I repeat his words.

He’s not a bad person, so why is he so mean? It’s best left unknown. Because if theres one thing I fear more than anything, it’s the realization of rejection.

Even from a man I hate so entirely, it consumes me. That I could not stand to be faced with the fact that Harry and I do not get along simply because we do not work and not because of some other underlying reason.

After all, we had it all. Gave each other everything the other had wanted. Food, shelter, company. There was really so explanation for the bitterness between us.

After all, all this time, despite his anger and hatred, he never left me to the wolves. And despite my heartbreak and sadness, I never left him with an empty home.

A wise man once said to never bite the hand that feeds it. Yet, here we are. Ripping skin from bone until we are left with nothing. We are the ungrateful, the selfish, the cruel. And we both believe that we are in the right.

I am so scared of rejection from this man who I claim to hate because he is the hand that feeds me and I am the hand to him.

We aren’t bad people, so why are we so mean? We recognize all we have to be grateful for, so why do we bite the hand that feeds us?

I guess the vulnerability of it all must have scared us. And while facing the storm, we did what all people do. We let fear consume us and we bite.

Somehow, through all of this. The realizations and the tears and wine and dusty ashes, I love him. Even with my teeth sinking into his skin and his own in mine, drawing blood, I love him. I love Harry Styles. He is my best friend and I am his. That is why I am scared and that is why it hurts so bad. Not because I simply missed him, but rather because my heart was devoted to a man who did not want it.

My fingers fumble over the pad on the phone. I type up his phone number by heart and let it ring. He answers quickly, still waiting for his plane at the airport.

“Y/n?” I can hear the bustling crowds around him and the loud engines taking off from other terminals. I imagine he is plugging one of his ears and mentally cursing the noise for making it so hard to hear.

“Come home.” My breathing is unstable, and my hands run through my hair so much I create new tangles by my neck.

“What? No, Y/n, I have to go. People are expecting me.” He starts to explain how important this is for his business. How it would be so much simpler to be there rather than over a computer screen.

“Fuck them, who cares! Harry, I need you, and I want you, please just listen to me for once. Don’t scoff, or…or roll your eyes or leave! Listen to me this once and if it’s not worth it to you, I promise you’ll never have to listen to me again. Please, it’s important.” I ramble all in one breath, endless pleas met with silence. I can feel the rejection coming, I can hear the way he chokes on a breath, debating what I said.

“Okay.” The phone goes dead with his promise to come home. With the continuous beeps, I slowly come to terms with what I’d just done. But I do not feel panicked, or scared. I feel lighter with the fact that I am about to tell the moody boy something I wished I told him a long time ago.

The door opens with a creak, keys jingling in his large palms. I’d spent the morning pacing the kitchen. Leaving a trail of confetti behind in my wake. I hadn’t cared enough to clean with my endless thoughts and extreme amounts of adrenaline.

“Y/n?” His voice was unsure when it rang out. As if he didn’t know what to expect. The door shut behind him not long before I came rushing around the corner, fingernails bitten to the skin and hangnails bleeding profusely.

“God, Y/n what the hell…” Taking my hands into his, he examined the redness of my irritated skin stained further with dry blood.

“I know.” I looked at him, and he looked back at me like I was crazy.

“What?” His thumbs bent over the backs of my palms, holding me in front of him.

“I know.” I breathed out again, looking at him with such sincerity, praying for him to understand. “You’re not a bad person, and I know it because I know you. Because we fight and we tease and we scream and cry. But I know you because once we didn’t do all of that. And I needed you to know that because it wasn’t fair of me to make you believe that to be true after everything you’ve done for me.” My voice shook with how vulnerable I felt myself becoming. Harry’s hands only tightened the further I explained.

“But what about all I’ve done to you. Y/n, I’ve been awful to you and I never even told you why.” He tried to argue. I shook my head, biting my lips.

“I haven’t been much better.” I smiled sadly. He shook his head back.

“No.”

“Yes.” I blinked hard, pushing back the tears that formed watching his own gather by his waterline.

“No, Y/n, I’ve been horrible. I’ve been mean.” He tried to push away everything I was trying to ignore.

“And so have I.” I tried harder to make him understand.

“But you only did it because I had. And for what?” He finally spoke, voice raised with so much desperation behind it, I froze under his touch.

“Because I loved you so much it drove me fucking insane? Because I still love you and I’m afraid if I can’t get you to hate me I’ll never be able to stop.” He was crying now, pleading with me to make me see his side of things. All I could do was shake my head.

“Harry I could never hate you.”

“But you could never love me.” He argued.

“Thats not true, Harry tell me you know that it couldn’t be true.” I rip my hands from his grip to rest them on his cheeks. I try to wipe away his tears, but his hands cover my wrists and pull them back down.

“How could I? You said it yourself. All those months ago, I told you. I held you close and I told you I loved you. You told me I was your best friend. You couldn’t even pretend!” Neither of us could tell if he was angry or just sad. Maybe both, but no amount of denial would calm him down.

“I didn’t have to, I still don’t have to pretend! Harry, I only said that because I was so fucking scared. Scared of us, of me, of you. Of losing you if it didn’t work. And I lost you anyways, I would’ve just said it if I knew I’d lose you like this.” Our chests bumped and his fingers slipped between mine.

“Y/n.” He whispered into the silence, over our heavy breathing and salty tears.

“I love you, and I miss you.” He didn’t say anything. I could feel him slipping away as soon as his response never came. Not a single word left to say between us. Not a single amount of energy left to fight.

And then he was kissing me. Hard and sweet. Like I was everything he’d ever wanted and more. Like he was hungry, needing more and more of something he had always wanted but could never have. And at the same time, it was soft and tender. Like he never wanted it to end. My back arched within the grip of his wandering hands and my fingers tangling in his curls. I swore I would never let him go.

But it was a swear I couldn’t keep, because air dwindled quickly and spit strung between our lips. Something I would usually gag at, but didn’t mind at the moment. His forehead against mine and arms gripping the fabric by my hips so tight if I moved he could have ripped it.

“I’m sorry.” He apologized in between his heaving breaths.

“Me too.” Looking at him, I could see the red staining his lips from the makeup I’d slept in. It made me laugh, which in result made him smile.

“What? What!” He laughed along cluelessly, letting me back away for a moment.

“You have something-“ I pointed again his mouth and smiled.

“Oh do I? Do I?” He kissed my cheek, smearing the remnants of our kiss across my cheek. “Still there?” He asked with a sly grin. Like he knew he was winning.

So I kissed him hard again, smearing red around his skin and his pink lips with so much love, there was no denying my feelings anymore. There was no hate left to give.

“Yeah, you do.” It was yet another fight, but not one I minded.

After all, thats what we did for so long, it was what we were good at. The teasing and the fighting. Only now it wasn’t bitter, it was playful. And we didn’t coexist with the sole purpose of it.

Because now I was his and he was mine. And this knowledge answered all my questions, all my doubts I’d had before about our relationship and our shared insecurities that led us down this scaring path.

Harry was my best friend, and I was his. And there was no love greater than that.

#harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x you #harry styles imagine #harry styles fluff #harry styles angst #harry x reader #fine line harry styles #harry styles #yn x harrystyles #yn x harry

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sashwindowexpertsposts · 1 month ago

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#Sash window repairs Sydney #Replacing sash cords Sydney

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dearchloe · 7 months ago

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3 december

Ivy awoke with somewhat more trepidation the next morning, and it was to her relief that a thorough inspection of her lower half provided nothing more alarming than the revelation that she'd somehow managed to work her way out of her pyjama bottoms during the night. A one off, she decided, as she climbed out of bed and went about her preparations for the day. It was understandable, after all. She'd been under a lot of stress recently. This was a big trial, perhaps the biggest that she'd been involved in so far throughout her career. She couldn't afford to make a mess of it; if it went her way, she was sure it would see a big increase in her work going forward.

Of course, the previous day's chaos was not exactly helpful in that respect. The judge had been sardonic, to say the least, and though the prosecutor had been understanding, he had been understanding in that particularly condescending way which was far more infuriating than outright aggression. It wouldn't win her many points with the jury, either, and especially not at this time of year; she was keeping them from their Christmas shopping, she imagined.

But it couldn't be helped now, and she didn't think anyone would have thanked her for carrying on in her condition yesterday — at least, the cleaners certainly wouldn't. There was nothing that she could do to change the past. She would just have to keep on looking forwards, focus on the job in front of her, and do the best that she could for her client. No one could ask her for more than that; at least, if they did, then they wouldn't get it anyway.

She buttoned her blouse carefully and then took her hairbrush through to the living room, where she positioned herself carefully in front of the big mirror over the fireplace. Fighting the morning tangles was a job she'd never quite managed to master over the years, and she was unashamedly envious of friends who seemed to spring into being every morning as fresh and flawless as if they had just stepped out of the salon door. Ivy swore softly to herself as she brushed, each time that she encountered a knot, in fact, and she was always glad when she had finished the daily grind of reducing the mop on her head to something a little more presentable. She'd given up on perfection a long time ago.

This morning, as she brushed, a flash of green caught her eye at the corner of the mantlepiece, and her habitual hair-related frown deepened slightly as she examined it more closely. Though Ivy was no Scrooge, she tended to limit herself to lights and tinsel around her apartment, and she was pretty sure she would have remembered if she'd bought something like — what did they call it? An Elf on the Shelf, that was it. Apart from anything else, she found them pretty tacky, and she thought they'd gone out of style recently, which she couldn't pretend she was sorry about.

Stepping forward, she picked the thing up and looked it over, turning it under the ceiling light since it was still dark on the other side of the tall sash windows which were among her favourite features of the building. It was a cut above most of the version she'd seen, Ivy had to admit; the little green coat was made out of something soft and velvety, and the painted smile was more friendly than the exaggerated grimace that was usual. All the same, she didn't think it was something she'd have bought, and she ran over a quick mental list of the people with keys to her door. None of them seemed likely to leave her unexpected gifts of this sort.

It was a bit of a mystery, she decided, as she replaced the thing in its former position with an internal shrug. But it wasn't doing anyone any harm, and at least it made the room look a bit more festive. Ivy hadn't had the time to get her Christmas decorations out yet, being rather too occupied with her ongoing case, but this was a splash of colour amidst the determinedly restrained decor that she favoured, and there was nothing wrong with that. Besides, she didn't have the time to launch a full-scale investigation this morning, even if she'd wanted to. After the catastrophes of the previous day, she absolutely did not want to be late into court, and she was running dangerously close to it, yet again. It was time to get a move on.

Wrapping a scarf around her neck, she picked up her umbrella from the stand by the door and set off into the streets, ducking her head against the persistent drizzle which seemed to come from all directions at once and work its way underneath the sheltering brolly no matter how she held it. Her journey felt like a very long one that morning, especially since she had one eye on her watch all the way, and it wasn't a moment too soon that she found herself hurrying up the court steps and making a beeline for the robing room, where she began changing quickly into court dress.

It was as she was settling the bands around her neck that her sparring mate of the previous day made a sudden appearance, walking up behind her so quickly and quietly that when she turned to see him there, she let out an involuntary gasp, fumbling the clasp that she was attempting to fasten.

"Yes, Mr Goodacre?" She did her best to regain some sense of composure.

He gave her a slightly sinister smile. "Oh, nothing much. But you will remember to go to the potty before we start, won't you?"

Ivy felt herself blushing from head to toe, and she only hoped that it wasn't obvious. "Fuck off," she hissed, turning away. Behind her, she heard a soft laugh.

#dearchloewrites #ab dl girl #countdown to christmas #serial

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samesnakenewskin · 5 days ago

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An extra hour has been spent fussing over the herd, since two disappeared without a trace three nights ago. No blood, no broken fences. Just Misty and Dusty missing out of the paddock when she came in for a morning feed. Marcys considered sleeping out beside the herd to keep an eye out, but lord above does it make her back ache and jaw click to spend a night on the dirt like that. Another set of tag checking and kissing them all goodnight, and she sets off towards the house. Not hers, of course. A little antebellum set near the flat of the hill, where a candle remains lit in the top window. Waiting patiently, with a rope ladder caught between the sash and sill of the panes.

She wasn’t made for that house; she spent her time in a caravan set far back enough from the house it wouldn’t be an eyesore for the people of the house. She still climbs up the hill.

Striding across the hill, a quiet whistle is replaced by the bristling strike of a match. Euphorically groaning as the cigarette lights, lips tightly wrapped around it before sighing out her first puff of smoke. She couldn’t smoke in front of the herd, for some reason she’d ascribed herself to. Seemed wrong, letting it burn into the backs of their innocent eyes.

It was horrifically fascinating, when a cow died. Their eyes, the back of them at least, would burn up in the last colours they saw. She’d found it false when going through the slaughterhouse, and their eyes still shimmered in the iridescent blues of the sky they once saw. Marcy still couldn’t smoke in front of them.

Both of the spurs spin and click against themselves as she starts to climb the wall, pausing at the second floor as someone shifts through the hallway before returning to bed. Marcys nails grind against the flat tile, blooming a new callous against her left palm. She could’ve used the ladder, but it was still fun. Rapping her knuckles against the glass, she snakes through the window.

“Wanna go for a ride?”

#starter?#happy pride have butch #butch ridin’#a grand performance

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prestigewindowworks · 9 days ago

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#window replacement #window repair #window #glass replacement #foggy glass #door hardware #door #long island #new york

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aneurinallday · 11 months ago

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The Tragedy of James Steerforth

Chapter X: Blood and Broth

Steerforth was woken, as always, by the need to clear his lungs. He awoke coughing, opening his eyes to find himself in a sunlit bedroom. He was lying in a clean and spacious bed, between crisp sheets that smelled freshly laundered. Plump pillows propped him into a sitting position, and his rags had been removed and replaced with a white night-shirt.

David Copperfield was sitting at the foot of the bed, his elbow leaning against the wooden frame, his head resting in his hand. He looked tired. His eyes were closed.

“...Daisy,” Steerforth whispered. “Daisy…”

David quickly opened his eyes and straightened up.

“James.” He clasped Steerforth’s lower leg through the quilt. “You’re awake. How are you feeling?”

“...Throat hurts.”

“There’s some beef tea on the boil.”

Steerforth’s bleary eyes drifted about the room, lingering on the curtains, the cluttered writing desk, one of Agnes’ shawls draped forgotten over the back of a chair - the trappings of a comfortable and well-loved home. Something he hadn’t experienced since the day he’d left London for Yarmouth.

“Where are we?” he mumbled.

“At my home.”

“How did I get here?”

“We brought you here from the East End.”

“Why?”

“So we can take care of you. You’re going to stay here until you’re feeling better.”

“But why would you do that?”

“What else could I do? You were my friend for much of my life. That isn’t so easily forgotten.”

“I forgot it,” said Steerforth quietly. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did any of those things. I just - ”

“Let’s not talk about it right now. You need to concentrate on getting well again. We’ll have plenty of time to talk once you’re well again.”

“Is it morning?”

“Yes. It’s about nine o’clock. I’ve sent for a physician to come and have a look at you. His name is Dr Barrow and apparently he’s very skilled. He’ll be here in the afternoon. I was hoping he could come sooner, but his schedule was busy…In the meantime, I’ll write a letter to Mrs Steerforth, to let her know you’re here.”

“No!” Steerforth quickly protested, ”No, don’t. Don’t tell her. I can’t…I can’t let her see me like this.”

“But she loves you, James. She’s your mother, for God’s sake. She’ll want to see you, to hold you, to look after you.”

“No,” Steerfooth shook his head, “Please, don’t. Don’t tell her I’m here. I can’t face her.”

He was breathing too fast - short, sharp gasps, trying to compensate for the fact that he couldn’t take a deep breath. His lungs were filled with viscid mucus, leaving little room for air.

“Alright,” David reluctantly gave up. Steerforth was growing agitated, and stress would only cause his weakened body to deteriorate further. “I won’t tell her. Once you’re better, you can write to her yourself, alright?”

Steerforth began to speak again, but coughed instead. The infection had plagued him for a fortnight now, but had drastically worsened in the week since his eviction. He’d started coughing up thick, discoloured globs which took minutes of coaxing to eject, and which were instantly replenished. After each expulsion, he would breathe a little easier, but the blessed relief only lasted for a few moments until the catarrh returned. No matter what position he lay, sat, or stood in, he simply couldn’t find any respite. The heavy rain had been the final nail in the coffin.

His coughing subsided, and he wiped his mouth on the white sleeve of his night-shirt. David watched him with worry.

“Wait here,” he said, as if Steerforth could go anywhere. “The tea should be done by now. I’ll go and check.”

David hurried out of the room, leaving Steerforth alone, wheezing in the silence - wet, rattling wheezes from deep within his chest.

He looked towards the sash window. The elegant curtains were only half-drawn, revealing a blue sky outside, and he could hear the familiar sounds of Central London - the clip-clop of horses’ hooves, the rattle of coach wheels, the soft chatter of voices. People going about their daily business, unaware that in one of the nearby houses, just a few feet away, a man was dying.

Soon David returned, carrying in one hand a tea-cup on a saucer, and in the other hand a small plate with a bread roll. He put the plate down on Steerforth’s lap, and carefully placed the tea-cup and saucer in Steerforth’s grasp.

“Here. It’s beef tea. Try to drink.”

The savoury smell of boiled beef drifted up to Steerforth’s nose. Trembling, he took a sip. His feeble hands threatened to spill the hot liquid on himself. David cupped his own hands around Steerforth’s, steadying the cup so that he could continue.

“Have as much as you can.”

Steerforth did his best, but only managed a few more sips. The rich smell was getting to him, making him nauseous. Sensing that he was pushing Steerforth too far, David quickly set the unfinished cup aside.

“There we go. Well done. Now try to eat something.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“Just a little. It’ll help you, I promise.”

Steerforth looked down at the bread in his lap. He was both hungry and not hungry; his belly was empty yet his appetite was curiously absent. Pulling the roll in half, he tore the soft white crumb out of the crust and ate it. The mere act of chewing felt like a Herculean endeavour. He washed the mouthful down with another sip of beef tea, but that was all he could handle.

“I can’t eat it,” he said.

“What about a soft-boiled egg?” David suggested, “Or maybe some mashed potatoes?”

“No. I feel sick.”

“Alright. We’ll try again later.”

Steerforth lay back, trying to suppress the unease in his belly. The hot liquid had thinned his phlegm, and he was able to breathe more easily. As he lay there, he heard distant voices from downstairs - Agnes and Ham.

“Is Ham Peggotty here?” he asked.

“Yes. He’s been staying here while taking a break from Yarmouth. He helped search for you, and he helped bring you here.”

“Is he still angry?” an edge of panic entered Steerforth’s voice.

David hesitated, but it wasn’t in his nature to lie.

“Yes,” he admitted, “But don’t worry. He won’t harm you. He’s a good man.”

“Don’t let him near me, Daisy, please.”

“Shh,” David shushed him, ”Listen to me. Ham’s a good man. Remember that night on the boat - he swam out and rescued you. Remember? He rescued you!”

“He did?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Oh, of course.” Steerforth calmed. Stifling a cough, he closed his eyes and tried to rest.

He heard David walk to the other side of the room, settle down in a chair, and start rustling through papers. Soon he heard the scratching of David’s quill-pen against the page, which lulled Steerforth into a deep stupor, the closest he could come to true sleep. He didn’t realise time had passed until he felt someone shaking his shoulder.

“James.” David roused him gently. “James, wake up. The doctor is here.”

Groggy, Steerforth opened his eyes.

“The doctor?” he croaked.

“Yes, the one I summoned. Agnes is showing him in now.”

“...Ah.” Steerforth tried weakly to sit up. In the cold light of day, his face was haggard and grey. “Is it afternoon already?”

“Yes, it is. For supper, I was thinking we could - ”

Before David could finish his sentence, the door opened and an elderly gentleman entered, carrying a large leather kit. He looked Steerforth up and down.

“Good day, Mr…?”

“Steerforth,” the patient introduced himself. “James Steerforth.”

“Mr Steerforth. I say, that name sounds familiar. Was there a book about you? My granddaughter likes to read these silly things, and she spoke of a James Steerforth who lived in London - ”

“Please, Dr Barrow,” David interrupted, “Is there anything you can do to help him?”

“You say he has consumption?”

“That’s what we suspect.”

The physician placed his kit down with a thump and began to rummage through it. David and Steerforth were both disturbed to hear the metal tools rattling inside. Barrow donned his stethoscope.

“Hold still for me, Mr Steerforth.”

He held the resonator to Steerforth’s chest and listened for a minute, then sighed and pulled out the earpieces.

“There’s no doubt about it,” he said, “It’s as you feared.”

“What can be done?” David asked nervously.

“Nothing that has been proven to work. I recommend food, rest, and exercise.”

“But sir, he can’t eat, he can’t sleep, and he can’t walk.”

“Well then, he must apply himself with more determination.”

“Is there really nothing else you can do? Medicine or...”

“Well, I could try to let out the bad blood.”

“Isn’t that a little old-fashioned?”

“Mr Copperfield, don’t be so quick to discredit old remedies. They have been relied upon for centuries for a reason.”

“Then please do it. Anything that might help him.”

“Very well.”

Barrow pulled out a set of scalpels, a bowl, and a short iron rod. Rather roughly, he pushed Steerforth’s left sleeve up as far as it would go, and placed the rod in Steerforth’s left hand.

“Grip this tight.”

Steerforth obeyed. His arm went rigid as he squeezed, the veins and sinews standing out starkly. Barrow took advantage by quickly nicking the inside of Steerforth’s elbow with a small knife. Steerforth winced as the incision was made, letting out a whimper at the pain. His right hand clutched at the quilt for comfort.

“Don’t move, Mr Steerforth,” Barrow commanded, placing the bowl underneath Steerforth’s elbow to catch the drops. “The contaminated blood needs time to drain.”

Steerforth tried to take a breath, steeling himself against the sharp sting in his elbow, but the inhalation triggered a cough.

“Be careful,” said Barrow, “You’ll knock the bowl over.”

Steerforth did his best to keep still, but his discomfort was plain. He’d gotten in plenty of fights at school, but the amount of blood accumulating in the bowl was making his head spin. He turned his face away from the sight, but couldn’t block out the sound it made. The steady drip-drip-drip of liquid seemed unnaturally loud.

“Daisy, do I really have to do this? I don’t like it.”

“I’m sure it’s for the best, James. Dr Barrow knows what he’s doing. Just try to relax.”

Minutes passed, then a half-hour, then an hour. He watched as the blood slowly drained from Steerforth, taking with it what vestiges of vitality he still had. Any semblance of colour left his face, leaving him as white as the bed-sheets.

“Is it enough yet?” he asked faintly.

“Not quite. Soon,” David assured him.

Blood continued to drip into the bowl, and Steerforth’s strength continued to fade. David tried to take his mind off the bleeding with conversation, but Steerforth became less and less responsive. He lay motionless on the bed, propped up on pillows, too weak to move. His pale and sickly form, dressed in a white night-shirt, seemed to disappear into the sheets. He began to mutter meaningless noises.

“Dr Barrow, how long do we have to do this for?” David asked uneasily.

“Until the bowl is full,” the physician answered.

For a while, Steerforth lay gazing at the ceiling. He seemed to have achieved a state of serenity, or at least of resignation. But then he looked down at his arm, and remembered that he was bleeding, and a panic came over him. He sat bolt upright with a jerk, struggling away from the blood, almost knocking the bowl over.

“What are you doing?” he cried out. He grabbed the edge of the quilt and pressed it to his arm to stem the bleeding. “What are you doing to me?”

“Calm yourself, Mr Steerforth,” said Barrow sternly. “Hold still or you’ll make a mess of the bed.”

“It hurts. Why are you doing this to me?”

“It’s for your own good.”

“But it hurts! Please stop.”

“Enough of that nonsense. Hold still or I’ll have to tie you down. You don’t want that, do you?”

David grasped Steerforth’s shoulders, trying to soothe him.

“My friend, please be calm. We’re trying to help you.”

“Make him stop, Daisy. Make him stop.”

David looked up at the doctor.

“Are you sure this is for the best?” he demanded.

“Mr Copperfield, from the lack of a ‘doctor’ before your name, I assume you’re not in the medical profession.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Then don’t seek to tell me how to treat my patients.”

“But surely this agitation can’t be good for him?”

Steerforth swayed.

“Daisy, I don’t - I don’t feel - ”

His eyes abruptly rolled back, and he blacked out, collapsing onto the pillows.

“Right, that’s enough,” David snapped, “Put a bandage on that arm, or - or a tourniquet or something.”

“Abandoning a course of treatment halfway rarely results in recovery, Mr Copperfield. I recommend that you continue with the bleeding.” The doctor was already packing his things.

“You can’t be leaving already?” David exclaimed.

“I have many other patients to see today. And Mr Steerforth seems determined to be uncooperative.”

“Fine. My wife has the payment ready for you - ask her for it.”

“I certainly shall.” Barrow left.

David fetched clean clothes and began to clean and dress Steerforth’s arm. Steerforth regained consciousness just as David was bandaging his elbow.

“Daisy?” he mumbled, “Did it work?”

“I think so - I mean, I’m sure it did.” A dark red stain slowly formed on the white cloth. David pulled down Steerforth’s sleeve to hide it. “There. All better. Do you want something to eat?”

But Steerforth was already gone again, his eyes wandering behind closed eyelids.

Chapter XI: Sickbed

#aneurin barnard #fanfic #the personal history of david copperfield #james steerforth #david copperfield #charles dickens #fanfiction

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